Short version is that Pluto is a later name for the god of death, which is often associated with the Roman era/Roman mythology. Hades is the earlier name.
I made this post thinking I knew what kind of fire I was playing with. Hephaestus, God of Fire, looking upon me from his fuck off tower or whatever said “Oh you think you know? Check this shit” and promptly set my post ablaze for everyone to observe
You're basically doing the post equivalent of standing out in a field during a storm with a ten-foot copper pole, you better hope Zeus is busy hiding from Hera.
Double Shock - FFXIV Write 2024 - Final Day: Two Heads are Better than One
Ao3
Dawntrail Spoilers Ahead
-
“Those airships are much nicer than Koana’s dirigibles, I’ll give Eorzea that much!” Bakool Ja Ja the Mighty said to his twin as they stepped off the deck of Eorzea’s main means of travel onto the marbled floor of the desert oasis, Ul’dah.
“And the heat here is pleasant…” The Mysticadded, his face turned to catch the bright rays of sunlight beaming through the windows, walking his scales to a very pleasant degree.
Best to bask in it now before having to endure the cold soon to come with travel to Ishgard. They had complained loudly to the Vow of Resolve to send someone in his stead to that blighted-sounded land, someone more equipped to handle the cold, but the hhetsarro refused. Citing it to be improper if they were to exchange some small amount of soldiers to forge good will and understanding between their lands, but not have the commander of those soldiers to be the one to deliver these brave men and women to and fro.
Both the Mighty and the Mystic argued many reasons against the case, but Wuk Lamat was swift in her decision it was best he go. Her spin on it being a positive experience to explore shores beyond Tural at least had some sound to it. When he was young he seriously considered once or twice stowing away to escape the weight of guilt that only recently lifted from his shoulders. In a way, this was fulfilling that long abandoned dream.
“If you think the heat is nice, wait until you try the food. Amal’jaa food stalls, they’re all the rage now and they make a mean skewer. The cactuar is better here too, softer and folk aren’t as averse to eating it here, they’ve made it quite the delicacy.”
The brothers perked up at the sounds of an accented voice. A familiar, raspy, voice that didn’t take long to unearth memories of the rare traveler to grace their jungle home now and again, usually with students in tow. They turned with their full body, a grin coming to both of their faces at the approach of a familiar Boonewa, who had a small, blue-clad and masked Lalafell lass in tow.
“Latool Ja. It’s been quite a few years since we’ve last seen you. Have you come to pester us for once?” the Mystic couldn’t help but laugh. He recalled when he and his brother were smaller, and so voraciously would ask the traveling mage to teach him whatever spell he could spare from the monsters he had studied.
“Not just that, but last I heard you were putting on the act of a ‘dumb beastman’ to draw more people into your little guild! Finally get sick of it?” the Mighty greeted more obviously, raising his hand in greeting to the infamous guide.
Though talk of his name had quieted in the years since he left for Eorzea with that hyur student Bakool Ja Ja had heard of, but never met, few Mamool Ja did not know of the Blue Magic guide and teacher. His skills surpassed any bias one may have for the way the Whalaqee tribe did things. In fact, in the new Tural being built by the Vows of Resolve and Reason, there was much to be learned from them.
“I was, until one of our guild members came back from the New World and became infuriated to know we’d been tricking her the whole time! The look on her face, I’ll never forget it!” the older Boonewa laughed, his little companion joining in with her own breathy giggle. “Figured since we’d been found out it was best to put the gig to rest, especially since now we will be seen as we are, a reflection of Tural. Best to put a good foot forward, as they say here.”
The Lalafell girl clapped in agreement with her teacher’s words. The wordless sort, then. Fine by Bakool Ja Ja, gave him space to speak with the old master. “Did you come just to greet us, or is there something more to you waiting by the gates?” The Mystic asked.
“Here for business. I was kindly asked by both the General and the Sultana, if you’d believe it, to give you an in depth tour of the city and put you up while waiting for your squadron to arrive. They’re held up by a storm in Limsa, if I recall right. So you have the free time.” Latool Ja said.
“Aye, I believe that’s the name of the port city we just came from.” Bakool Ja Ja the might withheld a groan at the thought. No one could have predicted the weather to shift as terrible as it did. Turning what should have only been a few hour delay between his ship and that of his soldiers into a full day, maybe two if luck truly spat on their efforts.
