Independent, selective Warrior of Light from FFXIV, as portrayed by Tao. They/them, 21. Spoilers and triggering themes will be present.
Other blogs: @levinstrike, @drachenlance, @yuunos (art blog)
I. This blog is a mostly canon-compliant blog portraying the Meteor Survivor (default hyur) as the Warrior of Light. Given that he is a blank slate as a character, I use the material the game provides as a basis, and headcanons/creative liberties to fill in the gaps. More can be read about how I portray him in my carrd (tba) and my headcanon tag (tba). That said, please do not lift anything from this blog. The icon border I use is made from a border template by @/nightsrph, but all other graphics and writing on this blog is mine.
II. Expect this blog to have semi-low to low activity. I'm a full time university student in the fourth year of undergraduate study, and I like to raid on the side, which doesn't leave me with as much time to write. I'll get to replies when I can, but please don't badger me to reply faster. Poking after a week is fine, but nothing excessive please.
III. By nature of the game itself, this blog is going to have a lot of potentially triggering topics present. I'll tag everything to the best of my ability, and I ask that you a) be respectful to me if I've forgotten to tag something, as it usually isn't intentional and b) return the favor and tag your own potentially triggering posts. You are also welcome to come to me and ask me to tag something specific, I won't mind. I aim to curate my dashboard based on my comfort, and I highly encourage you to do the same.
IV. I follow based on interest for writing or the passion people have for their muses. I'm fine with following and writing with duplicates of my muse, and I am also open to writing with characters outside of the FFXIV franchise. (I may even implement verses so that Meteor can exist in other games/media as well!) My only hard limit is that I will not follow self-insert blogs, as they make me deeply uncomfortable, but everything else is fair game. If you're interested in writing with me on this blog, don't be afraid to hit me up for some plotting.
V. Shipping isn't a priority on this blog, but I am very much open to them. The only thing I ask is that you communicate; I'm not a mind reader, and in fact I am a bit of a blockhead who appreciates having things clarified for me. If you don't approach me about ships OOC, then I'll probably just assume any chemistry or flirting is one-sided. I don't have any plans for ship exclusivity in mind for this blog yet, but I don't mind exercising it for a particular character if I'm asked to.
VI. Please don't heavily format replies to me, as I tend to have a difficult time reading them.
VII. Discord is available on request, and I much prefer chatting and plotting there to doing it in Tumblr IMs, though I'm fine with either. I also play FFXIV of course! Feel free to ask if you ever want to hang out.
idk if anyone is into bleach but I've been over here bc the tybw anime has me by the ass. i'm chill with everyone here so i'm down to follow back even if we never end up interacting there
"You did well out there, but you're not invincible. Let me help."
I forgor
Any other day and Meteor would be reaching out to that kindness like a man starved, like a freezing vagabond desperate to draw near a proffered hearth after so long without warmth. Tonight, though, it is a reminder that he is anything but the invincible warrior he is expected to be, even though he knows Haurchefant intends anything but.
There are two things that haunt him this day. One, that his greatest weakness has always been strength in numbers. A few adversaries too many, and he will find himself overrun, his defenses pounded to rubble, with himself soon to follow to ruin. Two, that even despite all his training, he hasn't been able to compensate for this weakness. A sword jutting out of his abdomen is proof of the second, the long of the blade an unrelenting column of icy metal that his flesh convulses around, making him wince with every movement.
He snarls in anger, more towards himself than anything else. To think that he could be so careless. All it had taken was a split moment, his focus meandering in the thick of battle, and suddenly he found himself run through like cattle gored by a pitchfork. It wasn't enough to put him out of commission-- he'd be a shite Warrior indeed if it did-- but it was enough to make him double over in pain, unable to move in the moments after repaying his assailant in blood and fury.
Haurchefant spared him any further need to defend himself from anyone else planning to pounce in his moment of weakness, and he pulled him away from the fray while the rest of his men charged forth. Still, Meteor couldn't see the concern in his eyes-- he hardly felt like he could see at all. There's only fury now, all-consuming and impossibly incandescent. The tang of iron makes him nauseous and the cold steel in his gut makes his vision swim, but the adrenaline pounding in his skull keeps him conscious, despite.
"You don't need to. Haurchefant- let me go, I can still fight-" And as he writhes in his grip, one hand closes around the hilt of the blade. He fully intends to wrench it out of himself and succumb to his need to pummel these bastards to death, blood loss be damned.
