天つ 風 @ Mateus

A(n) FFXIV roleplaying blog for Amatsu Kaze on the Mateus server. Follows from rebelfist.

[ask-bait]

🎹 25 musical instrument asks

electric guitar: on a scale of 1-5, how rebellious are you?

piano: what’s your opinion on classical music?

ukulele: would you consider yourself more ‘hipster’ or ‘basic’?

violin: what’s your go-to plan for when you’re sad?

bass: do you value honesty or kindness more?

saxophone: name a musician you consider iconic. 

cello: who was the last person you held hands with?

trumpet: how far are you from the place you most want to be?

harpsichord: where were you last told that you’re ‘weird’? 

clarinet: favourite cartoon?

accordion: what is your favourite kind/flavour of tea?

bongos: which country’s music do you enjoy the most?

acoustic guitar: do you usually cry at books/films? 

flute: earliest memory?

drums: which was the last concert you attended?

classical guitar: first band/artist you remember liking?

harmonica: how old were you when you first played an instrument?

harp: would you rather be likeable or intimidating? 

recorder: what do you remember most about your childhood?

banjo: name a country you’d like to visit.

oud: who or what influences you the most? 

marimba: in your opinion, what is your defining trait?

xylophone: where did you grow up?

bagpipes: how do you show pride in your heritage?

organ: who did you watch your last horror movie with?

[catboy-yt-deactivated20190421]

Prompt #5: Show of Hands

@o-thatthewindsofheaven

“Who here has ordered the dango?”

Keep reading

[o-thatthewindsofheaven-blog]

Day 4

Day 4

ffxivWrite Day IV ("Saving Time")

(Interlude; present day. cw: slight nsfw? brief sex mention. nothing graphic.)

@catboy-yt

Amatsu closes the little black book, returning his quill to its stand and massaging the tired knuckles of his right hand. What had begun as a flight of anxious fancy had gradually morphed into something resembling a full-time occupation. Broadly, he'd been anxious over the uncertain direction of his life: he still had enough money to live comfortably for a long while, but had no serious employment prospects (unless vigorous martial arts training and vigorous-er fucking counted as occupations, though certainly he YT had established a routine of treating them as such). Beginning the process of documenting some of the wilder experiences he'd had in his short twenty-nine summers had given him a way to busy his mind in a way that felt productive, for whether or not he finished the memoir in his lifetime and actually bothered to try and get it published, then at least the stories would be here to be discovered by some heretofore undreamed-of civilization in distant centuries.

More directly, Amatsu has had a lot of time to kill -- and a lot of anxiety to pour into his writing -- because his partner YT had one day up and decided to go out and get a Real Job. After a short period in which Amatsu's expression had been transfixed, flabbergasted at the very notion, he'd offered to go help the boy apply for jobs. This offer, to Ama's further surprise, was roundly rejected by the scrappy young lad, who'd found a flier for an apothecarium that was seeking a clerk/assistant ahead of its grand opening, and, what'd'you know, the shop was opening right up the street from their house. Amatsu, puzzled but pleased, had assented, and the boy had started work the very next day. While his heart swelled with pride at how grown-up his little man had become, to be sure, this series of developments had left rather fewer hours in the day for fighting and fucking -- thus, again, the memoir.

Because he is the type who enters a sort of fugue state and loses track of the outside world completely when creating, his joints are stiff, especially his neck and shoulders. His throat is parched; he'd really only stopped because his writing hand was starting to cramp up. He looks up at his wall chronometer. It reads 9:17. He's been down here, seated at his floor desk writing, for seven bells. According to the hours he'd been given originally, YT was supposed to be home more than three and a half bells ago.

He instantly knows that something has happened.

