Haurchefant Week

An event dedicated to Haurchefant, our splendid knight! | 5 November - 11 November | hosted by @fortempsward

[haurchefantweek]

This year as well, here are the prompts for the incoming Haurchefant Week! 💙

As usual, I'm posting the prompts a bit in advance to give everyone the time to brainstorm some ideas! 😌

As you already know, you can follow the prompts as much or as little as you'd like, skip days, or even mix them all together if you want!

Of course, feel free to drop me an ask if you have questions! 😄

[scapular-squire]

Haurchefantweek day 7: FREE DAY (I hit you with my personal Haurchefant Lives AU that ties back to my WoL’s horrible seven nuclear missiles ass backstory that I made needlessly gross and weird because canon dragons blood lore is like peanut butter jar and I am that one baby)

⬇️Gore Be Here Tehe⬇️

[scapular-squire]

Haurchefantweek day 6: Return

Still tryna experiment with painting cuz I’m liking it so far :33

[scapular-squire]

haurchefantweek day (erm uhhhhh one of ‘em I forgor): Shine/Giddy

My grandpa piss pad compressed the image again rip :/

[stars-and-clouds]

I couldn't contribute weekly to Haurchefant week but here is something I made at the last minute. (and I will update the fanfic soon too khekhee).

[clockworkcrane]

Haurchefant Week 2023 - Day Seven

Day Seven: Free Day

A faded letter found among the Warrior of Light’s personal effects. It is riddled with hastily scribbled revisions.

My heart

Dearest 

My dear Haurchefant,

I hope this letter finds you well, and in good health following the incident described in your latest correspondence. Would that I had been there. I doubt I could have persuaded you in the moment not to wade into the river after your charge, but at the very least I might have been able to conjure up a fire, or found some other means of keeping you warm. I hope you are keeping warm, and resting as you should.

I am sorry

Pray forgive me for

You must forgive me for taking so long to write back. I have been preoccupied with I have no adequate excuse, but pray you trust that even when I am unable to put quill to parchment, you are ever the object of my thoughts.

I miss you

I eagerly await our next reunion, and I expect that the moment my duties in the Hinterlands are concluded, I shall be returning to Ishgard. If we chance to meet there again, mayhap we could visit the apothecary I mentioned when last we were together. I seem to recall a promise of dinner and drinking as well, and I should be glad for an excuse to fulfill it. All that to say, should your own obligations draw you to the city in the next fortnight or so, pray seek me out. Your company is always more than welcome, and there is much I would discuss with you in person.

In the meantime, I confess there are a few thoughts that I have long wanted to express have been on my mind of late, which I wished to share, if only in writing. I beg your forgiveness if it is overly indulgent on my part to do so, but as there is a chance it will be some time before we meet again, it feels all the more imperative to put to words that which has occupied me so. To tell you how much you have come to mean to me how grateful I have been these past months for your companionship, your insight, and your support. I do not say this with bitterness, or regret, but these are comforts that were not so easily come by for the greater part of my life, and I do not take them for granted.

As you now know, I hail from Ishgard. In truth I had not considered it home for some time. My mother What little family I had was long gone by the time I came of age, and I left the city as soon as I was capable of setting out on my own. Ul’dah sheltered me longer than the Brume ever did, and when the Scions were ousted, I was cut off from my ties to any nation. That has changed, in large part due to your influence. Ishgard is a home to me now in a way that it never was before we met, because of you. I wanted you to know that.

I wish to be clear that I am not ignorant of your own struggles. That Ishgard and her people have not always opened their arms to welcome you, either. But I am ever inspired by your persistence in embracing her. In protecting her. In seeing the goodness in all you behold and in bearing any slings and arrows with the grace I have come to admire so greatly in you. I have learned much from you, and the way you see the world. I aspire to live up to your example, and the high regard in which I know I am held by you. Your patience, your faith, your generosity, they are all aspects I can only hope to one day embody with half as much ease.

But look at how much I have written without saying anything of significance at all. If I admire your grace and optimism, know that I am full envious of your ability to cut to the heart of a matter, when it is of import. Would that I did not dance around the point so.

To say it plainly: I have come to care for you, deeply, and for many reasons. I may never have adequate time to put them all to paper, but the sentiment bears setting in stone. Let me make it a matter of record. My heart is yours.