For some reason, the Scions, in all their curated wisdom, had decided that Meteor would be the mentor of their group. It had begun with Thancred advising Zero to look to Meteor for her answers rather than him, and now Alisaie and Alphinaud looked to him expectantly to help usher Wuk Lamat along her path with more than just his strength.
From a purely logical, objective standpoint, it made sense; Meteor was more than the Warrior of Light, he was perhaps the most hardened soldier in all of Eorzea. It stood to reason, then, that he would have the most lessons to impart to those who would come after him. Yet that was only looking at the larger picture. When it was also factored in that he often chose to follow rather than speak and offered deliveries of food rather than words of comfort to the needy, he really has to question the wisdom behind it all.
Even now, with all the time he'd spent with Wuk Lamat, he flails in silence. So much for all the time he'd spent journaling his experiences as he went-- any wise words he could impart were scarcely covered in the breadth of the few sentences he spoke when prompted to talk in turn, and he found that he'd struggled with much tutoring beyond that. It was why he'd preferred the company of other Scions most of the time. They'd been more than happy to speak where he chose to stay silent, wearing their flowery oratory like a fine frock where he would have floundered.
The Scions were not here, though. Thancred and Urianger had joined Koana's team, and though Alisaie and Alphinaud were with him, this time they had wandered off to question the Mamool Ja on their own, leaving him to deal with Wuk Lamat as she moped over her failed attempts to converse with the locals.
"Gods, I've dealt with unfriendliness before, but this is something else! They won't even talk to us!"
House cat, Bakool Ja Ja had jeered towards her, and Meteor saw where the nickname might have stemmed from, though in a way more affectionate than unkind. Her ears drooped as she rested her hands on her chin, and her tail, once animated even when she stood idle, lay still at her rear, as though it were a prop rather than a proper part of her. It was cute, and he couldn't help the smile on his face despite the circumstances.
Nor could he blame her for her frustration. After getting so far along her quest, she's hit a roadblock. A seemingly insurmountable one, given her approach. She requires open dialogue to be able to understand the people's problems and offer a solution, but the residents here don't even want to breathe towards them. An unpleasantness that is not all unfamiliar to him, given his last expedition to Ilsaberd.
"They're like the Garleans." Meteor murmurs to himself. He looks out at the shadow-shrouded landscape and the stony buildings and finds himself back at the subway station, when he had first arrived. The junkmonger, the mender the people huddled around the fire-- none of them had wanted to talk to him, and the few that did made it well and clear that they wanted him gone. As if the environment wasn't hostile enough, the residents that took shelter within it were as cold and immovable as all the grey contraptions around them.
He hadn't realized he'd been thinking out loud until Wuk Lamat startles him back to the present with a "really?" and he flinches back when he turns around and sees just how close she's gotten. She's peering at him with wide eyes-- newfound hope, he supposes, now that he potentially has some words of wisdom. Meteor blinks at first, because he thinks surely Wuk Lamat would have known about the Garleans already, if she's already talked with Alphinaud and Alisaie. If she had, his words wouldn't have been anything new, only a reminder of what they probably would have relayed to her before. But her stare doesn't relent, so Meteor sighs and looks to the distance.
"They... the Mamool Ja remind me of them, is all." He starts, and winces. This is why he doesn't like explaining so much. He's out of practice, and the delivery is wooden, jilted. Still, Wuk Lamat doesn't seem to mind at all, and only looks at him with more interest, so he continues. "Most of the locals wanted nothing to do with us, and when we came to their leadership offering supplies, they took the twins hostage instead. That's when I realized... our way of saving them was pretty one-sided.. and admittedly naive."
Wuk Lamat seems shocked by the sudden pessimism with the way she recoils, but with his flow found, Meteor looks at her and continues. "Everyone has their own idea of saving themselves, I think. For the Garleans, or at least their leadership, that idea didn't include outsiders at all. Anyone outside of the empire were their enemies, so they would kill them and use their spoils to feed their people, and they would survive. Life would go on. They almost followed through with that, before we finally convinced them to cease fire and lay down their weapons."
There's a long pause after that. Wuk Lamat seems to be considering the words, and Meteor lets her. He turns away and folds his hands behind his back, but beyond that, barely moves where he stands. The drone of the forest's insects fills the absence of words.
Then, "I... am I being naive then? Do you think my approach is wrong?" Her voice is too quiet, and when Meteor looks back at her, he frowns. The sad droop of her ears are back.