“Then allow me to welcome you to the city of gold and sand, Captain Bakool Ja Ja. Follow Lulumi and I, and we’ll guide you through the city that’s become our home.”
The Blue Mage duo set off, and the Blessed Siblings followed with a bit more ease in their steps knowing they were being guided by a fellow brethren, one less of a stranger to this land so foreign.
-
For one thing, Latool Ja had been right on the food of Ul’dah being exactly to the taste of the Mamool Ja pallet. Every few streets he’d point out a favorite snacking spot of his, and usually that lalafell would rush off to buy something for the three of them before continuing on their way. Either she had deep pockets, or Latool Ja had quite the tab racking up
Charred yet soft grilled foods meats, or steamed insect legs with a creamy sauce, or mushrooms skewered and served with other veggies and all the fixings. That Admiral may have introduced Limsa as the home of the culinarian, but the street food here outshone them far more than anything offered to him amongst those ports.
Ul’dah had also been the most interesting city he had yet visited. Both heads were reminded of the home of the giants, with nearly everything being made of carved stone. Yet, the sizes were in reverse. Benches, railings, and so much more were made to be shorter and stout, no doubt to accommodate for the small stature of most of its citizens. Citizens who, to Bakool Ja Ja’s surprise, hardly batted an eye to his presence.
“The people of Ul’dah will accept anything in the face of good coin and thrills,” Latool Ja said as he polished off his skewer of mushrooms. “With the Masked Carnivale, we offer the people both in spades. And thankfully our only competition, the Blood Sands, is full of an honorable sort that would rather make peace with fellow warriors. They and the thaumaturgists guild recognize our magicks for what they are, and those that don’t are still impressed all the same.”
When mentioning this Masked Carnivale, the lalafell girl perked up. She hummed to catch her master’s attention, and made a quick series of movements with her hands. Ah, she was voiceless then.
“Fair point, Lulumi,” Latool Ja nodded, understanding the noise-less words before looking at Bakool Ja Ja with a grin he was familiar with. One of excitement and thrill, a lust for violence. “One of our shows should be beginning soon, so how would you feel about a front row seat to how we Mamool Ja have gotten our foothold here across the salt?”
The twins could not help but smile as they agreed to the show. Oh, how eager they were to see what these Eorzeans were made of.
-
The dim blue rights that illuminated the ring made for a dramatic showing of the Blue Mages’ talents. Long shadows and one spotlight to chase the dueling mage made it a far different type of show than what Bakool Ja Ja had heard the Blood Sands was like. Where the gladiators fought for pride against each other, the blue mages fought for survival against the monsters pitted before them in the ring. Before the captain of the landsgard was the fiercest of Eorzea’s monsters, but the once that had come to study and understand them.
There were several mages, all masked and identities hidden behind a stage name, that came into the ring and battled away before bowing out for the next mage to take their place. Each with unique styles, unique ways to handle each enemy. Some bet it all on a single cast of doom. Others built up empowering magicks before humiliating their foe with a weak spell that just destroyed them. That Lulumi studying under Latool Ja even entered the ring once under the name “Celestial Blue.” She threw everything and the kitchen sink at her opponent, burying the lion-like beats under a collection of stone, plants, and fish. Now that had been a humorous fight.
“If this is what Ul’dah has to offer, I doubt we’ll have much to worry about with them, will we, brother?” the Mystic remarked as Lulumi bowed and took off, soon reappearing next to them to continue watching the fight.
“And thank goodness for that. The less we need to worry over these foreign fighters the better.” The Mighy agreed. Not that he was one to shirk work, but even with two heads they already had enough responsibilities, it felt.
Before more could be said, a cloud of mist rolled into the arena, followed by a might, trumpeting roar. A beast of immeasurable size charged into the arena, with tusks the length of his body and an enraged look in its eyes. It was huge, wooly, and wreaking havoc on the wooden walls and spikes put into the arena, crushing them with ease. So far, this has been the mightiest beast they sent out yet. It was only a wonder if the fight they would send in turn would be able to stand up to it.
“Alright! Let’s go!”
A wild, brazen voice called out from behind the mages entry, before they burst open. A flash of metallic blue zipped in, too fast for even the flash light to catch onto and follow. The light moved wildly, trying to find the fighter in the dim arena before settling upon the monster, which started to shriek and wail. The crowd exclaimed and cheered as the beast began to lift off the ground. Beneath its underside, the figure of the mage was holding up the beast with a barely heaving chest.