It is not lost on me that you have saved me, in more ways than one. Had you not appealed to your father, had I not been welcomed back into Ishgard at your behest, I can only imagine how differently events may have unfolded. And I am visited often by the fear that my great fortune in having met you, and in thereby avoiding the worst of all possible fates, may yet be counterbalanced by some unforeseen tragedy. Which is why I wanted to write you now, lest there never come another opportunity to confess my true thoughts. Even if I would much prefer to tell you that I love you face to face.

Ah, but I have grown morose in my ramblings. I believe this is the part where, were you here, you would entreat me to smile. Or mayhap you would not need to. You already give me many and more reasons to do so, merely by being in my company, and so it has become habit in your presence even without explicit instruction.

I am happy when I am with you. Truly happy. And when we are apart, it is the promise of that happiness that drives me forward, until such a time that we can be together again. It is a light in darkness. It is hope, burning brightly. I am oft accused of enkindling that sense of hope in others, as the Warrior of Light – a title which you know by now causes me no small discomfort – and if that is so, then know that I am merely a conduit, while you are its source. It is you, and my great affection for you, that instills in me any sense of hope for the future. As well as the will to fight to realize that future. Come what may, I do not believe that shall ever change.

Now the hour grows late, and I already fear I have written too much which would be better said in person. Know that I anticipate the moment I am able to do so with every breath, and in the meantime, that I am wishing you well and thinking of you often. Pray, write to me soon, and tell me all of your own adventures. It gladdens my heart to hear even a fragment of your thoughts, always.

Until next we meet, know that I am ever yours,

Aramond

[lobolaun]

Haurchefant Painted Casually wondering what adventuring you are up to.

[hamstr]

haurchefant week day 7: free day

happy haurchefant day and pocky day!

[scapular-squire]

First attempt at digital painting for haurchefantweek day 4: unarmed (AND UNSHIRTED HAPPY HAURCHEFART DAY WOOOO)

[maiwong1]

Haurchefant Week 2023

Day 7:Free

So I post many haurchefant pic and some with my hyur wol

I drew these so long ago way back when I played ffxiv almost 8h per day LMAO

[scapular-squire]

Haurchefantweek day 3: praise (heavily implied nsfw- I mean what just two bros having… a hug… and *looks down at notes* praising…)

[hamstr]

haurchefant week day 6: return

[scapular-squire]

Haurchefantweek day 2: Arise (I’ve accepted my fate to post everything late, half sketched, and out of order, as I am wont to do as bearer of The Curse)

[clockworkcrane]

Haurchefant Week 2023 - Day Six

Day Six: Painful 1116 Words. Rated G. Another Haurchefant-centric piece with nary a ship on the horizon.

Haurchefant does not remember being carried back to the garrison.  His fellow knights must have hauled him to Dragonhead unconscious, for he wakes in the infirmary with a splitting headache, an overwhelming pain in his ribs, and scarcely a recollection of how he came to be there.

His throat is rough as a sharpening stone when he swallows, and he can taste the faint tang of blood at the back of his mouth. He makes to sit up, but an assertive hand on his shoulder forces him back to his cot. Prone, he blinks up at the young woman leaning over him, dressed in the colors of House Fortemps. A healer, judging by her clothing and bearing.

A rather lovely one too, which is a shame, because she quickly dips away. A different shadow falls over him, and Haurchefant finds himself face to face with his commanding officer, whose demeanor is far less hospitable. The older Elezen narrows his eyes, radiating concern and disapproval in equal measure, as is his custom.

“So, you yet live,” he growls at Haurchefant, looming. “Tell me, do you recall what transpired at the cliffs?”

Haurchefant wets his lips, feeling as though he could drain a river and not be satisfied, but no offer of a drink seems forthcoming. He had better get to talking. While he cannot say how he came to be back here, in Camp Dragonhead, he does recall the events which resulted in his cracked ribs and the map of tender bruises now spanning the length of his back.

“Yes, sir. We were patrolling along our usual route. Near the ruins to the north, we were waylaid. Set upon by a lesser wyrm,” he explains, making another attempt to sit up.

The effort sends the blood rushing to his head, where it begins to pound. A small groan escapes his lips, and Haurchefant falls back into his cot, squeezing his eyes shut. This does little to evoke pity in his commander, who merely clears his throat to signal his impatience.