He wills himself not to panic. He rolls forward onto one knee, rises slowly to his feet, forcing himself to breathe slow even though his heart has begun to pound. He's already blaming himself. Something has been off with this apothecarium job from the very beginning. Amatsu had visited the shop several times while YT was at work, and the storefront was nearly always dead, though the boy always had stories of customers he'd helped find just the right salve or variety of makeup. He seemed to be learning quite a bit about alchemy on the job, though Amatsu had never seen the apothecary, who apparently was always floating in and out on this or that errand. Amatsu had known a lot of criminals, though, and he had a sixth sense about when a business was a front. This quaint little apothecary storefront, with its handwritten Hingan/Eorzean signage, reeked like death to this intuition. This instinct would normally cause a man like Amatsu to start knocking on doors and calling in favors, but this thing with the memoir had become such an occupation that all he'd done thus far was worry. He'd received many assurancces from YT that his worries were unfounded and on one night Amatsu had met him on the front lawn, the boy brandishing an apology note from the apothecary, chicken-scratched in endearingly broken Hingan, to the effect that he's terribly sorry for keeping the boy and he'd like to take Amatsu out to lunch one of these days.

Bounding up the stairs, Amatsu curses himself for having believed any of it. He grabs a shirt, a pair of sandals, messily ties up his hair. He grabs a sword, just in case.. He's, frankly, a wreck -- barechested, his button-up shirt hanging open, his hair a tangled mess, bleary-eyed, trousers rolled up past his ankles. But, manic with worry for the boy's safety, he's fine with looking crazy if his fears are unfounded. Time to get to the bottom of this.

He wrenches open the front door, expecting to stomp out into the inky blackness in search of truth and justice. What he finds instead contradicts his expectations entirely.

[catboy-yt-deactivated20190421]

Prompt #4: Saving Time

((CW: Coersion, manipulation, light degradation, and just a generally intense scene. This is starting to get kinda messed up and I’m having a blast writing it. SFW.))

Keep reading

[jllusive-deactivated20200623]

when you’re making your favorite character suffer

[o-thatthewindsofheaven-blog]

Day 3

ffxivWrite Day 3 ("Adytum")

We are led through sliding door after sliding door, flanked by two Yakuza in front and two behind. Our contingent numbers three: Florian at the head, our ship's second-in-command, fortune-teller/spirit guide extraordinaire, Ishgardian by birth, and, somehow or another, our group's Yakuza contact; Kiko, Doman-born Hyur, green crewman and crack shot with a rifle; and me, twenty-two summers old. This is the second crew I've worked on since enlisting with the Confederacy, and the difference between this assignment and my last is night and day.

The main thing that's different: the first crew I served on, the Pink Lady, was a bona fide band of brothers. The ship was a big family, and while there was absolutely a hierarchy of power, the captain and his officers were jovial, boisterous, largely pleasant to be around as long as the work that's necessary to keep a galleon afloat was being done. By contrast, this crew seemed largely to be a cult of personality centered around one man, the head of our contingent, one Florian D'archambault. Even the ship's captain, the biggest, burliest Hellsguard I'd ever seen, seemed to defer to Florian, who kept busy aboardship reading palms, casting bones, doing card readings, staring up at the night sky, and, lately, arranging business meetings with Yakuza. I continue to find it very interesting how an Ishgardian-born Elezen goes about amassing such a power base as Florian evidently has whilst being so far from home. He strikes me, at this time, as an exceedingly slippery character, with no fewer than five languages under his belt, and probably a not-insignificant amount of money at his disposal. I don't trust him, and, frankly, I've hated every minute of serving on a ship with him.

I never saw an officer on the Pink Lady so vociferously refuse to perform physical work as I have seen Florian do on multiple occasions. And of course, my last crew didn't deal with gangsters. Indeed, we ran down Yakuza transport ships on several occasions on the Lady, but I am learning that different arms of the Confederacy operate with vastly differing amounts of autonomy, to say nothing of their motives.

It feels like we've been walking through this house for miles. Side doors shut in the hallways as we pass, and mor than once I hear voices coming from interior rooms: plaintive female voices, answered invariably by drawling, cackling Yakuza. I can't make out any words, but I have several guesses. I hate this. I think it over and over as we walk: I hate this I hate this I hate this I hate this. I try to burn holes into the back of Florian's head with my eyeballs.

