X'shtaareh Moui - ۶

two drops and i sip one; one cut and you get none

[just-thal]

FFXIVWrite 2023 1. Envoy

Shtaareh

I hope these words find you under moon's light. How are you settling into the city? We don't know your living arrangements—I hope they're comfortable. I've heard the baazaar there is magnificent. Maybe they have the stock for you to make foods that remind you of home? If you want to remember. Did you hang up the daisies? We miss you.

Mother

...

Shtaareh

I hope these words find you under moon's light. The nights are getting cold again. How is it in Radz-at-Han? Make sure you bundle up, if you need. You were always so careless with the cold.

I've pressed more daisies into this paper. I don't know if yours are still well. I had to replace the ones at your door monthly, when you were still here. Do you remember? Your father won't let me take the last chain down. I've told him they're an errant breath from shattering, but he insists. I think he imagines you still brushing your hands against them on your way out. At least, I do.

Mother

...

Shtaareh

I hope these words find you under moon's light. I hear things here and there, you know? Even if you don't tell me. You've done a marvelous job splitting the thread, but never well enough that I can't connect the ends back together. Maybe that's your way of letting me know.

It seems you're well. It seems, at least, you're helping people be well. That's as much as I could hope for. I know why you don't write back, but I wish you would. I hope the light is shifting the way you want it to.

Mother

...

Shtaareh

I hope these words find you under moon's light. I spend some days sweeping up flecks of petals from under your doorway. I've saved them in a jar. I see your father looking at it, sometimes. It's all he can do not to ask the others at the market if they've heard more about the alchemist at Yuuj. We don't want to raise suspicion, don't worry. We get by with the scraps of news that come through.

You won't want to hear this, but what we've pieced together makes us proud. No—keep reading—we're glad for your path. We know you can't look back. It hurts too much. You probably think that's what you deserve. That was always your wont. Whether or not you deserve it... well, that isn't for me to say. I know you wouldn't hear it, anyway.

We only hope your path leads you somewhere that meets with ours. I have to believe that turn is coming. Just, don't let it be too far away?

Mother

[just-thal]

hi :) 12, 21, and 27 for my meowmeow

ty for asks ✨💖✨

12: Do you believe in an afterlife, and why or why not?

i don't think shtaareh believes in an afterlife as a place; i don't think he believes that after he dies he will have the experience of existing somewhere else, good or bad or whatever else. he was turned off to this notion from how he saw nald worship play out in ul'dah. but he does believe that after death there may be some kind of peace — that perhaps there will be a relieving bookend to life, which he takes largely to consist in suffering. shtaareh's afterlife is rest. he doesn't care for second chances nor reward nor punishment after death. he believes that he bestows his soul to thal when the time comes, and maybe thal will scatter him back into the world piecemeal. his afterlife is a return to the earth and the longest sleep.

21: How often do you make excuses?

before? all the time. he held himself unaccountable, and saw himself getting away with it. he was a premium asshole, not quite malicious but unwilling to take responsibility. full of excuses when he couldn't be bothered to show up for someone, act right toward someone, take care of something for someone. but the day arrived that he was met with consequences he couldn't brush away, and since then: he probably doesn't make excuses as often as he should. he apologizes more than he needs to. he declines excuses others make for him. "So sorry I'm late" ; "Not at all. It's pouring out there." ; "I should have planned for it." etc. if he's making an excuse, it's probably in jest.

27: Do you ever lie? For what reasons?

ohh yeah. shtaareh's a principled sort of liar. obviously he does a lot of illegal work; he has no qualms lying to people about it for his safety and the safety of his colleagues/clients. more selfishly, he lies about his past — most often through omission, but if asked directly he may refer to an invented previous life to make it harder to trace him. he will also lie about his daily life: how he's doing (usually worse than he admits), what he's up to (more than he lets on), whether he needs anything (he always does; he says he doesn't)... but he tries not to lie if it would bring harm to someone else (excluding like... idk he'd lie if it would hurt the syndicate, you get the idea). this obviously produces a tension. the closer he lets anyone get to him, the more likely they are to be hurt if he lies about his life — but to tell the truth? it would hurt him so much

[oc-dev]

What are the three things that make you the happiest?