He purses his lips as he's flooded with memory, first of his conversation with Gulool Ja Ja. He remembers being asked what he thinks of the Third Promise, he remembers gritting out that he thought her too green, too unprepared for her duties to come. He remembers the raucous laughter that followed after that, the surprise that washed away his frustration when he realized the Dawnservant knew, yet put his faith in his daughter anyways.
He remembers his doubts starting to be assuaged as their journey went on and despite her shortcomings, Wuk Lamat finally, finally started finding her footing again.
He remembers himself, surrounded by Garlean soldiers that were too scared to get close to him despite having weapons pointed at him, as if he would slaughter them all at the first provocation, because he was Eorzea's champion, Garlemald's ill-famed butcherer.
He remembers Fray's solemn words at Myste's reminder of all the blood spilled in his heroics. The reminder that when he cut others down with his sword, he could save only one. Himself.
"I offer you peace! Restitution! A chance to make amends! Do not think you are above it! Do not think that a reckoning will be postponed indefinitely!"
"When it comes, I shall welcome it with open arms... but today will not be the day, and you will not be the judge!"
He exhales.
"Despite all my experience, I can't claim to know what the right way forward is." Is what he finally says, and then he looks meaningfully into Wuk Lamat's wide eyes. "You showed me that. I thought you too naive, once, and though I helped you along, I didn't believe in you, not really. Yet despite my doubts, you've succeeded, and now you've come this far. You're one stone's throw away from becoming Dawnservant."
He gazes at her. Even with the canopies above smothering all sunlight, her orange mane and pale yellow fur stand out starkly against the blue and black backdrop. A flame in the dark. A splash of vibrancy on a murky canvas.
"So I'm going to believe in you still. I want to see you use this method and succeed, however misguided it may be. I want to believe your way works, because I'm tired of fixing one evil by causing another."
Wuk Lamat is eerily silent after that, to the point where Meteor's confidence falters, and he starts to wonder if he'd spoken out of turn. If his honesty had been too much, and doused her spirits completely. Then before he can ask, she gives him a toothy grin, and smacks him on the back hard enough to make him yelp, surprised by the sudden force of the blow.
She laughs at the reaction. "Then that means I'll just have to succeed again!" And despite the pain, Meteor is smiling again. Finally, there's that enthusiasm. "I've finally earned your faith; I'm not going to let you down now just because some people don't want to talk to me."
"Don't get so ahead of yourself." Meteor grouses, but there's no bite to the words, and he elbows her. "Let's go find Alphinaud and Alisaie first, alright? If they haven't gotten anything out of the locals, at least we'll have their counsel."
They make their way to the twins, who seem heartened by how determined their Third Promise looks. Meteor nods to them with a small grin, spirits lifted well enough that he forgets to ask himself if he played his part correctly this time.
For the first time in a while, a weight is lifted off his shoulders.
Perhaps if he were younger, his answer would have been one of guilt, of a plea of forgiveness. Now, however, he knows better than to let his conscience bend him like a willow until he snaps in twain, especially with how much blood is on his hands now.
Instead, he gives her a tired look. "...Which among the dead are you referring to, exactly?"
TEA prog? No. Tea headcanons. Iced? Hot? Sweet with sugar or with milk? Herbal? What kinds does Meteor like if any?
But but. I want to see my wife Perfect Alexander 🥺
In all seriousness though, he likes teas with more earthy or nutty flavors, like matcha or oolong, with milk and a bit of added sweetness. Drinks his teas like he drinks his coffee, basically.
The benchmark has confirmed to me that I am not crazy and that Meteor's hair is indeed darker + has streaks in it, so I'm making my tentative headcanon about his hair official now! He's greying early and uses hair dye to cover it up, but the grey hairs don't hold the pigment as well as the brown hairs do, hence the lighter appearance. Meteor's the kind of guy who likes to live in the present and avoid thinking about the future (and things like the inevitability of aging), so he'd cover up the grey parts and avoid discussing it with others unless they've already seen what his hair looks like without the dye.
#𝐔𝐍𝐌𝐄𝐈𝐇𝐀 : independent, private, selective, unaffiliated roleplay blog for an original warrior of light (ᴋᴏʜᴀʀᴜ ʙᴜʜᴇɴ) & her ancient counterpart (ᴀᴢᴇᴍ / ᴋᴏʀᴇ) oc & multi-wol & crossover friendly. mutuals only, 21+ only, beta editor only.