We arrive at what must be the innermost sanctum of the gangsters' hideout. We're in an unadorned atrium with tatami floors, and the screen doors are flanked by guards on either side. "No weapons in the Oyabun's chambers," one of the guards grunts. My hand reflexively goes to my sword's hilt. I squeeze it tight.

Florian turns, sees the apprehension on my face. "Come now, Ama-kun," he says, derision dripping from his tone. He knows I don't like him. Has known since the moment we've met. "We are guests in my friends' house. To tell the truth," he drones, turning to regard the guards, "I told the Captain that I'd rather have come alone. I'm terribly sorry to inconvenience you gents by your having to hang onto these men's crude implements." There's a guard standing expectantly at my side; Kiko is unslinging his rifle and handing it over to the other guard behind me. The Yakuza man staring at me has a sword at his belt as well. I grit my teeth, then unbelt my katana and hand it over. As the man reaches out to take it from me, I notice he's missing the last joint of his left pinky.

The guards, wordless, slide open the doors to the inner sanctum. My nose is immediately assaulted by the smell of opium smoke. There are gangsters playing cards at a table in here, and a wrinkled old man sits on a cushion in the middle of the room, being fanned by a Raen girl - no older than a teenager - with a nasty shiner on her left eye.

We seat ourselves before the Oyabun, and I keep silent, trying with all my might to keep the disgust off my face as Florian ingratiates himself to the boss.

[sea-wolf-coast-to-coast]

REMINDER: You have until prompt #7 is posted to back write prompts that you’ve missed!

So, if you discover the challenge a few days late you can catch up and all of your entries will count toward the participation prize.

See the About post for more info:

https://sea-wolf-coast-to-coast.tumblr.com/post/179422010106/ffxivwrite2018-ffxiv-30-day-writing-challenge

[why-bless-your-heart]

Friendly reminder to not punish yourself for creating. 

[putyouinabook]

Can you elaborate on what you mean by this?

[why-bless-your-heart]

I have a tendency to beat myself up whenever something I make doesn’t meet my expectations (which is always). The result is that finishing something = bad feelings: I am effectively punishing myself for having created something. The natural reaction to this punishment is an aversion to creation, meaning that my perfectionism is harming me, not only by causing me to despise what I do make and by impeding the creative process, but by attacking even my desire to create.

[o-thatthewindsofheaven-blog]

Day 2

ffxivWrite 2018 Day II (“Silenced”)

(cw: violent thoughts, nightmares (?), knives, blood, patricide.)

The first time I fall asleep at Great Master Yama’s camp, cozy by the fire, my broken sword in its rusty scabbard at my side, I have the dream one last time.

I’m in the Garlean-“Doman” kangaroo court with a bunch of suspected seditionists, revolutionaries, homosexuals, et cetera, except the court’s presided over by my father. This time, though, rather than being wracked by fever-chills and a malarial cough, there’s a gag over my mouth as I’m called before the judge, my father, perversely done up in Garlean frippery. He regards me dispassionately, and he speaks to me in Eorzean:

“What is it you’re calling yourself now?” he spits, as if this is the third time I’ve been in his court this week. “‘Amatsu?’ How perverse. You are brought before this bench today on suspicion of terroristic threatening, sedition, conspiracy to commit…”

This goes on for awhile. Flanking the judge’s bench and the podium are two pairs of hoplomachi, their black gloved hands on their swords, the lenses of their grotesque, buglike breather-helmets fogging with anticipation. Possessed of my faculties in this version of this dream, I regard them all with the requisite disgust. The list of my crimes and offenses drones and drones and drones.

“How do you plea?” the judge intones.

I am unable to answer. I think very, very, very, very hard about killing my father. I bend every inch of my will toward this aim. I offer up my body and soul to all the kami of the rocks and trees and water, then I appeal to any oni, yokai, or evil spirit who happens to be wandering by: 'Crush my heart, evil spirits,’ I think again and again 'til I have a migraine. 'Burn my body and forget my name. I don’t care, as long as you destroy him first.’ My heart is pounding in the dream. My heart is pounding in real life, which I then notice in the dream.

