.:one's own mirage:.

[FFXIV roleplay] Character inspiration blog for Flora Valerian, Balmung server's awkwardest Ala Mhigan youth. Character development exercises, a e s t h e t i c posts and occasionally RP logs.

[autgarbloode]

Passion Bomb Pt 3

Here we are once again, only this time we aren’t going to another abandoned mountain top, no secluded ruins, no forgotten temple, there would be no isolation today. The risk of danger and the suspected out flow of power that was soon to come was not to be wasted, but tested. Today Autgar Bloode was off to the war front, to the lines the Alliance had solidified and taken back. He’d go to the Ghimlyt Dark and beyond if he had to.

Keep reading

[suwanbuwan]

Bonesetter meets Mindwalker. Suwan’s Magick Shop was busy today. Clients buying potions, ingredients and tomes. One particular new client, Anneliese Bonesetter purchased a Divination Reading to determine how best to help her daughter @florihilda who is suffering from aether sickness. The woman left the Occult Curioso with some insight on how to overcome the obstacles before her.

[florihilda]

Character Bingo: Flora Valerian

Rules: Reblog this post with your filled-out bingo card.

// Template available [ here ].

[friendly-fire-engaged]

"Worthy"

When that word was first attributed to him, it was over a bowl of stew and Martin still ached from the fresh bruises left by the monk beside him.

With how his head throbbed from the man’s clobbering blows, he almost thought he’d hallucinated the praise. Yet it came out of Autgar’s mouth all the same: a praise for his martial strength and an invitation to consider training to become a monk.

Keep reading

[berrodarmstrong]

Training. 

@dynamitecowboy @florihilda @friendly-fire-engaged

[florihilda]

The Waterwheel Turns (Klaus Valerian Gaiden)

The heavy, pressing ennui of this life in the Shroud has had its effect on his writing, he worries-- or maybe the threat of censorship still weighs heavily on his mind, though he knows that no one knows where he is, now. It has not been more than two cycles since he was a wanted man in Ala Mhigo, after all-- is it really so irrational to fear lifting a pen, after all that his innocent prose had swept him into?

(ooc: just reposting an old bit of Flora's dad's backstory I wrote literal years ago!)

A heavy rain beats down hard on the roof, until it sounds like the building is in very real danger of collapsing-- And every bucket in Klaus’ possession is being put to use, at current, collecting the rainwater that drips down from leaks in the ceiling. Though he can’t see the level of the stream beside the millhouse, he knows it must be flooding, from the rapid, shrill creak of the waterwheel outside.

It ought to go without saying, but he can’t sleep with all of this racket- though he’s been lying there and trying to keep his eyes shut for bells and bells. He supposes he ought to just stay up and write; that’s the best use of these dark, awkward bells before dawn. The mun-tuy beans in the mill require no work at this moment-- the water passing through the wheel does all the labour. During this easy, leisurely phase of the growing cycle, there’s nothing to do but listen to it.

He sits up from his bedroll, and reaches for his quill, his inkwell, and his notebook. He regrets rising, already, but he needs to accomplish something with this time. Especially since he’s had so many phrases on his mind-- phrases that seemed like they could work so well in cohesion. But the heavy pressing ennui of this life in the Shroud has had its effect on his writing, he worries-- or maybe the threat of censorship still weighs heavily on his mind, though he knows that no one knows where he is, now. It has not been more than two cycles since he was a wanted man in Ala Mhigo, after all-- is it really so irrational to fear lifting a pen, after all that his innocent prose had swept him into?

He’s barely begun jotting down these scraps of ideas, before he hears footsteps at his door-- and without thinking, as if he thought Theodoric’s men themselves were lined up at his door, he shoves his notebook under a blanket.

But instead of the stuff of his nightmares, he hears something not quite so bad as imminent torture and death-- the high, familiar voice of a woman, from outside his door, laughing and chattering with someone else whose voice does not carry at all. This sound is followed by a jangling of keys, and the rattle of his door handle as it opens.

Standing tall in the doorway is the tall, lithe form of a shadow-black Duskwight Elezen, swathed in a loose, boldly-patterned dress: it is Lisette Desmoulins, his landlady. Of course she enters like she owns this place-- because she does. She’s followed by a tiny, pigeon-toed midlander girl, who carries her lady’s wet cloak over her arm-- her wide eyes heavy and tired, but alert.