What book or movie influenced you the most as a person?

What do you spend the most time thinking about?

If you found out you had a week left to live, how would you spend your time?

Are you afraid of death?

Do you have any habits that others would consider weird?

What medium of art do you appreciate the most?

What do you hope people will say about you at your funeral?

If you could, and had to, move anywhere, where would you choose to live?

What immediately turns you off of a person, romantically or platonically?

How do you most want to make a difference?

Do you believe in an afterlife, and why or why not?

Do you like yourself as you are now?

Have you ever laughed so hard you peed, and what was it over?

What scares you the most?

Who do you look up to, alive or dead?

What’s a lesson you had to learn the hard way?

What are the three things in your life you’re most grateful for?

What do you believe makes life meaningful?

If you could communicate with your younger self, what would you tell them?

How often do you make excuses?

When was the last time you were furious, and what was it over?

Do you have any talents you’re really great at?

What would your younger self think of you now?

Do you want to be a parent? Why or why not?

When were you the most disappointed in yourself?

Do you ever lie? For what reasons?

What is your biggest regret in life?

What would you do if you had no fear and could not fail?

What do you believe you are contributing to the world?

[just-thal]

[ blood , self-harm ]

The squat glass vial sat crimson against the candlelight; Shish shook it and the fluid broke into droplets that scattered up against the metal stopper, then collected back to the bottom when he set it down. It was a cylinder an ilm wide, filled fresh an ilm deep with his own blood. He had plans for its contents.

With a stick of graphite he scribbled in the yellowing notebook at his side: effects of unknown liquid "aqua vigour", derived of aqua regia distillate and vitriol, on blood

A beaker sat next to the vial, half-full of mystery: something clear that would be indistinguishable from water but for a thin, sickly sweet smell, and a tendency to uncontrollable explosion when heated over the flame. A sulking burn on Shish's palm attested to the latter discovery, mere days old.

He unstoppered the vial and deposited a small pool of red on the bright white ceramic tile that served as his workspace. It wobbled in place, but would not congeal—the result of an old experiment of his with spit of leeches. More carefully, he drew a drop of mystery into a bulb and, bracing himself, let it fall on to the blood.

It had no sooner made contact than the mixture popped, fizzling and foaming with an unexpected energy. Shish would have flinched, had he not trained himself over years and years to save his surprise for when there was nothing more to observe. So he watched as the red disappeared into thick froth, bubbling angrily up at him; he watched until it seemed the blood had been dissolved somehow to the same colourlessness of his ongoing mystery. He captured everything he could in his memory before putting it to paper.

immediate and loud bubbling reaction destroys blood beyond recognition. what's left? byproducts to check in residual fluid & fume hood

As Shish set his graphite down, the soft candlelight cast just so on his arm. Countless parallel lines sat in sharp relief on his skin. They shone lighter, smooth and taut from the imperfect healing. He saw this, and caught a memory of his father's voice.

"D'you—Shtaareh, do you need help wiv that?" His gruff concern came over Shtaareh's shoulder.

"What? No."

"It's animal blood then. Eh?"

"No. Mine. Just pricked me finger for a bit of it. I'm testin' somethin' wiv the leeches."

"Oh." Silence.

"Somethin' wrong?"

"No." A chuckle, awkward and vulnerable. "Just glad to see you usin' it for once, I suppose. Not just... doin' it to yourself. Y'know?"

More silence. "Yeah. I know."

"You test things. Always. That's what you do. So if that's all it is, makes me glad."

Shish smiled.

test again: closed container this time.

[just-thal]

13, 18, and 34 for the ask meme 💕

13: Is your character bothered by the sight of blood? If so, in what way?

shish is comfortable with seeing blood, smelling it, whatever; he's worked with it extensively in his alchemy, whether using all sorts of animal blood as an ingredient or experimenting with his own. he's also just voluntarily seen a lot of his own blood for character history reasons and it doesn't perturb him at all

18: Is your character more likely to admire wisdom, or ambition in others?

he's grown wary of ambition after seeing what his own wrought. he actually thinks wisdom is too often born of the mistakes ambition produces - he thinks wisdom is born of error in general, and he respects those with it for what he considers the priceless skill of learning from their mistakes. there may be ambitious people who could elicit admiration from him, but that's something they would have to earn in his mind.