“Ever heard the phrase ‘when pigs fly?’ Well, I’ll give you folks something better to bet on!” She called out to the crowd. This was clearly a former fighter of the Blood Sands, the only one so far to appeal to the crowd amidst the fight so brazenly. And the cockiness was likely earned as with a single breath and a sheen of blue, she and the mammoth went rocketing into the air. Higher and higher, as high as the ceiling would let them go.
But they didn’t just fall. No. They all watched as the fighter's fist heated up, glowing orange and adopting a sheen of metal as she climbed up her foe's body and above him. The beast was spinning, flailing with panic, unaware of the crash it was about to experience.
“When it starts raining mammoths!” With the cheesy, wild delivery of the line, a flash exploded out between her fist and the body of the mammoth. All bore witness as it’s body slammed into the dirt, buried and broken in an instant, a steaming bullet-like blow on its flank. All silent before the sound rang out over the arena. An impact between the mammoth’s fur and her fist like a bullet wound, then the creature's body slamming into the ground like a meteorite. It was insane, it was terrifying, it was immensely cool.
The warrior ensured the creature's fate with a cast of magick-like missiles and a wind-infused dive kick. Dust flew into the air, creating an azure-tinted cloud before settling and finally letting Bakool Ja Ja see the fighter the crowd seemed ravenous for. His jaw dropping at the sight of her posed with her finger pointed upwards, and red locks contrast to the shiny blue costume she donned with a horned mask.
“Say my name, Ul’dah!”
“Lazuli Heart! Lazuli Heart!”
“Wuk Lamat’s adventurer?!”
“Oh, you’re familiar with one of our stars?” Both heads looked at Latool Ja, who didn’t seem to be shocked despite his words. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, she’s the one I mentioned who returned from Tural recently. Have you met?”
“Yes, we’re… well-acquainted.” the Mystic put it simply. The head of the Mighty still just stared at the hero. He saw as she flinched at his and his brother’s shout of shock and looked over her shoulder. Her eyes were wide, just as much surprised to see him as he was her. Neither expected to encounter each other here.
“Shall I take you backstage to meet with her?” the older Mamool Ja offered. The twins agreed, curious to hear of how the adventurer learned of blue magic.
-
“You’re far from home, Captain. Didn’t expect to ever see you in my home city.” Halditar gave Bakool Ja Ja a friendly, but strained smile. It was only natural. This was their first interaction since the end of the contest and after Zoraal Ja’s betrayal. It would take time for awkwardness between the two to fade.
“It was at Vow Koana’s instence. Trade some of our troops for yours, learn about each other.” He offered a shrug, not really sure what else to say. Yet, that seemed to light up the warrior’s eyes. As if a sudden realization had fallen to her.
“Ah, that explains why Pipin wanted my aid with training the newer troops!” she said to herself, before smiling and giving siblings a nod. “Well, I can promise you shouldn’t have any trouble with them. I trained right alongside them so I can promise they’re a grand bunch and eager to serve.”
Hearing that Halditar had a hand with the troops she would be returning home with, all that hope that he wouldn’t have to worry about the soldiers of Ul’dah vanished from both of their heads. Now he would only worry about them and what they were capable of.
“Right… In any case, I didn’t think you were the type to make a show of your fighting prowess. You seemed above that, in all our encounters.” the Mystic couldn’t help but remark. At this the redhead blushed and rubbed the back of her neck. Seemed she knew modesty in some ways.
“Ah, I can’t help it. I used to be a gladiator but the Blood Sands… Wasn’t a good fit. As a Blue Mage though, I can still have all the fun of a performance fight with none of the drama attached to being a known fighter. Makes moving around the city a touch easier.”
“That’s funny to hear from you. I thought you were all about the recognition. You certainly didn’t let me forget whenever you threatened me.” the Mighty couldn’t resist jabbing at the small ego the hero had displayed when they clashed, trying to intimidate him with her feats. A darker red colored the masked fighter's face as she closed her eyes, seeming to stew in her embarrassment.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I won’t deny I enjoy it but I never do what I do just for the recognition. I haven’t in a long time and probably never will in the future. I’m just the curious and helpful type, is all,” she insisted, removing the mask and putting on that pair of glasses she so needed. How she saw without them while wearing the mask, he was curious to ask. “Enough about me though. How are you enjoying Ul’dah?”