The duskwight grins as she sees Klaus sitting up in his bed-- she’s truly the only one energetic and awake, at this hour. “Ah, you’re awake! Good, I’ve much to discuss.”

“Good eve, Lady Desmoulins,” Klaus begins as he stands, placidly patting down his hair. He’s learned to show no irritation at these late-night calls, no matter how late or how often they may be. As unpleasant as this living situation was, he was in no danger of being arrested or beheaded.

The title of “Lady” brings a proud, wry smile to the Duskwight’s mauve-caked lips. It is a title only recently earned, and it’s still a novelty to her, though she’s been dressing and acting the part for many cycles, now. With a snap of her lady’s fingers, her midlander handmaid sets down a folding wooden stool, so that she might sit down.

She sits, and brushes the rainwater off of her skirt, staring straight forward at him. “How goes the milling, Nicholaus? I see the caverns are all picked. You’ve been hard at work. I knew I was right to assign you this tract.”

“I think we will have it all ground in the next sennight. It shall be ready to ferment, after then, yes.”

“I have been doing some work of my own-- have you heard?” She leans forward, with a mischievous grin, peeling off her thin satin gloves. “Has someone written you about it?"

“I have not received any correspondence,” Klaus replies, with a curious blink. “Not in moons.”

“Hm. That is unexpected of him. Well,” she crosses her legs. “I went calling in Gridania. I have paid a certain typesetter a visit about your latest works. I am surprised he did not write you immediately, or send you a proof-- or did he? I know he has kept busy, these past few moons, but I cannot believe he would not have time for you, of all men!”

Klaus’ jaw stiffens. “Yes-- indeed, I’ve not heard from him. What did he say, when you went to his shop? He has received my final drafts, yes?"

“Well, yes, but there is a story to be told,” she says, with the sort of indulgent tilt of her head that only happens once she knows she has his undivided attention. “When I laid eyes on the fruits of your labour, I was stunned. All of those poems-- why, I scarcely realized you’d written so much in your time here! I told him, it is a shame these cannot be leatherbound-- yes, that they would be much too conspicuous to get back to Ala Mhigo, I know, I know they must be smuggled, given, ah, the political content. But it pained me to hear they must be bound into mere flimsy pamphlets-- I was just about to inquire if he could make me a leatherbound copy for my cartonnier-- when dear Jeanne has the most delightful idea.” She tugs at her handmaid’s sleeve. “Do show him, Jeanne, do.”

The midlander girl holds out in her trembling hands some sort of double-sided leather strap, stitched on both sides. She still cannot pry her eyes up from the floor to even look at Klaus, though it’s plainly visible that her cheeks have flushed up to a vibrant-rose-red hue. Jeanne stands there in an apprehensive silence, as if expecting the worst reaction from him. He hated being called ‘that Ala Mhigan fugitive--’ and this was why. Jeanne must have thought he was a violent criminal, of some sort, after hearing that epithet.

“What-- what is this?” Klaus inquires, in a gentle voice barely above a whisper-- but Jeanne still ducks her head down, terrified, upon hearing him address her at all.

Lady Desmoulins bats her eyes, so proud of work that wasn’t even hers. “Genuine anole skin-- the lightest and softest sort, mayhap fit for an Ala Mhigan lady’s subligar, though I daresay such a garment would chafe parts of me I would not dare name.”

“The-- the poem is inside-- I--I-if I tear this seam, it--” Jeanne takes a plain copper seam-ripper from a pouch on her waist, and starts to pick the stitching open. She holds the strap open-- and, indeed, a little slip of paper lies inside, with a series of familiar stanzas printed on it. The paper is coated in a thin layer of wax-- presumably, to safeguard the ink from moisture. “It’s inside. Your-- your writing is inside."She’s able to look up, at this point, but only to flusteredly clarify, “A-- a print of your writing.” (Very helpful, yes, he couldn't tell.)

“Isn’t Jeanne smart? I love her so!” The duskwight beams, reaching up to take the midlander’s hand in her own and pat it fondly. “And your work still has the dignity of being leatherbound-- Technically. Someone will just be wearing it to Ala Mhigo, you see?”

The handmaid starts again, in a shaky voice, “I--I spoke to my brother, and--” but she freezes up, and has to look away.

But her lady is able to finish, for her, grinning: “Jeanne’s dear brother is an apprentice leatherworker. He has access to the appropriate facilities. And I’ve already paid him to make these, ah, modifications to his patterns. These subligars and harnesses are eastward bound in a moon, to the acquaintances of yours we discussed, last time.”