↺ & ♡ if interested in interacting! non-roleplay blogs dni.
throw yourself into the unknown with pace and a fury defiant. clothe yourself in beauty untold and see life as a means to a triumph. today of all days, see how the most dangerous thing is to love ── how you will heal and you'll rise above, crowned by an overture bold and beyond. ah, it's more courageous to overcome.
"Gods, these clothes are tight." He's wincing as he tugs at the leather clinging tight to his waist, trying to relieve some of the pressure on his skin. How the hells did Clive run around in this outfit? Not like he can ask him, since he's back in his own world now...
Does Meteor remember anything from before ARR? Does he ever get echoes of other's memories that involve him from before he was sent forward in time by Louisouix?
Unfortunately, no. As far as he and everyone else is concerned, he is a John Doe with no connections or records of anything about himself, be it his age, his date of birth, his patron deity, or his family. At one point Meteor had hope that he'd be able to find something about himself, be it someone who happens to remember him or an echo of a lost memory, but in the 5 years leading up to the events of ARR, he finds absolutely nothing. Pre-ARR and ARR was a very lonely time in his life.
"I suppose I should thank you for saving me, even if it means playing nurse now." — Granson //bc hey, he isn't officially on the blog yet but Meteor has dibs anyway
After-action patch-up starters // @soulsalight
Battle-hardened though Meteor may be, his knowledge of curative magicks is shockingly unimpressive given all his experiences, and all the cuts and scrapes he's sustained throughout. A lack of knowledge that he'd largely attribute to his overreliance on the Echo's regenerative abilities, and the chirugeons and healers that attended to his wounds when that alone wasn't enough. In other words, there had never been any need to learn anything beyond basic first aid... at least until now, when the mark they were hunting dug an ugly gash into Granson while the both of them weren't paying attention.
If only he could inherit Fray's inherent talent for healing, he thought. Yet he knew the Fray residing within his soul was not the talented white mage that grew up with Sidurgu Orl, but a shadow of him that remained with his soulstone; a memory of a memory. The advice his other self gave him could only be what he himself already knew: use what potions and supplies they traveled with to do what they can. Apply pressure to the wound to staunch the bleeding, wrap it securely with the bandages, then let the tinctures foot the rest of the work until a proper healer came by to help.
"There. Hope that's not too tight." There's an apologetic glance from him as he finishes tying up the bandages. He's definitely not well-versed enough to take care of other people, if Granson's wincing is anything, and an answering stab of guilt draws a deeper frown from his lips. But the red blooming from his wound doesn't entirely soak the coarse fabric wrapped around it, and he supposed that was sign enough that he did a decent enough job, Meteor thinks grimly.
"I suppose I should thank you for saving me, even if it means playing nurse now." comes Granson's terse reply, and now Meteor is frowning for an entirely different reason. He doesn't miss the self-deprecation in his words, the implications of him being a burden, and something about it rattles him. He could never be a bother to Meteor. Not him, not when he liked his company this much.
"Hey, don't say that. I don't mind... it's more important to me that you're alright." Gods forbid if he was any slower-- he's had enough people he's loved die in front of his eyes as it is. Perhaps he can take solace that his friend is still here to grouch about the situation then, and he offers a little smile, patting his shoulder.
"Besides, playing nurse means I have an excuse to spend more time with you, right? A less dangerous one than hunting fell beasts, anyroad. I'm not the best nurse, but I'm a great cook, so you'll at least have good food while you recover." He jostles him lightly. "What say you?"
Granson adjusts the sword on his back as he makes his way through the vibrantly colored tundra of Lakeland. He is out to fulfill a hunt request someone posted on the board in the Crystarium a few days ago, but judging by the tracks he was following up til now someone else had the same idea.
Besides the mark's footprints and claw marks there are some less deep, distinctly Hume-like footprints in the dirt trailing down the same path through the shrubbery and sure enough, when Granson makes his way up a small hill he finds another hunter crouching a ways out of sight of the mark.
He didn't quite expect finding him here, though.
His lips quirk up into a smile as he quietly makes his way closer. Leather and metal clinking softly as he moves. "Well, isn't this a surprise," he whispers as he crouches next to him, words just loud enough to have the other man hear him but not loud enough to startle their prey.
Granson elbows him in the side, smile turning to a teasing smirk at the surprise he finds written all over the other's face. "Didn't think I'd see you back here so soon, and meaning to steal my game no less it seems."
Those who follow the exploits of the Warrior of Darkness would look upon his hunts and regale him as a glorious warrior, an altruistic hero who did his part and more to flush out the remaining threats that terrorized the First. In truth, that was only partially right; offering aid was his modus operandi, aye, but he was also here for the sport of killing interesting things, and perhaps more importantly, the eventual compensation for his work.