“It’s not a bad city. Good food, not much to drink though. I’m especially curious to try my hands against some of the fighters I’ve seen wandering about.” he shrugged.
In truth, it was hard to know what to say or how to say it to this woman. Still she exuded an aura of power and confidence that left his tongue tied. Especially aware of how one of their last interactions was pouring her heart out to her party, giving up everything he had been built for, for the better. What words could they exchange built upon his former villainy?
It seemed the adventurer had a better idea than him. She laughed, throwing a towel over her shoulders as she stood. “Of course you haven’t found anything good to drink with Latool Ja, the man has an endless stomach and a hate for alcohol! If you want a good drink, I know just the watering spot. Wait here, I’ll get changed and then I’ll take you out. You can even meet my combat squad. Get enough drinks in them and they'll be down to tussle with anyone.”
“You’ll take us out? You sure about that?” the Mighty’s eyes narrowed. He had no reason to expect a trick, yet he couldn’t ignore how his stomach tightened in worry. She had no reason to offer him her company in his mind.
“Indeed. We drink for two, after all.” the Mystic warned, hiding his uncertainty with ease. This only made the red-headed hero laugh.
“Oh, I love a challenge! We can see who can outlast who in a battle of cups. And of course I’m sure. You’re Commander of the Landguard and I’m a captain of the Immortal Flames, it would only benefit everyone for us to learn more of each other,” she said with a softer voice and expression. The strain melted away as she seemed to finally find a common ground with him. A stranger to her home, one that like his kin she could guide him through, and a station of power they similarly shared. “But more than that. You are one dearly trusted by Koana and Lamaty’i. It only stands that I should trust you too.”
And with that she left to change. Bakool Ja Ja could only wait in silence, both heads mulling over the sudden kindness, just everything the adventurer was still finding ways to surprise him with. Unaware that the strange, light feeling in his gut was not mistrust, but excitement as a young, budding friendship took hold. Both soon to learn they were more alike that different, and together they made quite the pair.
To Be Anything For You - FFXIV Write 2024 - Day 29: Sweetheart (Free Day)
Ao3
Spoilers for Endwalker Patches/Pandaemonium Raids ahead.
-
‘Twas a rare treat in their vaunted city to enter a place unfamiliar and uncharted. Amarout, a city with a rich history, had meticulously preserved and maintained its corners since long before Azem’s time. It was impressive… if not monotonous, how everything was ‘historic.’ Often she pondered if it was the lack of variety that made her appreciate the world beyond more, or if it was the world beyond that made her realize the almost obsession with tradition woven into all aspects of her home. Likely, both. She needn’t discuss the philosophy beyond the idea with overly flowery words to figure that much.
However, at the moment, she concentrated on something else, something new.
The door to this new floor did not creak as the rest in the Halls of Rhetoric, still shiny and filled with oil. Few would be so excited by the sight of towering bookshelves that lacked dust as she was. The Traveler hopped from dark-colored tile to tile, drinking in how the halls stretched on and on. The scent of book glue and parchment and fresh ink made her bookwyrm heart flutter in excitement. As if her own laboratory did not have the same perfume from her untouched pile of tomes and half-bound personal projects.
She took the nearest tome off a random shelf and flipped through. The ink was so dark and the paper spotless, free of the witty margins and other age marks some of her fellows thought to leave in these exchanges of discussions and ideas. Clean, only the ideas of the writer and no other, practically a voyeur to their purest meanings of their words. She was quick to return the book to its spot. Azem would have felt guilt ruining the allure of an untouched book by someone actually interested in its contents.
It was luck that she came so late in the day, when most were eager to return home and feed the body before the mind. Though, not that many visited the layers of the Hall of Rhetoric, anyway. ‘Twas a niche. Needing to peruse the thoughts of your fellows to expand on, validate, maybe even contradict your own. Seemed most of the other officials hadn’t even known the Hall was adding another floor to store the overflow bursting from the others.
Fine by her, it gave her freedom to race as she wished through the space, all but racing through the maze of ideas, with her fingers tracing the shelves as her eyes raced over the spines.
Most would have accused her of simply acting idiosyncratic for the sake of it, having no way to read so quickly. And most would be wrong. She had no photographic memory, but she could easily have guided them to the shelf just about where the Debates of Cooking Philosophically was, some rows back towards the southwest.