Klaus rapidly rises to his feet, shocked to hear any insinuation of spent coin. “Lady Desmoulins--”

Lady Desmoulins only needs to suspect a ‘thank you’ is coming, before a loud, boisterous cackle spills out of her mouth. “I am already harboring a fugitive. And, frankly, I have never half-arsed anything in my life, is that understood? I said before that I take care of those in my employ, did I not?” Lady Desmoulins' long, black-lacquered nails happily rap against a nearby fermentation barrel-- And in this light, her nails are nigh-indistinguishable from cockroaches or beetles. “Keep on these beans. Ensure this paste is the most savoury concoction to come from Hyrstmill. The more it sells for in the Bower, the less you shall owe me, come winter.”

There was always a drawback, with this woman. There was always some condition to any kindness she paid him. At this rate, he’d be here in Hyrstmill forever, working off whatever debt she deemed him responsible for-- working in these damned Mun-Tuy caverns, for the rest of his days.

Before Klaus can even manage a reply to the conditions presented, the duskwight is already standing and spinning away toward the door-- Jeanne, the well-trained puppy she is, has snapped shut her folding chair, and is draping a cloak over her lady’s shoulders so that she may leave.

The duskwight looks over her shoulder and gives him a blithe, innocent smile-- It disarms and silences him. “I am counting on you, Nicholaus. And so is Ala Mhigo. I will notify you when the goods are ready for transport.”What if this truly was just her way of showing her support for him and his craft? Some bizarre, misguided way of showing his people succor? It was still some way to hold him under her thumb, regardless-- he was certain of that.

“Yes--” He says, staring forward-- trying not to blink, trying not to let any suspicion show on his features. “I will do my utmost.”

When Lady Desmoulins has left, there is nothing to be heard in the shack, save for the rain and the turning of the waterwheel. Klaus sinks down to his bedroll, again, and though his quill is in his hand, he can’t think of anything to write.

[ghalleon-helseth-blog]

so sweet and so cold

[berryarmstrong]

Berrod learns that Flora uses the same shower as Martin and Autgar.

@dynamitecowboy @friendly-fire-engaged @florihilda

[florihilda]

im still dying

[cassandrapentayaaaaas]

Uncommon Questions for OCs and their creators:

Send me a # (questions for OCs) or a letter (questions for creators) and I’ll answer

QUESTIONS FOR YOUR OCs

What’s the maximum amount of time your character can sit still with nothing to do?

How easy is it for your character to laugh?

How do they put themselves to bed at night (reading, singing, thinking?)

How easy is it to earn their trust?

How easy is it to earn their mistrust?

Do they consider laws flexible, or immovable?

What triggers nostalgia for them, most often? Do they enjoy that feeling?

What were they told to stop/start doing most often as a child

Do they swear? Do they remember their first swear word?

What lie do they most frequently remember telling? Does it haunt them?

How do they cope with confusion (seek clarification, pretend they understand, etc)?

How do they deal with an itch found in a place they can’t quite reach?

What color do they think they look best in? Do they actually look best in that color?

What animal do they fear most?

How do they speak? Is what they say usually thought of on the spot, or do they rehearse it in their mind first?

What makes their stomach turn?

Are they easily embarrassed?

What embarrasses them?

What is their favorite number?

If they were asked to explain the difference between romantic and platonic or familial love, how would they do so?

Why do they get up in the morning? 

How does jealousy manifest itself in them (they become possessive, they become aloof, etc)? 

How does envy manifest itself in them (they take what they want, they become resentful, etc)? 

 Is sex something that they’re comfortable speaking about? To whom? 

 What are their thoughts on marriage? 

 What is their preferred mode of transportation? 

 What causes them to feel dread? 

 Would they prefer a lie over an unpleasant truth? 

 Do they usually live up to their own ideals? 

 Who do they most regret meeting? 

 Who are they the most glad to have met? 

 Do they have a go-to story in conversation? Or a joke? 

 Could they be considered lazy? 

 How hard is it for them to shake a sense of guilt? 

 How do they treat the things their friends come to them excited about? Are they supportive? 

Do they actively seek romance, or do they wait for it to fall into their lap? 

Do they have a system for remembering names, long lists of numbers, things that need to go in a certain order (like anagrams, putting things to melodies, etc)? 

What memory do they revisit the most often? 