“And then?”

“We were holding it at bay, but…” Haurchefant trails off yet again.

The truth of the matter is that one of the newest members of their order broke formation and was cornered by the beast. Naming him will doubtless invite the commander’s wrath down upon him, however, and Haurchefant can see no reason to do so.

“It was clever,” he dodges, “It attempted to break through our ranks, charging one of the recruits…”

His commander quirks a brow, but asks for no names. “And how is it that you came to be unconscious in the infirmary, and not this recruit?”

“Perhaps somewhat hastily,” Haurchefant admits, laying a hand on his ribs, where the pain is sorest. “I intervened.”

“Lest your memory fail you at this juncture,” the commander tells him. “I have been informed that you were then nearly roasted alive and flung from a cliff.”

Haurchefant grimaces. That part is hazy, but it does explain the bruising. And the pink, tender patches of skin on his forearms, where it seems his bracers have left something like a brand after absorbing the raw heat of dragon flame.

His commander sighs heavily. “So then. What is the lesson?”

This is a favorite question of his. Anytime one of the knights commits an error, they can expect to hear it. And it is effective, for the most part, to be made to explain what they have learned from the consequences of their mistakes. Even if it is somewhat humiliating, it solidifies the experience.

Haurchefant knows what answer he is meant to give. He was reckless. He remembers rushing forward, intent on putting himself betwixt dragon and recruit as a buffer, a shield. But it did not seem a conscious decision at the time. It was only the right thing to do.

Acting on impulse, however, is not befitting. Not of a seasoned knight of House Fortemps.

He also knows what his commander will say, should he admit that his recklessness is a failing. He has built up a reputation for being somewhat foolhardy, through similarly short-sighted behavior. It could be dangerous. He could get hurt. Even so, Haurchefant cannot bring himself to think of his inclination to protect others as one of his faults. It seems to be in his blood, in his very marrow. 

He can remember a time before he’d taken on the colors, when he nearly got a knife between the ribs protecting his friend Francel from a pack of bandits. And well before that, the countless occasions on which he took a blow on Emmanellain’s behalf, in one of the many scuffles between himself and his half-brothers that he would sooner forget.

No amount of bloodied knuckles or bruised skin or broken bones seems capable of driving this instinct out of him. The promise of pain has never done much to dissuade him from doing what is right, for he can ultimately bear it. And even now, though his ribs hurt so acutely that the smallest effort reduces him to trembling, he cannot say he should have done anything differently. 

Pain is fleeting. The shame of not having acted when one’s actions could turn the tide, or protect a friend? Intolerable. For what use is his shield if he only ever cowers behind it?

And therein, he finds his answer.

“My shield,” he says, a sense of defiance settling over him. “I should have tilted it downward.”

His commander’s brow furrows. “I do not follow.”

“When I interjected myself between the wyrm and my fellow knight,” Haurchefant elaborates. “I should have tilted my shield downward, so that the dragon’s flames were better diverted and did not break my sightlines. Then I could have anticipated the blow which struck me from the cliff, and avoided it. That was my error. Sir.”

His pulse is rushing in his own ears, but Haurchefant keeps his chin high, all the same. He turns his head, examining the look on his commander’s face. There is exasperation, yes, but also the smallest hint of pride. He did not come into his command without being able to recognize a losing battle when he sees one. Nor a worthy opponent. After a pause, he smiles.

“Aye, that will serve. For a start,” he says. “Now get some rest. You’re to be back at your patrol come morning. I expect you’ll be missed otherwise.”

Victory. Risk, and reward. Haurchefant relaxes by a fraction, returning the commander’s smile with a grin of his own. Suddenly the twinge of discomfort in his ribs and the ache in his back do not seem quite as painful as before. They can be borne.

“Yes, sir.”

[clockworkcrane]

Haurchefant Week 2023 - Day Five

Day Five: Shine 1299 Words. Rated T for two boys being sweet on each other. There are entire schools of magic dedicated to the study of the heavens. The phases of the moon, the rotation of the planets, the alignment of certain celestial bodies. Their influence on the land is tangible, felt in the currents of aether that flow from star to star, and in the subsequent ebb and flow of magic, shifting like the tide. Long has man looked to the skies for understanding, pairing cause to effect, seeking meaning in the shapes that are formed by and between the stars.