34: Is your character more likely to keep trying a solution/method that didn’t work the first time, or immediately move on to a different solution/method?

this one's hard... i wanna say he would think very carefully about why it might not have worked: was it a matter of luck? something he might have gotten wrong in execution, despite a sound principle? then he'd try again. but if he starts to get the sense that a perfect follow-through and good luck isn't enough, he'll look elsewhere. this, of course, falls naturally out of his sorta-scientific approach to his work

but i think all of this runs against a spiralling guilty tendency he has to drive himself into the ground. as far as taking care of his own well-being goes, he tries all the wrong solutions over and over again

[i-see-light-blog]

Character Development Questions: Hard Mode

Does your character have siblings or family members in their age group? Which one are they closest with?

What is/was your character’s relationship with their mother like?

What is/was your character’s relationship with their father like?

Has your character ever witnessed something that fundamentally changed them? If so, does anyone else know?

On an average day, what can be found in your character’s pockets?

Does your character have recurring themes in their dreams?

Does your character have recurring themes in their nightmares?

Has your character ever fired a gun? If so, what was their first target?

Is your character’s current socioeconomic status different than it was when they were growing up?

Does your character feel more comfortable with more clothing, or with less clothing?

In what situation was your character the most afraid they’ve ever been?

In what situation was your character the most calm they’ve ever been?

Is your character bothered by the sight of blood? If so, in what way?

Does your character remember names or faces easier?

Is your character preoccupied with money or material possession? Why or why not?

Which does your character idealize most: happiness or success?

What was your character’s favorite toy as a child?

Is your character more likely to admire wisdom, or ambition in others?

What is your character’s biggest relationship flaw? Has this flaw destroyed relationships for them before?

In what ways does your character compare themselves to others? Do they do this for the sake of self-validation, or self-criticism?

If something tragic or negative happens to your character, do they believe they may have caused or deserved it, or are they quick to blame others?

What does your character like in other people?

What does your character dislike in other people?

How quick is your character to trust someone else?

How quick is your character to suspect someone else? Does this change if they are close with that person?

How does your character behave around children?

How does your character normally deal with confrontation?

How quick or slow is your character to resort to physical violence in a confrontation?

What did your character dream of being or doing as a child? Did that dream come true?

What does your character find repulsive or disgusting?

Describe a scenario in which your character feels most comfortable.

Describe a scenario in which your character feels most uncomfortable.

In the face of criticism, is your character defensive, self-deprecating, or willing to improve?

Is your character more likely to keep trying a solution/method that didn’t work the first time, or immediately move on to a different solution/method?

How does your character behave around people they like?

How does your character behave around people they dislike?

Is your character more concerned with defending their honor, or protecting their status?

Is your character more likely to remove a problem/threat, or remove themselves from a problem/threat?

Has your character ever been bitten by an animal? How were they affected (or unaffected)?

How does your character treat people in service jobs?

Does your character feel that they deserve to have what they want, whether it be material or abstract, or do they feel they must earn it first?

Has your character ever had a parental figure who was not related to them?

Has your character ever had a dependent figure who was not related to them?

How easy or difficult is it for your character to say “I love you?” Can they say it without meaning it?

What does your character believe will happen to them after they die? Does this belief scare them?

[just-thal]

FFXIVWrite 2022 6. Onerous cw: smoking

Shish struck a match against his palm and lit a rolled cigarette tucked between his lips. A flick of the wrist extinguished the match, and a breath in and out birthed a cloud of smoke in front of him. He took the cigarette between a thumb and forefinger and considered the person sat across from him through the grey.

They were older than Shish, a little. Hannish, with a turban different from the one he was wearing, but styled and bound just as carefully. Light and greying stubble marked their tan face, and heavy, thick brows framed eyes that watched him back. They had offered no name; he had not asked.