How easy is it for them to ignore flaws in other people? 

How sensitive are they to their own flaws?

How do they feel about children? 

How badly do they want to reach their end goal? 

If someone asked them to explain their sexuality, how would they do so? 

QUESTIONS FOR CREATORS

A) Why are you excited about this character? B) What inspired you to create them? C) Did you have trouble figuring out where they fit in their own story? D) Have they always had the same physical appearance, or have you had to edit how they look? E) Are they someone you would get along with? Would they get along with you? F) What do you feel when you think of your OC (pride, excitement, frustration, etc)? G) What trait of theirs bothers you the most? H) What trait do you admire most? I) Do you prefer to keep them in their canon universe? J) Did you have to manipulate or exclude canon factors to allow them to create their character?

[painstation-deactivated20181026]

[berryarmstrong]

@florihilda

[florihilda]

Help im dying

[berrodarmstrong]

So the topic of fishing with dynamite came up…

[florihilda]

Spirits

The monastery still had a peculiar energy about it, even though it hadn’t been occupied in years— the aether was thick with the presence of other folk, the debris on the ground rife with stories. It was not a wholly lonely place to live, not in the slightest— And Flora found herself treating Sali as if the elderly monks still lived there. So, of course they needed someone to take care of them, and their memory.

The trek back down from the mountaintops was always especially precarious after a summer rainstorm— What was once rock-solid footing had now become a slippery, muddy deathtrap. So, one couldn’t really say Flora climbed down from the heights as much as she awkwardly slid and scrambled down. Her clothes were arguably white, once, but now she’s spattered head to toe in mud and caked-on dirt.

She’s tired from training, yes, and she thinks she’s broken another finger yet again, but grateful she had just the tiniest sliver of daylight left to guide her feet. These last rays of sunlight kept her from stepping on the wrong bit of earth and falling down into the Rothlyt Wastes below. As such, it’s with relief that she reaches flat ground again— a narrow little path that wound around the edge of the cliffside and led to the little valley where the crumbling remains of Sali Monastery lay. Sali herself was a happy sight, but the storm’s winds had blown all sorts of leaves and branches all over the place.

Flora’s pace quickens— it’s time to see what other damage had been done to the monastery— she truly hoped it was just a little bit of flooding, a little bit of mess, like usual. “Please,” she starts, looking up to the sky above, “Please, Lord Rhalgr, let this place still stand as it has.”

And, luckily, when she approached, not a brick was out of place, though with all the scattered twigs and wood and leaves, she’d certainly have her work cut out for her. “This must be a branch from every tree in Gyr Abania,” Flora muttered, picking up a big, wet branch and hauling it away from the entry. She picked up the little leaves and twigs, too, as she went— and little by little, the ruins looked a little less sad and forlorn.

The monastery still had a peculiar energy about it, even though it hadn’t been occupied in years— the aether was thick with the presence of other folk, the debris on the ground rife with stories. It was not a wholly lonely place to live, not in the slightest— And Flora found herself treating Sali as if the elderly monks still lived there. So, of course they needed someone to take care of them, and their memory.

This place had almost definitely been the place of their death, after all— Many elders of the Fists of Rhalgr were happier to end their own lives than let their teachings fall into the hands of the Corpse Brigade. If they had died here, she knew not where they would have been buried— or even if they had been properly lain to rest, given that so many of the Revolution’s martyrs lay in unmarked graves, or at the bottom of Loch Seld.

There was so much she’d likely never learn about the elders who lived here, or even the students they took in. She’d scoured the whole place a million times over trying to find any shred of writing she could from them— and, yes, deep in the catacombs beneath the monastery, there were a few little writings left behind, but it was too treacherous to pass, structurally. She hadn’t tried again for a long while.

“You are all well, yes?” She speaks aloud to the empty room. “Nothing is amiss?”

Of course, there was no answer, but that didn’t keep Flora from standing and waiting for one, holding her pile of sopping wet timber in her arms.

“Alright— very well. Uhm—” She awkwardly turns on her heel and steps toward the door. “I will be right back, yes? I am going to see about Aedadem Ei, and Monstrance, and— yes, I’ll come back and pray with you, tonight. Just— just a minute, yes? Ah, well, not a minute. Longer, you— you know, yes,” she rambled, waving a hand at nothing.