I look down in the dream, and notice that my handcuffs have been replaced by a knife.

The soldiers are already drawing their swords. I hear the other prisoners cheering me on. Everyone knows what’s about to happen. Everyone has always known it would, and finally now they get to see it.

I leap ten feet straight up in the air. The gag is gone, too, and a piercing kiai issues from my mouth. I raise the knife. I hear a shot go off from behind me as I crest the top of the bench, and there are tears of joy in my father’s eyes.

He jumps from his seat, catching me in his arms, and I plunge the knife into his back. I taste blood as my father’s embrace tightens, then weakens.

I feel my dream-legs grow woozy, then fall out from under me.

I jolt straight up out of a dead sleep, gasping and drenched in sweat. I smell fire. I blearily scrabble for my sword, only to realize – I’m still under the outcropping in Yama’s makeshift camp. My heart continues to pound as I put my sword back down, practicing the breathing technique that the old swordmaster had taught me. The fire smell, I realize, is our campfire, and the Great Master himself has set a little camp stove over the embers, poking at a couple of eggs as they pop and sizzle lazily. He barely glances in my direction.

“Good. You won,” he says. “Well done. You beat the last of the fever. I watched it break a bell ago. Decided you’d earned a hero’s breakfast.” I’m still rubbing the sleep out of my eyes as he pulls the pan off the coals, sprinkling in some herbs and tossing the eggs with chopsticks.

“Master, there’s no need. You’ve done far too m–, I start, but he tut-tuts me.

"We will be having none of that! You need to restore your strength! Doubly so,” says Master Yama, grinning, “After all, today is a momentous occasion: I have at last made up my mind. Today, young Amatsu, is your first official day as my student!”

I’m floored. Flabbergasted. Rendered utterly silent, bowled over by the generousness of this offer. There is absolutely no reason for this man to have taken an interest in making me into a fighter. I feel, in this moment, that no one had ever been as kind or as generous to me, in my entire young life, as this man had been during the last sennight.

Eventually, I am able to tell him 'yes.’ Eventually.

[o-thatthewindsofheaven-blog]

ffxivWrite 2018: Day 1

Day I ("Submerged")

Even from the ramparts of the castle, the surface used to look, to us, infinitely more unreachable than the stars. But now that I've had a taste of unfiltered sunlight and the crisp salt air, freedom feels so close I can taste it. My eyes follow the curve of the bubble back down till our eyes lock once again. She's still wearing that doe-eyed plaintive look that makes me sick to my stomach. Our feet dangle off the edge of the rampart as we speak.

"Did you hear me, Tenma? What are you going to tell your father?"

"Nothing." I think at the time that my voice sounds resolute -- determined -- manly. I realize later that I am shaking like a leaf at this moment and that this resolute feeling to which I'd attributed myself was wishful thinking on the order that can only be accomplished by very small children and idealistic fifteen-year-olds.

"Nothing? You're just... leaving? How can you just walk away from your family? Everyone you've ever known is down here."

She looks tiny, shriveled, defeated. She's a small girl, anyway, eighty ponze soaking wet, but her spirit usually burned bright. Not tonight. She's already lost and she knows it. I avert my eyes. The sight of her like this is killing me.

"That's the problem. I was always gonna let the old man down. One way or another. Wouldn't run his business right. I could keep the books, but I'm not mean enough. His clients won't respect me without the Stare of Death."

She says nothing.

"I don't really have any friends," I say. I still can't look at her full-on, but I can see out of my peripherals that her head is bowed, her silvery bangs fallen down over her eyes, and her cheeks are wet with tears. I realize in that moment that I've never seen her cry before.

"... what about me?"

"Other than you, of course. That goes without saying." I'm mumbling and I know it. There's a lump of bile sitting at the bottom of my throat. I clear my throat. It doesn't do anything about the lump.

"Does it?" This one feels like a dagger in my heart. A long moment passes. I glance sidelong at her; her cheeks have dried up. Her hands are folded primly in the lap of her kimono, the way ladies are supposed to.