They were both reclined by Shish's korsi, which was never lit but for the coldest months. It was summer now, and even the blanket atop it was cast aside for the heat. His samovar, copper, sat on one corner, steaming gently from a vent. There would be tea later if they pleased. The rest of the flat was obscured by emerald curtains Shish had drawn tight, though faint aromas of stew and spice meandered through a gap.

"What do you need?" Shish asked, and took another drag.

They crossed their arms. "I have a weakness in my shoulder." The right arm unfolded to nurse the left. "Nervous, I think."

"When did it start, and how?"

"It set in gradually. Too many years with a hammer, I think."

He nodded and tipped fresh ash into a tray. "It happens."

"Aye," they said, grimacing. "But I still need to work. It's difficult to manage when it goes numb so easily."

One more drag, and Shish set the cigarette against the ashtray. His hand, free now, rested on the woven fiber tablemat. "I can help with that." His thumb drew circles on his fingers.

"That's why 'm here. What can you do?"

"Have you heard of pluto?" The thumb stopped, and he locked his eyes over his glasses.

"Yes." They shuffled at the look, scratching the back of their neck. "Of course. I've considered it, but it's expensive."

"Not here."

"Why not?"

"I charge what it's worth."

The scratching hand lowered, slow, and rested on the table to mirror his. "So you'll give me pluto?"

"Not just pluto." The thumb resumed its motion; his eyes did not. "It's too blunt an instrument on its own. I would mix it with salts, and mix those salts to soften them. You take it through the nose when the weakness strikes. It should revive the nerves somewhat."

"Somewhat?"

"Nothing is perfect."

"Alright."

Shish sized them up and down, not for the first time that day, and did not cease his watch. "Do you drink?"

"Uh—yes." Their brows arched, raising a question buried in the answer.

"Not while using the pluto."

"No?"

Shish took a deep breath, clean, and let his glasses slide a fraction of an ilm down his nose. "They don't mix. You risk worse than weakness if you try."

"O—Okay," they said, rubbing anxious palms against their pants. "Okay."

"Not a drop," Shish repeated. "Not before you use the pluto, and not until after it's worn off. Do you understand?"

There was a silence, and it seemed they would buckle under his question. But their arms calmed and their brow settled, and they nodded through a sigh. "I understand."

Shish broke his gaze and reached for the cigarette, tapping out the ash that had accumulated. He wove another cloud between them, and smiled.

"Good. I'll get you what you need, friend."

"How much?"

"First one is always on the house."

[just-thal]

FFXIVWrite2022 5. Cutting Corners cw: drugs

"Let's say they want an onze of solidified somnus, yes?"

Moui set a sample on his table, a mottled grey tablet with hints of earth. Hsen nodded, wide-eyed at the heavy square. She followed his fingers as they traced its edges and raised to his temple. He smirked.

"What is it they really want, though? Is it the onze?"

"...No?" she probed. She wanted to be right.

"No," Moui confirmed, and she breathed a smile of relief.

"The product," he explained, tapping it, "is desired for its properties. For its effects."

Hsen nodded again, ears standing up and nose twitching as she considered the alleged somnus. "It doesn't matter what it is."

"It doesn't matter what it is, as long as it delivers the effects. So what do we do?"

Hsen mused. There was a wooden box, open and showing rainbow mounds of sands and piles of rocks sorted into a grid of oaken dividers. She knew most of them, oxidizers and alkalines, brimstone and a batch of neshador.

"You can perform a substitution, right? If you dilute with the right active ingredients, nobody will notice?"

"Exactly." He swung a finger in a short arc of confirmation, and pointed to one of the piles. "Rocks of sap. Cactus. Vision-inducing in large quantities. In smaller quantities, just disorienting. And how different is that from a dose of somnus, really?"

"You couldn't mix in too much."

"No. You have to be careful. And you have to plan ahead." He grabbed a vial of viscous black and held it up between them. Their eyes diffracted through the edges of the glass, meeting each other distorted. "Tar, stirred from blackroot relatives. You would have a trip to Thal and back touching a drop. But it's easy to make—mix it in with enough flour, join it with the somnus. You keep it away from anyone experienced. But a neophyte would think they got strong batch, if anything. And you save on the good stuff."