Before long on her quest to scale every ladder in the hall to explore the upper shelves, the short woman struggled to hop up and see nor her staff long enough to pull them off, the marbled floor softened into a rug of soft green. Swathes of tables and chairs replaced shelves, excluding book carts. Tall windows cast the gold and red rays of the sunset long and warm onto the furniture, instantly warming her black robe and lacquered mask. An isle of calm amongst the curiosities she wanted to appease.
It was there Azem spied her first person… Or what was probably a person, guarded by small towers of the thickest records this floor seemed to offer. She had only the intention of creeping past quietly, leaving them to their research… Until she realized the figure was wearing a robe of white and not black.
She looked around, ensuring there were no others to surprise her before she removed her mask, hooking it to her hip. Elea floated close to the Adjudicator of the Fourteen. The breathing of another, deep and slow, tickled her ear as she reached his side. Elidibus lay his crossed arms in front of his head, with most of his face resting against the pages of the book he had drifted into. His hood had come undone, snowy, feathery lock falling over his mask, so sharp and contrasting to the one that wore it.
“Elidibus,” Elea whispered. No stirring. She called his name again, poking his cheek. “Can you wake up?”
His lips twitched and smacked, but no more. She moved her hand to his shoulder, rubbing it to rouse him. She dared to call him more intimately this time. “Theeeemis… Come now, sweetling. Time to awaken. I doubt you’ve had dinner yet.”
She got more of a reaction this time, as he rolled his shoulder to throw her hand off. Frustrating as others may have found it, Elea could only smile. “You need your sleep then? That’s alright…” she whispered now, so as not to rouse him further. Her crystalline eyes glanced around the reading spot. “Surely there is a better place to sleep than hunched over a table, however…”
Ah, she found such a spot. A couch upholstered in green, soft enough to be comfortable for reading, but maybe not for sleeping. But between that and the pages of a book, she knew one to be quite superior to the other.
Elea propped her staff against the arm of the couch before moving to Themis and rolling up her sleeves, bearing a few scars from spells and meetings gone wrong. She tried her best to be careful as she gathered Elidibus up, though she knew if he was this deep in sleep, it would take more than being carried to wake him. He would come when he was ready.
As the mage pulled him from his chair, Elea quickly her limbs quiver and her face go red with effort. “H-Heavyyyyy…” she couldn’t help but grunt.
Drastic measures had to be taken to ensure she would not drop him, alternating between a waddle and a crab-walk in desperate efforts to not drop the Convacation’s head. It was already a tall task to ask one as small and magically inclined as Elea to carry someone. And while Themis was similarly small, he easily carried all his weight in muscle those robes hid.
Thankfully, the journey to the couch went without a hitch. Elea was very careful not to just collapse onto the cushion, settling herself down and sighing with relief as she laid out not just Themis, but herself, too. She had not really thought too far ahead, but it seemed easier and nicest to serve as his pillow until he awoke.
His body was heavy atop her own, comfortably so. Like a warm, weighted blanket, the pressure and shape of his body a familiar force as he sighed and sank into her. Elea could see the edges of his mask pressing into his face, and saw it fit to free him of it. There was still an edge line pressed into his cheeks, but now it would hopefully not be so harsh. She could feel how the boy’s body relaxed. The small reliefs pulled him deeper into slumber. She smiled and nuzzled the top of his head, pulling down his hood so she could kiss that soft white mop of hair and stroke her finger through it.
Before long, the fading sunlight and the weight of her love bid Elea to nap as well. The Emissary and the Traveler dreamed as one, blind in the eyes of their city, embracing one another.
Vessels of Intention - FFXIV Write 2024 - Day 28: Deleterious
Ao3
Endwalker Spoilers ahead.
-
Labyrinthos, ironically for it being the source of many of his most recent headaches, felt like the only place Fourchenault could think clearly. He would enter and his thoughts would simply… sort themselves. Into neat little piles of tasks and happenings he needed to be aware of. The false, cool breeze kinder than the biting fall chill surrounding his island home, heralding small dustings of snow as pure as his uniform. Eyes fluttered shut as he took in a deep breath and focused on his posture, his breathing. Opening them again to the sky planes and false celestial bodies that hung above. In the crystals that mimicked the night sky, he could easily see the six Lower Heavens, most prominent of this night, The Bole.