For his part, Haurchefant has never given them much thought. He knows the names of the major constellations, and how to navigate by the stars that burn brightest overhead. He can trace the tail of the Spear to Halone, the Fury, and knows that the tip of that same spear points precisely due north. More than that he cannot recall from the lessons of his youth. The knowledge has never served him and, as such, has long since faded from memory.

Aramond’s mind, on the other hand, latches onto such details with unmatched tenacity. Haurchefant knows the Warrior of Light well enough by now to have seen it firsthand many times; he tucks every scrap of obscure information neatly away, never to be forgotten. It is as though any new secrets he uncovers might one day prove the answer to some crucial riddle. As though someday the fate of the world might rely on his recollection of a missive he once read, or a passing conversation he overheard.

Haurchefant understands that hunger, even if he does not feel it himself. From what little he has pieced together of Aramond’s past, knowledge and the power it afforded him were not so easily come by. And there is something endearing about the Warrior of Light’s genuine enthusiasm for sharing that knowledge with him, knowing how precious he considers it to be.

They find themselves curled up together one evening just outside the Last Vigil, on a bench near one of Ishgard’s many overlooks. Peaks and valleys and miles of frost-covered ground sprawl beneath the city like a tapestry woven from silver, but it is upward that the Warrior of Light’s attention is drawn. Haurchefant is shoulder to shoulder with him, listening intently, his focus solely on the words tumbling from Aramond’s mouth. He is certain he has never heard so many escape him at once, in all their time together.

“And there, that cradle, hanging low over the mountains? That is the shaft of the Arrow,” the Warrior of Light is saying. “See how it bends and straightens. The point, the brightest star, is Oschon.”

Haurchefant presses his lips together and tilts his head, attempting to discern anything remotely resembling an arrow in all that inky black.

“You can mark each of the Twelve in that same manner,” Aramond tells him helpfully. “Joined together by fate, if the stories are to be believed. Oschon’s arrow is guided by the wind off the sea, and so the larger star there at the base of the arrow, that must be the Navigator, Llymlaen.”

“I see,” Haurchefant says, content that Aramond is smiling, and not at all concerned with honing his ability to pinpoint Llymlaen’s place in the heavens on sight.

“But not a child in Eorzea has not heard the stories of the Twelve,” Aramond finishes. He bends forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Those are easily remembered. Far more interesting are the lesser bodies, the stories all but forgotten.”

Haurchefant takes the opportunity to reach for Aramond’s hand, which the Warrior of Light allows with a private smile. Their fingers interlock with practiced ease.

“Pray, continue,” Haurchefant entreats. “I should like to hear one.”

The other man turns to him at last, with a hint of sheepishness. The cold air has brought out the color in his cheeks. Or perhaps he has suddenly realized that he has been talking at length while Haurchefant, uncharacteristically silent, has done naught but listen.

“Truly?”

“Truly,” Haurchefant assures him.

“Very well,” Aramond hums, lifting his chin heavensward. “Ah, yes. See those two points of light just above the Ewer – um, the stretch of stars in a line just there? And overhead, glowing faintly, red and blue? I met a fellow thaumaturge in Ul’dah who identified those stars as Astra and Umbra, forever locked together in a cycle.”

Haurchefant follows his gaze, squinting. The twin stars are smaller and fainter than those representing the Twelve, and painted so closely together upon the canvas of the sky that they are almost indistinguishable from one another. In truth, he cannot say that they are a different hue than any of the surrounding pinpoints of light, but he nods along all the same.

“The tale goes that they were mortal lovers, inseparable, until one day, while crossing a river, Astra slipped and was drowned,” Aramond continues, his voice taking on a tone of solemnity. “The fires of his lover extinguished, Umbra turned cold and hollow as death itself. He pleaded with the Twelve to return his lost love, until at last, Nymeia took pity upon him and plucked Astra’s soul from the aetheric river to which it had flowed. Pulled from the Ewer, Astra was suspended just where she is now, and Umbra placed beside her. They encircle one another to this day, never touching, for Umbra’s frost is too much for Astra’s flames to bear. Until, once a year, they eclipse one another and are reunited for a time, only to part once more.”