"I can't--" I start, but the words die in my throat. "You know I can't--" I try again, but this, too, feels insufficient. I lift myself to my feet in one smooth motion, and now she's sitting in my shadow. My arms are crossed, defensively, over my chest. I open my mouth to try again: "Zu. You--"

The words crumble to ash on the way up once again, this time because she raises a hand to stop me, and then she looks up at me again, transfixing me with her stare. She looks resolute in all the ways that I wish I did.

Her voice is like ice: "Tenma. You are the way you are. I know you can't help it. I know you'd never be happy with me as your wife. But you always tell me you 'can't' -- whatever. You can't be around your dad, you can't stand the other boys in your class. You can't --" her voice hitches, threatens to waver, then continues "-- you can't marry me. Not and be happy, anyway. But it doesn't have to--" her determined eyes soften, and, having nailed me to the wall, she attempts a coup-de-gras:

"It doesn't have to be for love. You can stay, and we can pretend for appearances, b-b-but I've known you all my life, Tenma. You know I won't make you do anything! It'll be fine! We--"

I shut my eyes tight and look away. This is going where I was afraid it was going to go.

"You're not the only one who's under pressure, okay?!" she interrupts herself, as if trying to preempt some counterpoint of mine. "You're not the only one who has to do things you don't want to! We all do it! Every day! Why is marrying me any different?!" I'm turning away, now, and she tries again, heaving ragged sobs: "It could be an adventure! The adventure we always talked about having..."

"It'd be a lie," I say. My throat hurts like I've been crying even though I haven't. I sound dry and croaky, my hands balled up into tight fists. "It's not about 'can't' anymore, Mizu. I won't live my whole life as a lie. Whatever I do, it has to be on my terms."

I'm still not looking at her, but I can feel her look away again. She sniffs. "... Yeah. I know. I never thought I could talk you out of it, really. I can't go for the same reasons you can't stay. So. Do what you have to." She sniffs again. Wipes her nose on the sleeve of her kimono. "I get it. I really do. But I had to try."

"Yeah," I say.

I sit back down, and I hold her hand as we watch the last dying rays of sunset filtering down through the infinite refracting prism that is the Ruby Sea. Perhaps a bell goes by without another word between us, and we never look each other in the face again.

In the dead of night, I grab a pre-prepared satchel containing a few essentials: change of clothes, a few books in waterproof wrappers, sword. I steal out of my parents' castle by the route I'd spent moons planning and practicing, and leave Sui-no-Sato, the place of my birth, vowing never to return.

[o-thatthewindsofheaven-blog]

ffxivWrite 2018: Day 0

((I wrote this as a companion piece to what I'm hoping will stick as a persistent theme throughout this year's FFXIVWrite, setting up and explaining what I intend to do. Each piece that I write will function as an excerpt from a fictional autobiography that Amatsu has begun drafting. I'll try and write each of these from as unfiltered a version of the character as possible, perhaps in the hopes that we'll both learn something from each other. Without further ado,))

Day Ø ("Foreword")

On an island off the coast of Kugane, in a neat little house tucked in against a waterfall, there are quite a few books: multiplefloor-to-ceiling shelves of books in any imaginable permutation of height, spine thickness, page count, cover material, or content.

One of the books on one of those shelves - a slim, nondescript, black leatherbound thing with no text or characters on it whatsoever - was written by the owner of that house, a taut, lanky, taciturn sort in the neighborhood of his twenty-fifth summer. He didn't write in it often, but once or twice a moon he would rise, zombielike, from a dead sleep, trudge to the study, pull the slim black book down off the shelf, sit at his desk, and write furiously until the sun came up.

The first page reads, in part:

"In this book, I'm going to try and set my mind at ease. These times seem to be dangerous ones (though a lot of the danger I'm in has less to do with The Times than my own life choices, bring they weal or woe) and growing more so. I hate the idea that something should happen to me and I never have writ my life's story to paper. The major obstacle to my doing so is that many of the things I intend to write about have writ large over my life, and some of those times I can only think about in vivid detail for a little while before I am reduced to an unbecomingly quivering mess of emotions. ... At any rate, I certify that all the events described here in are true and actually happened to me, Amatsu Kaze.