Those false stars glinted down at him, mockingly. As if knowing soon, he could only admire these familiar stars as memories.
The member of the Forum made no sound of disquiet, as much as the knot in his chest bid him too. It was not proper, and he would be damned if any of his peers would catch him off guard and bent out of shape after the display earlier. The last thing they needed was to be preoccupied, yet those Scions, and worse yet his own children, seemed to run amok around every corner playing at something, but to what end he had no concrete proof. Were these not trying times, he was sure more than a few members would have been hounding him over these recent happenings…
Fourchenault bid his mind clear. Focusing on the silence… Or he would have, if the faint sound of something rarely heard caught his ear. The sound of aether against stone, the faintest clinks of weapons and armor.
With a hand tracing the railing, he followed its source. To the small collection of training dummies located close by. His brow furrowed already. Gleaners, he suspected, knowing few scholars within these upper levels dared to carry even a pocket knife with them, staunch to the nth degree on the policies of being removed from war. Their rush of orders had forced several to take up new skills in the hunt for their quarry, after all.
But that is not what he saw. Instead, against the verdant green, Fourchenault spied a familiar boy in blue. The elder could feel the burning focus in the younger man’s stare, hands moving with graceful, yet unpracticed force as weapons darted around him. Very familiar weapons, to Fourchenault’s eye.
His tongue hurt to used to stifle himself, but it was necessary to keep from shouting in shock to know how Alphinaud had gotten his nouliths. Concern bubbled hot and quick in his chest, worried how his son may hurt himself with the advanced magicks whipping the tools of the sage. That concerns melding with a rage that this was evening happening before him.
But he knew he was powerless to stop it. Both his children had made it clear they would continue down this foolish path, blinded by his own father’s ambitions and those foolish ‘heroes.’ All he could do with the spell binding him to silence was race. Race and hope that he could prepare everything before this star fell.
Before his eyes, a flash of purple illuminated the make-shift training ground. A wave of Alphinaud’s hand, and the noulith shuddered before firing any array of beams in a familiar, x-shaped pattern. He was already on the way to learning the properties of toxicon…
Fourchenault was stepping onto the grass and towards Alphinaud’s direction before he could stop himself. He hoped, maybe one on one, he could get his son to recognize the err of who he put his trust and friendship in. Being the more level-headed twin, he could lay out the grounds for a conversation without Alisaie to interrupt. And if he could not do that, he could at least off his son some words of experience on the path of the sagacious.
“Attaboy, Alphinaud! You’re picking it all up faster than I ever could!”
That brutish voice and laugh turned Fourchenault’s mouth sour as the woman, the so-vaunted ‘Warrior of Light’ raced from the treeline she had been out of sight in towards his son. As she complimented him, Alphinaud’s eyes sparkled with joy, and he let out a laughter so pure that it made his heart ache and his blood boil. If he could, he would have marched over and dragged his son away from that woman as fast as he could. However, he found himself unable to move his hands and his feet were firmly planted, leaving him rooted to the spot. All he could do was feel his blood boil.
“What a relief to hear that from you. How was my form?” Alphinaud asked. Fourchenault could have scoffed. As if this outside had any-
“As expected for a beginner, stiff, but you’ll loosen up as you learn to multitask spellcasting and aetherical analysis, and the movements become intrinsic with time.” Fourchenault’s heart skipped at that answer. Efficient, and accurate to what he had observed. He could not stop a sinking disbelief in his chest. She could have been observing only from the position of other healers.
“I’m more concerned with your speed. Strategizing and figuring out our enemies’ movements to mitigate is important, but you’re holding onto the aether too long between casts, a stop and go rather than a continuous flow. Those few half-seconds waiting can build up and snowball if you aren’t careful. Watch.”
Halditar turned to the dummies herself. Fourchenault tightened his lips as a set of nouliths, crystalline and blue, emerged from under her coat and blinked into position. “I’m going to do a simple execution of attacks and healing on myself. Pay attention to the way the magicks move.” She instructed and began.
He did as Alphinaud, observing her movements and weaving of the aether into a variety of forms. Nitpicking every small action to have something, some kind of proof this was a bastardization of the Sharalyan art. But while her gestures were less precise of the typical Sharalyan mage, and he could see the edges of white magick styles bleeding into how she wove the occasional healing cast, the truth that left him with a bitter taste in his mouth. She knew the Sage’s ways somehow, through and through.