Pausing, Aramond leans back again, wincing slightly. “Of course, those are not even the names of those stars now, if ever they were, but the myth itself likely predates the naming of the constellations as we know them.  It was a tale well received in the guild hall, but perhaps not the happiest, now I’ve recounted it aloud.”

Haurchefant smiles, looking to where their hands are still laced together. He gives Aramond’s fingers a comforting squeeze. “Neither is it unhappy. At the very least, the lovers are reunited, and they know in parting that they shall be together again someday. Not everyone is so fortunate.”

“True enough. Yet, all the same,” Aramond says. “I find it a more poignant tale now than I did when I first heard it told. If only because I know I should hate to be apart from you so long. Or worse yet, close, but just out of reach of you.”

Haurchefant turns to him wordlessly, leans in closer, and rests their foreheads together. Aramond closes his eyes, a smile ghosting over his lips, taking comfort in the gesture. Their breath clouds between them, and they are quiet for a moment, enjoying the rare moment of peace. Ishgard has grown still around them as evening envelopes her, her streets scattered with specks of lamplight; distant halos not unlike the glow of the stars above.

“Were it so,” Haurchefant tells him. “I would make the most of our time spent together when it did come. As I do now. How fortunate I feel in moments such as these, when in the midst of your adventures, I am pulled once more into your orbit.”

Aramond shifts, bringing their lips together briefly, just long enough for Haurchefant taste a hint of warmth.

“Someday soon,” he says. “I will return home to stay. Here, by your side. It is a promise.”

“Until then,” Haurchefant answers, smiling, "there is naught else I would do but this.”

He rests his shoulder against Aramond’s once more, eclipsing the Warrior of Light’s hand in his own as he turns his attention back to the skies.

“Tell me another tale?” he asks softly.

“As you like,” Aramond replies, relaxing into him. “We have plenty of time yet.”

[hamstr]

haurchefant week day 5: giddy

[clockworkcrane]

Haurchefant Week 2023 - Day Four

Day Four: Unarmed

1309 Words. Rated G. This one is Haurchefant-centric, so nothing shippy.

His first posting is in the highlands, just south of Providence Point. It’s the farthest Haurchefant has ever been from home without being accompanied by either a steward or a friend. His regiment is stationed well outside the walls of Ishgard, far removed from all its comforts. He can see the city on the horizon only on clear mornings, casting her austere silhouette across the heavens.

Clear mornings are rare this winter. The weather turns more often toward harsh winds and frigid snows. It makes training in the yard nigh unbearable, but what truly tips the scales, what truly makes him yearn for home, are his senior recruits. Despite the harsh conditions and endless training, Haurchefant thinks he would otherwise enjoy setting out on his own, and the freedoms he’s been afforded, if not for them.

In particular there is Abelard. A third son of a minor house, he has been set on tormenting Haurchefant since he arrived in camp. Haurchefant bore his jabs in silence well enough for a fortnight or so, but then Abelard called him ‘bastard’ to his face, and fists flew. Haurchefant hardly remembers the incident, so quickly did their commander put an end to the scuffle, but it was enough to lodge Abelard’s grudge firmly in place. He’s been a terror ever since.

As such, Haurchefant is not surprised when he wakes one night to the sound of a whistle and a sharp, prodding pain in his forehead, only to find himself surrounded by his fellow knights in training. He is merely annoyed, and exhausted.

Abelard is naturally at the head of the pack. He withdraws his hand from Haurchefant’s face and leers.

“Rise and shine, bastard,” he says. “Or you’ll be late for your exercises.”

Haurchefant resists the urge to rub the spot on his forehead where Abelard jabbed him, glaring at the other boy instead. “What exercises?”

“Special training,” Abelard sneers. “We’ve all completed it in our time. ‘Tis a test of your resolve, would-be knight. Your armaments have been strewn throughout the woods to the south. Find them, and you pass.”

Starting, Haurchefant sits up in his bedroll, reaching immediately for the small trunk at his feet. He is allowed only a few personal effects, and he is relieved to see them still nestled within. Only his sword and shield, emblazoned with the crest of House Fortemps, are missing. Just as Abelard said.

“You—” Haurchefant cuts himself off, his face heating.

“’Tis only tradition.” Abelard grins, holding up his hands with his palms facing outward. “Tarry if you prefer, but come sunrise, you’ll sorely miss that blade of yours. Difficult to complete your drills without one.”