I was born... ..."

The book continues, quasi-chronlogically, in this fashion.

[aetherochemistry-deactivated202]

FFXIV: Voidsent-themed asks!

Ahriman: does your muse enjoy watching others? If so, why?

Succubus: How do they respond to flirtation and sexual advances? 

Arch-demon: Name a few of their preferred weapons.

Imp: do they enjoy playing pranks on others? If so, then describe their idea of the perfect practical joke.

Gnat: Name something that really annoys your muse.

Vodoriga: Do they prefer a stealthy approach o a head on attack?

Persona: Would your muse be considered two faced? Do they have ‘faces’ that they hide from the public?

Feridad: What do they find funniest?

Soulflayer: Does your muse enjoy manipulating and coercing others?

Mimic: A stranger is caught rifling through your muse’s possessions! How do they react?

Blackguard: Is your muse loyal, or can they be easily bought out and persuaded?

Hellhound: Brains or brawn–which describes your muse best?

Atomos: Do they feel the need to amass a great deal of money and material wealth? If so, explain why.

Anchag: Name your muse’s ideal mount.

Echidna: Discuss why someone might find your muse alluring.

Dahaka: Is there something abnormal about their appearance? (such as a deformity, wound, etc.)

Deepeye: Does your muse demonstrate self-awareness?

Diabolos: Does your muse have a tendency to premeditate things, or do they prefer to go with the flow?

Void Monk: How likely is it for your muse to get into a fist fight?

Gremlin: Does your muse swear or use profanity a lot?

Page 64: Does your muse like to read? If so, name a specific genre of book that they prefer.

Bomb: Would you say that your muse is stable or unstable, in terms of personality?

Arachne Eve: Are they afraid of spiders?

Gargoyle: Is your muse stoic, or do they prefer to take life a little less seriously?

Troubadour: Is there a manner communication (such as body language, telepathy, writing, etc) that your muse prefers?

Cloud of Darkness: Are they powerful? How would they influence or assert their power over others?

Byblos: Does your muse like keeping their things organized?

Boogeyman: Does your muse have a habit of disappearing? Do they come and go as they please?

Flan: How do they feel about spills, messes, etc.?

Ogre: Are they physically strong? If so, do they flaunt it, and is there a reason for that?

Taurus: How do they feel about nature and animals?

Cerberus: Would they keep a dog as a pet?

Cuchulainn: How do they feel about the macabre? Does their idea of grotesqueness differ from that of others?

Demon: Do they fear death? Would they seek immortality of some form to avert its cause?

Forgall: If given the opportunity, would your muse resurrect someone they cared about?

Hecteye: Describe the most effective method of distracting your muse.

Scathach: If your muse had servants, how would they be treated?

[rebelfist]

Hi there! I guess I wasn't following your RP blog before (or maybe you are new?) but in any event, I follow now! :D I like the overall aesthetic of your blog - very clean and matches nicely with your character's design. Would love to learn more about your character. Here's a positive question for you: For what is Amatsu most grateful for today?

(( Hey, thanks! I’ve been around for a bit, but I go through periods of quietness. Trying to break that habit now, viz. this: ))

“I am grateful,” he writes in his journal, which, of course, no one is ever supposed to read. “I am grateful today for the comforts of the home in which I write this. I am grateful for the paper on which I write this. I have always loved to write, but many have been the times in which I have been unable to requisition paper or pen when inspiration strikes. I worked on ships in the Ruby Sea prior to this life, and through events too circuitous and tumultuous to recount here, I am grateful – fortunate – bless’d by Providence – to have retired from that life to one of my choosing.”

He pauses, puts his pen down, rises from his desk. He slips through one sliding screen door, pads down a hallway, and cracks another door. On the other side of that door, making a horrid mess of the bedding as he rolls around and snores, sleeps a blonde-haired miqo’te. Amatsu shuts the door, returns to his desk, picks up his pen.