“I see! That’s how you cast so efficiently, you barely leave a moment of downtime and are ever expecting.”
“Aye, though I wouldn’t take all the way from examples. I’ve overextended myself now and again…” Halditar let out some sheepish laugh and rubbed the back of her neck. A facade of modesty, he was certain of all he had heard from reports. Yet that was not what finally unstuck him from his spot as a voyeur.
“Then I will be there to have your back, in the moments where you stumble too far ahead.” Alphinaud promised. His hand on his chest as Fourchenault could see in those blue eyes not an ounce of doubt or hesitation. Trust, full and blind in this woman who accomplished feats that made her a monster by the standards of some others. Halditar Elilwyn, who smiled and ruffled his boy’s hair like his kin. Not the one that nearly marched him to execution, into wars he had no business being in, as if he were not a child yet.
“You may have been pardoned by the Forum, but that does not give you an excuse to make a racket in Labyrinthos yet,” he did not hide the biting edge to his voice, as much as it hurt to see Alphinaud flinch when it reached his ears. As he did not hide his disdain, she did not hide hers, donning a frown and placing her hand on Alphinaud’s shoulder and pulling the boy back towards her. Again, he needed to bite his tongue to tame a lashing of anger he had long since forgotten being capable of. “If you continue to bother the wildlife and other workers, that I promise would be more than enough grounds to deport you all.”
He stared daggers towards the roe at his emphasis. For his efforts, in turn, she gave a simpering look and grin only. Behind his back, his hands curled into tight, angry fists.
“We’re sorry, Fath- Sir Leveilleur,” Sir Leveilleur. Fourchenault could not have such pain would jab into his heart hearing his own son address him as such, looking at him with the eyes of a stranger and not a familiar warmth. “We meant no trouble and will be more conscious of our training.”
The roe patted the shorter boy on his back, drawing his gaze towards her. How it softened near instantly, especially as she threw on a kinder smile and the harsh gaze levied at him seconds earlier melted into something sympathetic. “Why not give it a rest now, lad? You’ve been at this since you got those fancy nouliths. Go grab something to eat and check in on everyone. I still have some work to do here, so I’ll catch up in a minute.”
Alphinaud hesitated. Seemed he was wise and sensitive enough to know when the air between two people wasn’t right, and how sour it was right now between him and Halditar. But when she offered no more words, he nodded back and walked off. Sparing his father no glance.
The Warrior of Light turned her back to him once Alphinaud was far enough. Going to a bag set near a tree and digging out a set of daggers, in a flash changing to a set of clothes more modest and foreign.
“And what is it you plan on doing?” He asked.
“I’m more than a one-trick pony. I have other skills I need to keep up on. Don’t worry your pretty little head about the noise,” she walked in front of the dummy, and as she passed it was left with skewered knife wounds in her wake, only the slight vision of a shadow seen lingering, as her smile became taunting. “I can be quiet if I want to be.”
“Whatever intimidation or plans you have, I will only give you one warning,” Fourchenault wanted nothing more than to humiliate this woman in a game of wits, show her up and leave her floundering with no way to rebuttal. He knew, though, that wouldn’t work. She would brush off his words, play dumb, or just truly be so stupid she wouldn’t heed him. So he let his voice dip and go dark, pulling his height and pride up to meet this ‘hero’ eye to eye. “I will destroy you if my children are heart, thanks to your plans.”
“Well, isn’t that a compliment? You think I’m the one that comes up with our plans? Sadly, coming out of your mouth is the last place I want to hear it,” she spat back, not removing her gaze from the dummy as she dashed in and out, making hits that caused the stone to chip and cracking. “I’m glorified muscle and an errand girl. I don’t make plans. Lodge a complaint with the twins and the Archons if you want to complain about how we do things.”
“You truly must think me a fool if you believe I would take those words at face value.”
“Well, if you are so generously offering to put the shoe on yourself, that saves me the trouble of saying it.” she had stopped smiling, even with the playful edge to her voice as she went at the dummy again and again with daggers. Striking harder and harder. His face flushed with warmth, feeling the throbbing of a vein against his skull.