Hsen nodded again, locked to his gaze, bright yellow eyes twinkling at his.

Moui set the vial down and pressed his weight on the table. "But you still have to be careful. It helps to know who knows who. What if one of the cut batches makes it to someone who can tell? Then the act is up. You make sure to provide it pure when there's the risk of it getting around. With time and familiarity you'll know who doesn't really need it."

"I understand." She did.

Moui smiled and his chest puffed out. He crossed his arms, and he was satisfied. He was now the one who knew; she was the one who wanted to know. Thus were they bound. He felt security there, looking into the distance and feeling her still watching him. It felt good.

[just-thal]

don't feel like conjuring a prompt for the free day but I'm still ocpilled so here are some self-translated ali sorena lyrics that give me shtaareh brainworms [alcohol mention]:

in all this darkness / the stars are still alive we can still be children / raise our hands to our eyes with a rope and a swing still / we can hang from the stars

Laghzesh

I live for pleasure sin covers my skin I've lost my head I live for pleasure

Naghsh

what a man he was, to drink enough for two but who am I to talk? I've drank enough for the world

Masti

do you see my torn body? son of a bitch, this is your fault but even now I have a body son of a bitch, this is your fault

Nemitarsam

[just-thal]

FFXIVWrite 2022

3. Temper

cw: substance dependence & allusions to self-harm

Shtaareh slept slick with cold sweat. His fitful dreams filled with faces he hadn't seen in so long, visiting him as he had never seen them before: the timorous Hellsguard who would count out her coins with trembling hands that mirrored his, now smiling a haunting smile from across a barren Pearl Lane, standing still against his waves and shouts; the Seeker that never let his gaze drop to the goods being exchanged, suspicion lurking behind tenuous trust in both their eyes, now watching him with arms that did not uncross against his entreaties; the ones Shtaareh dealt with who he had not dealt with for terrifying years, they came to him there and would not respond.

He stirred under too many blankets and his dream whisked him to a room rushing with smoke. It wisped and hugged him, and his lungs did not protest its imposition, nor did his eyes burn as they should have. He staggered in the chamber to high windows lining the wall, and saw the thick rain outside. Heavy drops, clear as crystal, clashed against the glass in a foaming waterfall. He pressed his palms and misted the window with his breath, bidding it to disappear. It did not give, even as his hands balled into fists and he battered it until they ached. Shtaareh cried there, head bowed and tears streaming, everything awash with rain across the barrier, and still on the other side.

"Little Moon," said a voice, soft, and he woke.

There was his mother, one hand resting gentle on his covers. She looked at him with the same eyes, and Shtaareh saw sadness in their depth. He knew, too, that she was looking at his, and saw the sadness in them. She smiled without shedding the melancholy, and left the room. Shtaareh did not need to say anything.

He rose eventually, and took his time in his room. There were things he had to do, and his parents would not bother him; they always knew, even if they never said.

When Shtaareh found his way to the kitchen, the rich smell of stewing meats could not penetrate the haze in his mind and the scent of drink in his breath. He swayed in the doorway, balancing himself with an arm to avoid the spinning floor.

His father looked up from half-chopped vegetables, watching Shtaareh over his glasses.

"Good morning, Little Moon." It was well past noon.

"Good morning," Shtaareh said, and the words reverberated through the cavernous void he felt in his head. He had to drag his neck to meet the greeting, and let it drop once he had. He stumbled to a chair, falling into it with a grunt.

"The ceremony is today." The chopping resumed.

"I know."

A moon had passed, and there would be a remembrance. But Shtaareh would always remember. Through his haunted dreams there was one that never visited. For all the absolution those around him would offer, that was how he knew he would find none.

"You should go," his father said, adding rings of cucumber to a bowl.

"I know."

"You're not going, though."

Shtaareh scratched at the hot stinging under his sleeves and looked over. His father was watching him now, understanding without needing to hear. His amber eyes glistened, Shtaareh thought, and hollow pangs of guilt forced him to look away.