After the evening’s work was done, and the monastery’s grounds no longer looked like Ixion himself had trampled them, Flora settled back in to the corner of the main floor she’d staked out as her own. She did her evening prayers and then took a moment to eat whatever scraps of food she had left over from the last time she’d gone foraging— and then she spread out a coeurl hide on the damp stone floor and laid down, staring at the hole in the ceiling.

Her heart began to beat fast as she thought of what she was going to attempt tomorrow— it was going to be difficult to sleep, tonight. There had been an occurrence out near Coldhearth that some folk were calling a miracle: a field that had lain barren or two decades, but after lightning struck, little yellow flowers began to spring up everywhere.

“I suppose, ah, folk don’t need convinced, necessarily, yes? They know what they are seeing, it is just that— ah, it has been beaten out of them. By Theodoric, and then the Imperials.  Did you— did you ever think it would be like this?” She speaks aloud, to the empty air. “They just— they just need to feel safe again, to call it for what they know it is.”

She tosses and turns for what feels like half a bell before she decides it’s time to read V.M.’s latest letter, for what must have been the twentieth time. It was too late in the evening to use the linkpearl and speak to her brothers, after all-- And her husband, too, is likely fast asleep. So she took the letter from the breast of her harness, unfolded it, and eased herself up to look at it in the lantern’s light. She scanned through the letter to get to the most encouraging part:

“This is one of the reasons I find you to be a remarkable example of Shadow sect monkhood— you live apart from folk, of course, or I would not know you. But that you have chosen to share the knowledge you have collected— This is not what I would have expected from you, given your leanings, but I was full glad to be proven wrong.

In truth, it is what the Fists of Rhalgr were always meant to be: shepherds of Rhalgr’s flock and leaders of men. And I am proud that you have not forsaken this holy duty when so many others have. Even though you have confessed your nervousness to me, understand that your knowledge of His will is more than enough to be a balm to the suffering people.”

It left Flora with a warmth in her chest, even after the millionth time she’d read it. Letters from V.M. had turned from brief scriptural discussions to long, winding, multi-page tomes, but she still knew nothing about the writer— they’d never met, still, even though the letters had become so personal. She told V.M. a lot, now— about her struggles harnessing Atala, about her every insecurity.

“Do you suppose V.M. is one of us? He— or, well, she, I suppose— sounds like he could not be anything other than a monk,” she murmurs aloud, folding up the letter carefully and putting it with the rest. “I had thought, when I took my vows, that I would never meet another ascetic at all— and look how things have turned out. All of my brothers, and this person, and— everyone else I’ve met.”

She lies back down, and her heavy eyelids sink shut— and sleeps well, knowing she does not rest alone.

[autgarbloode]

Sometimes Brothers Fight.

Berrod Armstrong stood from his meditation at the cliff’s edge and approached the – gathering. The Highlander offered a simple wave and half-smile at those present – not one for speeches.

Autgar Bloode inhaled slowly as he looked to those gathered and chuckled. “There was a time in the history of the Fists that these kinda fights were done in secret. Should’ve charged admission and donated the profits to rebuilding the country.”

Milo North: “PUNCH ‘EM OFF THE CLIFF.”

Milo North absolutely makes no hint who he means.

Sarij Rahzersyn kept a flat expression.

Keep reading

[florihilda]

Lilac

Just a little while longer, just a little further up-- and there is a beautiful, solemn place: apart from coin, apart from the endless war, apart from any sovereign other than the divine. 

(OOC: Here, have some accompanying music!)

The air seems impossibly thin, upon this remote mountainside-- but it only serves to make one’s lungs all the more strong. Flora breathes in deeply as she hoists herself over a steep ledge-- As much as she has numbed herself to her old fear of heights, it remains a relief to rest on solid ground again.

She stays there for a long while, resting on her back and staring up at the endless grey skies. There’s a faint crackle of levin in a faraway cloud-- but that hardly ever means much other than a spring shower, in these parts, so she doesn’t think about where to find shelter, or anything like this.

Her mind is swimming with questions that seem stupid, today. Stupid, but necessary-- “It is known that the first Fist attained the Destroyer’s sublimity at Schism, yes,” she starts again, pressing her dry, tired eyes shut, “but accounts and scriptures vary so much on the details. Was it he himself who announced to his followers that he had attained it? On his deathbed, he was said to have said this unto the man who cared for him. How-- how must he have felt? Was this what killed him? Had he known so much of the Destroyer that he-- became at peace with the death Rhalgr gave him? The mirage-- His mirage-- was it shattered in this way?”