A sentiment that Fray both shared and approved of. No words were spoken in his head to tell him of such, but none were ever needed between them. There was only the warmth of Dark Knight soulstone emanating from his palm to tell him of his presence, as sure as the shadows that followed his every movement. He clutches it with a smile before slipping it back into his pocket, turning his gaze back to the quarry he was stalking.
Fray had usually been the only company he kept during these outings, as few others saw stalking game as dangerous as this as a hobby. So when Granson sneaks up on him, he nigh leaps out of his skin. Metal boots scrape against the earth as he steadies himself from the sheer magnitude from his flinch, but when he sees Granson's smiling face, what guards he puts up instantly melts, and he offers a friendly smirk in turn.
"You'll just have to be faster if you don't want me beating you to it, sinner." His eyes sharpen with the challenge, the nickname sinner as much of a taunt as it was an affection. But he makes for a poor actor, and the air of smugness is dropped quickly as he playfully punches Granson on the shoulder, his excitement about seeing him again bleeding right through. "Kidding, of course. I'm more than willing to step aside, if that's what you want, but I'd rather take it down with you. It's been far too long since we've fought side by side, hasn't it?"
"Hold still, [name], this might sting a bit."
"You're lucky it's just a few scratches. You need to be more careful!"
"Don't be such a baby. It's just a flesh wound."
"I can't believe you jumped into that fray without thinking! What were you trying to prove?"
"Here, let me help. I've had my fair share of battle wounds."
"Ouch! Warn me before you start cleaning those cuts."
"You're a mess. How did you even get into this situation?"
"I never thought I'd see you so vulnerable. It's strange."
"Let's patch you up before anyone else sees you like this."
"You really need to work on your combat skills. I can't keep playing nursemaid."
"I've got the first aid kit. Sit down, and let me take care of those injuries."
"You did well out there, but you're not invincible. Let me help."
"I told you not to charge in without a plan. Now look at you."
"It's nothing serious, just a few cuts and bruises. You'll be fine."
"I can't believe you're complaining about a little pain. You should see what I've been through."
"Hold on, I'll get the antiseptic. This might sting a bit."
"You're surprisingly fragile for someone who fights so fiercely."
"You really know how to ruin a perfectly good day, don't you?"
"I never expected to see you in need of my care. Life is full of surprises."
"I suppose I should thank you for saving me, even if it means playing nurse now."
[CLEANS] The sender takes a cotton swab and gently cleans the dirt and blood from the receiver's wounds.
[BANDAGES] The sender carefully wraps a bandage around the receiver's forearm, securing it to protect the cuts.
[SCOLDS] The sender scolds the receiver, shaking their head as they tend to the injuries.
[REACTS] The receiver winces as the sender applies antiseptic to a particularly nasty cut on their cheek.
[COMFORTS] The sender reassures the receiver, offering comfort while tending to the injuries.
[DISINFECTS] The sender pours antiseptic on a wound, causing the receiver to inhale sharply at the stinging sensation.
[INSPECTS] The sender inspects the wounds, noting any deeper cuts that might need more attention.
[LECTURES] The sender lectures the receiver, advising them to think before acting to avoid future injuries.
[SMILES] Despite scolding, the sender smiles reassuringly, trying to ease the tension in the room.
[COMPLAINS] The receiver complains about the pain, prompting the sender to roll their eyes and continue their work.
[WORRIES] The sender expresses worry, sharing their concern for the receiver's well-being.
[TREATS] The sender skillfully treats each injury, showcasing their competence in basic first aid.
[ADMONISHES] The sender admonishes the receiver, emphasizing the potential severity of the situation.
[ASSESSES] The sender assesses the overall damage, silently noting the toll the fight took on the receiver.
[DISAPPROVES] The sender expresses disapproval, stating that putting oneself in danger is not acceptable.
[ASSURES] The sender assures the receiver, claiming that despite appearances, the injuries will heal quickly.
[HESITATES] The receiver hesitates as the sender reaches for a needle and thread to stitch up a deeper cut.
[SYMPATHIZES] The sender sympathizes with the receiver, acknowledging the pain while praising their efforts.
[SCANS] The sender scans the receiver's body for any hidden injuries, ensuring nothing was overlooked.
[GRATEFUL] The receiver expresses gratitude to the sender for taking care of them amid the discomfort.