[just-thal]

FFXIVWrite 2022 2. Bolt

Shish wandered the alley shaded by brickwork flats on either side, wet heat beading on his heavy lids. Sunlight only found him through auburn reflections cast from high windows, and he shielded his eyes when it did. His nose burnt from the warmth and flared with every breath. The man would be here, he knew. He had what Shish was looking for and he set up his shop in the dust on this street.

There were people enough to call the place alive, passing Shish in ones and twos. He cast his gaze away as they did—not down, never down, just away. His ears craned to follow their steps. He knew where they were until they weren't.

The man was there, on a short wooden stool behind a small wooden stall. Bearded thick and long, cropped hair showing under cloth wraps, firm wrinkles set in brown skin and brown eyes with a light in them. Domestic metalwork covered his table and glinted grey as Shish approached. The man's eyes glinted as they met his and he raised a calloused hand in greeting. There was a griffin etched into a copper band on his wrist. Shish nodded.

The man dropped his hand and considered Shish. He surveyed the the cut of his vest on his shirt, the turns of his turban on his head, and the dim glass embedded there. He smiled.

"Peace upon you, brother," he said, hand on chest.

Shish fussed with his glasses. Brother, he did not mind. No use fussing. It was peace that stopped him. He had not intended for it to be given away, and yet he meant it to be. So it was, and there was nothing left to give away. He smiled back with tense eyes.

"And upon you." Hand on chest.

The man opened his arms to show his wares, smile broad now, and glanced at the iron.

"What pleases you?"

"I need a—" Shish paused. There were two roads. But it had already been given away. He breathed. "Kilit." The Ala Mhigan road. But it had already been given away.

"Ah, yes!" the man roared, beaming. "Here."

There were little padlocks with wafer keys; heavier ones with shackles it would take a beast to break; clever doorknobs with pins set in them; bars of rolling numbers that combined to open. There were deadbolts, too. Shish pointed to them.

"A pair. Strong. The strongest. And suited to al-kimiya."

The man nodded and his curled beard folded against his shirt. The request was familiar. He picked out a pair, wrought thick and strong, and showed them balanced in his firm palms. They negotiated a price and it was quicker and cheaper than Shish expected.

There was peace again with hands set over calmed hearts, and Shish went home. He treated the bolts with solution to harden them. He bore holes into his heavy door, and fitted them with oil. They slid in easily, and he bolted them both shut. He stepped back to look at it, hands on hips. There was the door of gnarled wood he had crossed with fresh iron bars, now shut by bolts his strongest acids would labour to destroy. He tested it and it did not move. He nodded.

[brightrind]

1. cross

The tenth sun of the Fourth Astral Moon was bright as pain when Yantaa slipped out of Ala Gannha with her fellow traitors-in-arms, searing her eyes whenever she was weak enough to look back to the mountain she had called home. It was a weakness she succumbed to just once; Yantaa was ever a quick learner, no matter what the Fist of Rhalgr would have the others believe.

When Yantaa ventured through the Last Forest, there were no fewer than one hundred in her company; by the time they had reached the Velodyna, the sun had set in Gyr Abania – and on twenty exiles. Weeping Cough from the Bloodgliders, felling even the most robust knuckledancers among them; a gagana’s razor sharp talons, permanently silencing a handful of mages; heatstroke, snuffing out the oldest Mole among them. As each of them fell, one by one, Yantaa had looked upon their faces with dry eyes and commanded the others to salvage what they could – and burn what they couldn’t.

There was no shrine built to honor the memory of people who had believed in the king - who now believe in the Corpse Brigade - but the group carved a path through the sarcosuchuses until they reached the Pall of Clarity and stood beneath it. There the spray of the waterfall wiped away their tears and the roar muffled their anguished sobs until wordlessly they moved as a unit to make camp for the night.

Silence settled on the group as a stone, stifling idle chatter even from the youths that had darted between their legs and chased after each other with sticks in their hands at the start of their journey. It was as if they could all sense it: the first step out of Gyr Abanian soil. The first of many borders they would cross until they would reach Gridania – then Ul’dah – then the southernmost part of Thanalan that was not already claimed by the Amalj’aa or the Drakes, until eventually the newer wave of refugees would oust them from Little Ala Mhigo and force them to draw up borders of their own in the Sepulchre.