Her brows knit for a moment, and she sits up, rubbing at her eye with a bandaged fist. As she told Martin, this faith was one of endless questions. She had envy for the Ishgardians, their Enchridion, their high Halonic masses at their cathedrals: One text, one orthodox faith-- well, mayhap it was all changing now, but the precedent, yes-- that solid, concrete precedent set was something to be envious of. “I wonder what they think of all of this-- My god of paradoxes, my faith of endless questions.”

She stands and looks down at the wasteland that stretches on and on-- Ala Ghiri is just a pretty blue stitch of embroidery on the horizon, from here, hidden behind a crest of red mountains. A little merchant caravan struggles by, on the road below-- Ul'dahn, no doubt, by the dead, languid, altitude-sick gait of the poor birds drawing the carriages.

She feels close to the world of men, still, when she sees this-- and she frowns. Just a little while longer, just a little further up-- and there is a beautiful, solemn place: apart from coin, apart from the endless war, apart from any sovereign other than the divine.

She travels and travels for bells, up a steep, rocky little trail that cuts into a little canyon. The further up she goes, little bits of fresh green vegetation sprout up from between the stones. “True knowledge of His sublimity comes to those who have spent their lives striving to know Him, but-- Ah, centuries ago, when our faith was so much more alive, I wonder--”

A pang of loneliness hits as she takes in the utter silence of this mountain path. Nothing at all like being packed into St. Reymanaud’s Cathedral, shoulder to shoulder with followers of Halone-- the hymns, the bells, the priest’s exaltations. With few notable exceptions, her days as an ascetic had been lonesome, and left her thirsty for discussion of the questions that kept appearing in her mind. “I wonder if it was easier, then, in those days-- to know Him truly. To-- to be among so many others, searching for the same closeness to Rhalgr as I am, who have taken that same vow.”

Flora briefly daydreams of what Sali Monastery must have been like in its prime, before it had become the ruin she called her home. Images flit through her head of the wizened old monks holding forums, discussing His nature-- and, finally, imparting this wisdom on the children the order had honored, by taking them as their own. It must have been such an idyllic world, there, in those days.

With some warmth, too, she thinks on Berrod, Autgar, N’hara-- And to some extent, Martin, too, was fast becoming part of this peculiar brotherhood of monks. “The Reformed Fist-- I’ve such high hopes. I owe them so much. I’ve my own role to play, among them. That much is certain.”

Autgar likened her to a priest, and often-- And more and more, each day, she had begun to see it, too. Mayhap she would not lead armies, or be a protector of the motherland. Mayhap she would never be a figurehead that the world of men respected, in any sense, because the world of men respects power and not much else-- And power could never entice her more than knowledge.

“And folk like me-- we have a place in the new Fists too, yes? Rhalgr did call me to be this way-- did he not?” She hardly ever smiles, but it’s thoughts like this-- yes, that will do it.

She finally comes upon a clearing-- the place she was looking for. The place carpeted in greenery, where the highland lilacs and the Rhalgr’s Gold bloomed with abandon. What stood in the center of this field was something strange, however: A small, wooden statue of the Destroyer. It seemed wrought not by the hand of a commissioned artisan, like so many other monuments close to the cities-- but by common, clumsy, naive hands like her own. She found offerings here, often-- offerings she had not left, herself. This was a holy place she shared with someone else, certainly, but she was unsure just how many others.

She had, in moons past, taken it upon herself to place something here of her own construction-- A plank of wood driven into the ground, with the following words carved in: “The land He strikes does not become barren.”

Whomever she shared this place with must have taken an interest to it. Every time Flora returned here, she’d find some manner of correspondence, always in the same shaky, meandering handwriting. Today was no exception-- at the base of the sign, sat a little bundle of papers, weighed down by a stone.

There’s a little scrap of folded paper on top that says “F. V.”

Flora’s heart skips a beat, when she sees it. “Ah!” She exclaims aloud, her voice echoing through the empty clearing. “Another letter-- and, ah-- it’s so much! What is all of this?” She gathers up the bundle, and unfolds the little note on top.

“I have transcribed this for you, from my own collection. Please tell me what you think. I look forward to your reply, as always.

V. M.”

“V.M., again!” Flora’s chest pounds. “How kind they are-- to always let me read such things! And this-- this is mine? Ah, what is it? Who--?”