“I am grateful for the companionship which I share with him who sleeps in the next room,” he writes, smirking. “Our relationship began as something rather patrician and has blossomed into something so incredibly much more edifying. I am grateful for the Things in my life, that is to be sure, and for the money which allows me to live in relative comfort and solitude. But vastly more important than Things are People, and of all the People in my life, he has become the most treasured. I’m grateful for him most of all.” Pen down, again, now. He shuts the little black book and tucks it under a stack of tomes nearby; rises; ascends the stairs. Now it’s time to train. He lets the boy sleep in (late night last night, don’tchano) and, as he grabs his sword off the mantle, thinks about breakfast.

[o-thatthewindsofheaven-blog]

(( This ask went to my OOC blog, so I'm just reblogging it to put it here. Thanks again, C'ahli. :) ))

[sea-wolf-coast-to-coast]

FFxivWrite2018 – FFxiv 30 Day Writing Challenge!

Last year I ran what I thought was going to be a small writing challenge for the FFxiv community, but with 2,200+ submissions over the course of the 30 days, it didn’t end up being small at all! There was such an incredible outpouring of creativity and positivity in our community throughout the challenge and I was really blown away by the response.

So, let’s do it again! I know that November is high writing time for many of us with NaNoWriMo on the horizon, but for those of us who want to keep it a bit more simple – I propose this 30 day writing challenge.

What’s a 30 day writing challenge? :o

Why, it’s challenge in which you write in response to a daily prompt that I post here, of course!  Songs, poems, limericks, short stories, etc. are perfectly acceptable. If it’s a thing you can write, then it counts.

Here’s how it works:

Beginning Thursday November 1st, I, @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast​, will post one new single word writing prompt daily at 12:00pm (noon) CST/CDT. Prompts can be interpreted in any way that you’d like. More about single word prompts here. Check back daily for the latest prompt!

Participants have until 12:00pm (noon) CST/CDT the following day (24 hours) to submit a written response, and tag it with #FFxivWrite2018 (don’t forget the tag!).

Each written response submitted within it’s 24 hour deadline will count as one entry toward a raffle for a participation prize at the end of the month.

Written responses submitted outside of the 24 hour deadline for a prompt are still welcome and will be thoroughly enjoyed! They simply won’t count as an entry toward the participation prize. 

When you see a “Like” from sea-wolf-coast-to-coast you can rest assured that I’ve seen your response and have entered it into my master participation prize document. Please allow up to 48 hours for me to like your post before reaching out to check (but DO reach out to check if you don’t see one after 48 hours). More info about making sure people can find your posts here.

On Saturday, December 1st, I’ll count up all the participation tallies, each day counting as one entry per writer, and draw a winner!

The winner of the participation prize will receive a black & white drawing of their character from one of our volunteer artists. Please note that the number of prizes available at the end depend on how many artists would like to volunteer to illustrate a prize.

If you’re an artist and you would like to volunteer to do a simple black & white illustration as a participation prize at the end of this contest, please let me know!

Rules:

You cannot submit things that you’ve already written – Even if the topic is the same. All entries must be new and freshly written for this challenge!

No rough drafts and no redos – Relax! Use this as a low pressure opportunity to loosen up and de-rust your writing chops. No one will be judging your work for quality or length. The purpose is to get into the habit of writing daily. Don’t overthink it, and don’t put too much pressure on yourself! It’s all for fun!

Tag all of your entries with #FFxivWrite2018 – Even if you’re late to the writing party. I’ll be using this tag to track daily participants, so if you don’t use it, I won’t find your entry! Please note that entries that include an external link (to a song, piece of art etc.) will not show up in the tag results. Tumblr hides all posts with external links from their tag feeds. :[

Include the prompt number in the title of your post – Example: “Prompt #10: Your Title.” This helps me keep track of participating entries.

You have until prompt #7 to back write for the participation prize – That means that if you discover the writing challenge a few days, or even a week after it’s started, you can still jump in and back write as many of the first 7 prompts as you want, and they’ll count as entries toward the participation prize! After day 8, however, no back writing will be counted towards the prize. That being said, it is totally possible for someone with only 1 participation entry for the duration of the contest to be drawn as the participation prize winner so don’t give up due to lack of participation overall!