But many sennights stood upon the border of reality and possibility, and in that moment all the exiles linked their arms together and left Gyr Abania as one.

[rhalgr]

FFXIVWrite 2022 1. Cross

It isn’t much: a stretch of dirt and rock, bricks, graves, trees. Restless spirits, fire sprites; a handful of shadows, drawn out by the early sun. When she woke up, the darkness was so disorienting she thought she was in the Goblet, Forestay in the room over—but daylight takes time to hit the streets of Ala Mhigo, so it took her longer than it should’ve for her to place where she was at: in the city, the apartment, two floors up.

There’s no telling what went wrong—who she saw, where it was—but she can’t get away from what needs done, so she had gotten up. She put on a necklace with a loose chain, fastened the tunic with a looser scarf, and spared herself the trouble of earrings, bracelets, an anklet. Going out to Abalathia’s Skull meant that she wouldn’t be seen, and if she wouldn’t be seen, there wasn’t a point in wasting time on jewelry.

She wastes time on wandering through the city. The kohl from yesterday must be smudged; her skin is sore around her neck and shoulder. Whenever she shows up in Ala Mhigo, someone else does too, but it must be too early for even them: she makes it through the city unbothered, makes it through Loch Seld unhindered, and comes up to Aenadem Ol. There it is: the stretch of dirt and rock, bricks, graves, trees. Restless spirits, fire sprites.

There are no fresh graves; it’s the same as it was, or the graves are old enough since she last made it to Bloodhowe that she can’t tell the difference. She doesn’t see a single kaluk between the bhoots; she doesn’t spend a long time looking.

When she leaves, she will cross through the Peaks. She will stop in Gridania to see her kids, spend a night on their couch, and then she’ll get back to business. Coming up here—Rissa can admit that there wasn’t a point to it, that she isn’t even stopping to see her sire, but the sight—the sight was all she wanted.

[just-thal]

FFXIVWrite 2022 1. Cross

Shtaareh crossed the threshold to Ul'dah. He looked up at his father and saw the glimmer of hope in his eyes, a smile strained under its own weight. He shone the light back with his own as they reflected the flickering lanterns and luminous windows that lined the streets. There would be hearty meals behind their moth bitten curtains; the family çaydanlık would always steam against peeling yellowed wallpaper. Shtaareh tapped the dried moon daisies his mother hung from every rotting rafter, humming in circles. He sought the city's secrets and kept his own close.

X'shtaareh crossed pluto and blackroot rose—wisdom from the guild. He took in the acrid smoke and took in vigour from it. He crossed somnus and milkroot, even touches of coffee and tea just to see what would happen. He stirred in foam from cactus, ground talons as he learnt from his father. He let the beakers sit under the moon and nourish from it as he learnt from his mother. They cast Menphina's glow at him and he smiled at the rippling liquid.

Moui crossed the strip into Pearl Lane and soon he was known there. He leant on pockmarked walls with arms crossed, surveying so that he would not be surveyed. He learnt to blank his eyes so he could see into others and they couldn't see into him. He found how to narrow them so the manufactured wrinkles painted him stronger than he was. He brought home paltry bags that still rattled with coin; his father nodded and never asked.

Shtaareh crossed the hanging daisies into his room and slammed the door without touching them. He screamed and screamed and hurled colourful bottles to shatter against the wounded walls. They wept in myriad hues and shed scraps of paper. His father knocked and told him it would be okay. His mother knocked and told him they did not blame him. He only buried his head in his arms to wail. He looked down at them and saw his truths etched there.

Shish crossed the bridge to Radz-at-Han, alone. Vivid stone paved his way and bright walls lit it. Pleasant aromas followed him through the baazaar and the bustle opened its arms to him. There was the meyhane, bidding him welcome; there were pleasant faces that offered solace. Shish looked at all this, took it all in with his eyes deep as moonless night, and there was no glimmer in them.