Her excited, trembling hands thumb through the attached manuscript-- it appears to be an essay, of some sort, and a very dense one at that-- Written by a Brother Ewald, in the year 1328, the frontispiece says.

“It will take a few reads to make heads or tails of this, won’t it,” Flora admits to herself, plopping defeatedly onto the ground. V.M’s bizarre, frenetic handwriting doesn’t help matters at all.

But she settles herself in and starts to focus on the text, and it starts to make sense. The meaning of “one’s own mirage,” what it means to “best one’s own mirage--” The pieces of the Twelve hidden in all of their creations, obscured by the desires of man. Yes, yes, there’s a lot she agrees with, here, but-- “Ah, certainly ordinary men are driven by want, but this ought not mean ordinary men cannot be taught to seek His sublimity-- this is important! Our motherland was not so wounded in Brother Ewald’s time, certainly, but-- ah, this world of ours has seen much.”

Flora’s thoughts swirl and swirl until she realizes she’s come to the end of the essay. “O-Oh. Ah…” She gulps. “Mayhap I understood all of that, after all.” She has paper to write on, in her bag, and a pen her husband mistakenly left at Sali, last time he visited her there-- And V.M, it seems, does expect her thoughts.  

She sets the paper out in front of her, and begins, in the finest handwriting she can muster:

“V.M.,

I am full glad, as always, to hear from you…” (tagging @berrodarmstrong, @dynamitecowboy, @nhara-tia, @friendly-fire-engaged because mentioned! THANKS FOR READING AAAA)

[florihilda]

*has located a Flora Tumblr, promptly follows*

:DDD Yesss, it’s me! I post so rarely though lmfao

[textsfromtherisingstones]

[leia-moshantu]

@captaingiddyblack

[relavel-xiv-blog]

@florihilda XD Rel owes Flora dinner or something, she feels awful still lmao

[florihilda]

LMFAAOOOOO she ended up being okay! It doesn’t help that I love giving this character concussions XD

[florihilda]

Mythril Blade Prompt: Roadhouse!

(Leve prompt courtesy of @themythrilblade!)

Description: Business has been since Ala Mhigo got back in the hands of her own people.  We’ve been seeing more trade caravans bound to Ul’dah and Horizon, and with them thirsty customers.  Some are too thirsty.  There’s a big set of caravans making their way through over the next fun suns and we could use an extra body just to keep an eye on things should the traders and their hired guards decide to get a little too rough.  Figured the Blade would have someone who wouldn’t mind a bit of bouncing work for some coin?

Objective: Keep trouble from brewing in Drybone Tavern. Outcome: While a the crowd was a bit too loud and boisterous for the drinking establishments' usual tastes, there was little real trouble that evening, save for a bar fight that erupted between two miners bound for the Saltery.

The two men, who were brothers born in Ala Ghanna, had spent years struggling in Ul'Dah together once fleeing the homeland, and though Flora mostly spent her evening eavesdropping on them drunkenly, tearfully reminiscing on the troubles they'd been through, fists went flying when the conversation turned to who had the rights to woo a mutual female acquaintance.

"Ye ain't got no right, ya woman-thieving whoreson! Ye joined the miner's guild a whole three moons after I did! She's rightly mine!" One of the men roared, as he sent his brother crashing to the ground.

Flora steps up to the brawl, chewing on her lip as she thinks of how to address the issue. She speaks up in a tiny, but well-enunciated voice, "I'll, ah, I will watch your drinks, if the two of you would like to take this outside, yes? I will let them know you will be back shortly."

The two brothers look from one another to Flora multiple times-- perhaps baffled at her approach.

"Oh, aye. That's right kind of you, lass," one says as he rises up from the ground. "Be right back, then."

The two drunken miners staggered outside and returned perhaps ten minutes later, laughing, each sporting a fresh black eye. They were nothing short of jubilant for the remainder of the evening-- perhaps all it took was a good mutual pummeling to get it out of their system.

At the end of the night, Flora refuses payment from the Dunesfolk bartender, who is bewildered that she won't touch coin.

"My vow of poverty means I..." Flora tries to explain, before getting cut off by the lalafell's shrill voice.

"You spent six bells here! Six hundred gil for honest work-- that's my lowest offer! I can't just NOT pay you."

The argument continues until half-a bell after close, after which Flora relents to her reward-- a bottle of some spirit or another, which she still doesn't seem happy to have received. She comes to the Mythril Blade the following morning and places the bottle on a shelf behind the bar, so that someone else can have their fill.