Cursing, Haurchefant untangles himself from the rest of his blankets and gets to his feet, pushing past the gaggle of other recruits, who snicker in his wake. He pulls on his boots and sets off through the snow, fuming so heavily that he barely feels the cold piercing through his tunic.

“Best of luck, bastard!” calls Abelard.

Haurchefant ignores him, stalking toward the woods with his head hung low. The chill bites at him, kept at bay only by his fury as he stomps over fallen leaves and tangled roots, searching for tracks.

“’Tis only tradition,” he mumbles to himself as he goes.

He is accustomed to the cold pit of rage forming a knot in his gut. It goes beyond anger; it is pure indignance in the face of injustice. He has often felt it following certain arguments with his f—with Lord Fortemps. It isn’t right, he thinks to himself, that he should be set apart yet again by the circumstances of his birth. Is Abelard not meant to be a brother, a comrade in arms?

It is never that simple. Haurchefant knows that well enough, but the realization, the unfairness of it all, still burns at him.

Eventually his eyes adjust to the darkness, and he begins to pick out signs of movement through the light frost covering the ground. He follows the tracks easily, exasperated that Abelard and his companions did not even bother to making their task into a challenge. It would at least have justified waking him in the middle of the night.

The trees clear. He stumbles into a circle of snow interrupted only by a trail of footprints and the jut of an outcropping of black rock. The gleam of his sword catches his eye first, tossed haphazardly into the snow at the base of the small cliff. His shield lies just beyond, half buried in frost. Haurchefant makes straight for it.

Only to be interrupted by a long, low growl.

His heart climbs into his throat. He turns his head slowly toward the noise, wary of disturbing its source. There is a flash of white fur and reddened eyes, and the wolf emerges from behind the rock, its fangs bared in a grimace.

Swallowing hard, Haurchefant glances toward his sword, still lying a good fifteen paces away. He is unarmed, but the beast is decidedly not. Although it is scrawny, and the bumps of its ribs are distinctly visible beneath patches of fur, its fangs are sharp.

He considers his odds for a moment. Perhaps he could run or wrestle the creature to the snow before it can pounce....

But then it occurs to him that wolves often roam in packs. This one is alone, having sheltered from the snow in the shadow of the rocks, with no sign of its family to be seen. And it is starving. He can see that in the ridges of bone beneath its sallow skin and the lean look in its eyes.

He knows that look. It is not anger, not truly. It is fear. He has stumbled upon a fellow outcast in the snow.

Haurchefant slowly extends a hand, palm up, and looks the wolf in the eyes. Perhaps kindness may serve where a blade cannot.

“Shh,” he says quietly. “There now, there is nothing to fear from me.”

The wolf’s ears, pinned flat against its skull, twitch upward. Its growl dwindles to a whine, then to silence, as it watches him warily.

“I am alone,” Haurchefant assures it. “Just as you are. A frightening prospect, I know, but hardly cause to bare our fangs at one another.”

The creature lifts its head, chest heaving. A long pause follows, in which the woods seem to Haurchefant to whittle away, until there is only the clearing in which he is standing, and the plaintive red eyes boring into him. Then the wolf gives a small, subtle wag of its tail.

“Huh,” Haurchefant exhales, surprised. He relaxes his arm.

The wolf shuffles, giving a final whine, and takes off. It quickly disappears into the trees. Haurchefant waits for a heartbeat, then crosses through the snow to retrieve his sword and shield. His heart is still pounding, but he feels strangely calm. Calmer than he has since he arrived here.

He takes his time trekking back to camp. When he arrives, Abelard is there to greet him with a customary sneer.

“There you are,” he says. “We thought perhaps you curled up in the snow to die. Or fled back to Ishgard.”

“I shouldn’t think so,” Haurchefant replies, smiling. “I still have much to learn. Thank you for the exercise. It was illuminating.”

Abelard blinks at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice, and lingers for a moment. He seems unsure of what to make of this change in demeanor.

“Well, well, bastard,” he says finally. “We may yet make a knight of you.”

Haurchefant waits, but the word does not have its usual effect. The anger does not come. He feels no need to bare his teeth.

He props open his trunk and gently lays his arms inside, sword tucked beneath his shield. For when it is needed.