Absolutely no griefing, harassing, or trolling other writers – This will earn you an automatic disqualification from the event.

Tag NSFW content with #NSFW and put it below a cut – Similarly, if your entry contains graphic or violent content that may be triggering to others, please include a brief trigger warning at the top of your post. Be considerate of your readers!

Make-up Days

There will be two make-up days scheduled. On make-up days you’re permitted to select one prompt that you missed and submit it for full participation prize credit within the 24 hour deadline for the day. If you’ve already submitted all prompts so far within their 24 hour deadline, then you can make up your own prompt for yourself and submit it within the 24 hour make-up day deadline to count as an extra credit entry toward the participation prize.

Sunday, 11/11

Sunday, 11/25

Free/Extra Credit Days

There will be two Free/Extra Credit days scheduled. Free/Extra Credit days are days in which no prompt will be provided, and therefore no submission will be expected for the day. However, if you’re in the mood to write something anyway, you can create your own prompt for yourself and submit an entry within the 24 hour deadline for the day that will count as an extra credit entry toward the participation prize.

Election Day – Tuesday, 11/6

Thanksgiving Day – Thursday, 11/22

If you complete all prompts and all extra credit days within their 24 hour deadlines and properly tag the entries, it’s possible to achieve 30 entries toward the final participation prize at the end of the month. 

What’s the purpose of this writing challenge?

First and foremost, the purpose of this challenge is to break the power of perfectionism over your personal creative process. Some folks frown on my 24-hour submission deadline but I think that it’s a critical part in getting people to just go ahead and submit something, even if it’s not perfect, and in doing so perfectionism begins to lose its power day by day. 

If you’re someone who rarely creates because the fear of it not being perfect keeps you from starting, or finishing, then this challenge is designed for YOU!

Of course, connecting FFxiv writers, of all skill and experience levels, and sharing our work is also a perk!

Whether you’re participating or not, consider checking out the #FFxivWrite2018 tag periodically after November 1st and like/reblog your favorite pieces. Show the FFxiv writing community some love!

[spotofmummery]

flirt-suke‌:

Role play blogs aren’t just about clique’s and it shouldn’t be about who you’ve known the longest either. Well it should be but also- there are a lot of shy cinnamon rolls out there waiting for you. But they don’t know that you can vibe with them right off the bat if they’d only send in a meme or a starter or something!

So reblog if you’re the type of blog that is open to NEW friendships even if you are already connected to old ones. New friendships mean new experiences and more people to talk about your muse’s together. This is a clique free blog despite the people who love sending me in asks and there’s much love for them but I’ve also got love waiting for you if only you’d send that one message. 

[cure3]

an actual horror story

[o-thatthewindsofheaven-blog]

Henlo actual gameplay post here, paladin main weighing in:

Tanks that know what they're doing SHOULD be in dps stance after the start of the fight. Aggro is not an issue if you get a big enough lead at the start, Shirk exists and is a thing, and mitigation is no problemo if you know where your cooldowns are at.

All the people in the mentions acting like this is unequivocally bad make me sad. Sitting in tank stance all day! Is! Not a good thing!

If you get matched with me in your weekly Alphascapes, you WILL see that oath icon turn blue after about 6 GCDs, but it's ok small healer beans, it's fine. I know what I'm doing. You are all safe, I promise.

OH WAIT LMFAO I JUST NOTICED THE SAMURAI HAS AGGRO OH NO...

So, ok, small revision, then: this is clearly bad. Sitting in shield oath at all times is also bad. But there's a happy medium, and unless things go WAY south, I'm gonna keep occupying it. :-)

[ojiyaff]

マーリドスカウトコート / Marid Leather Coat of Scouting

[rebelfist]

I’ve been daydreaming about Amatsu as a ninja lately. Kind of an AU thing, maybe – if his life had taken a slightly different path (not running away from home as a teen, say), he could have fit right in with the shinobi.