“You should be thankful I am a merciful man of peace, Warrior of Light,” he spat the words at her like the venom they were. “Else I would have decided your fate well before you set foot on this island,” he spat the words at her like the venom they were. I will not have you and your violent, manipulative ways,” he saw a flinch at that. He had hit a nerve. Whether it was one of truth or something harsher, he didn’t care, simply satisfied he had gotten a blow in. “Poisoning my children further, and least of all others. This is not a war you can win on vitriol and adrenaline, thief.”
The sound of metal hitting the earth resounded as a shadow fell over him. He did not falter, staring up into the cold, hard eyes of Halditar. If looks could kill, Fourchenault knew he’d be dead.
“I’m only going to say this once, old man. I’m happy to let you bash me, think I’m a thief of some kind, hell, call me ‘the tool of war-mongers’ since I know that is probably all I look like to the lot of Sharlayans,” her voice was surprisingly quiet, if not a touch rough around the edges before she leaned down. This close, he could see tiny scars and just how sharp her eyes were. Pupils constricted to small black dots of fury against pools of blue. Never had he been at the end of such controlled violence in a stare before. “But I’ll be damned before I let you go smearing all the good those kids have done and tried to do with their own hands and choices. I wouldn’t be half the healer, much less woman I am proud to be if it weren’t for them giving me the pushes I needed. You don’t need to like it, but you’d best respect it if you don’t want to regret anything.”
“Is that a threat?” he asked.
“Nah. A warning.” It was spoken like a promise.
“I will let no one, even them, deter us from our course. They aren’t the vessels for the Scions, or my father’s foolish ideals.”
‘Or your barbaric intentions.’ Went unsaid, but it was heard as the roe huffed in his face like some animal and leaned back, a vitriolic, nasty smile coming to her face.
“Guess the lot of men are all the same! Father’s especially. They’d sooner shatter their families into pieces than yield their ideals or pride even an ilm. Gods forbid they think for themselves and don’t let Papa hold the reins of their fate!” Her laugh was like acid on grinding gears, harsh and grating, and she stepped back to gather her bag.
“You know nothing.” He didn’t know how he meant it. A threat? A warning or denial of her words? Perhaps all of those things as she walked towards him, bumping him like a bully, might a weaker child. Their eyes caught as their bodies crossed.
“I know I hate your guts, and that I’d best I leave before I do something very unheroic of me.” Fourchenault tried to grab her arm, his daring and frustration pushing him to get answers from the woman, even as he felt her biceps strain against him.
“Hold on! Where did you learn sage healing?! The only job stones have ever been in Sharyalan and you certainly have no connection that would give you access to something so precious.”
“How should I know? According to you, from the sounds of it, I stole it. Figure it out yourself if your shit is so well documented!” she snapped and ripped her arm away. Her leg length and physique let her stomp away, out of sight, and he couldn’t give chase else he’d raise suspicions.
So Fourchenault Leveilleur could only stand and watch, feeling the warmth of his artificial sun and the waves of emotion crash against his mind. Wild, anxious, like at any moment he may drown in the sea of his own thoughts.
But he was a captain of their ship, so he would navigate them. Not even letting the unworthy drown.
G’raha knew something was off when he could roll over.
His body instantly sank into a crater too big for him to fill. No longer warm, the body that usually slotted into the mattress had long since left it's comforting embrace. He cracked his eyes open, quick to focus on the faint dark of the bedroom rafters, the illuminated glass baubles Halditar had hung there were off.
His ear twitched. No sound from the bathroom or kitchen. A bump sat near his foot. With a groan he sat up.
Halditar’s bedclothes sat at the bed end. In the corner of his eye, the dresser drawers were left open.
G’raha cannot say he was possessed with worry, because in truth he was a bit too tired to process that race in his heart. Concern, was a better word for what washed over him. This was a familiar, if rare occurrence. Halditar was one to have trouble with sleep, quite a bit, in fact. But rarely did she leave the warmth of their bed, or the house. It was only on her worst or strangest nights she would pull herself from the arms of rest to heed her restless mind. Those nights could be tough, wrought with tears, they could be frustrating, the only way to stop it being to fight it out.
But never were they quiet.
With a silent, practiced grace from a lifetime wandering the Cyrstal Tower’s halls, he pulled himself from bed and into a pair of slippers. Halditar’s robe thrown over his shoulders and bunched around his arms (he had his own, but Halditar’s was comfier sheerly by virtue of more fabric and smelling so wonderfully of her), he quietly descended the stairs to avoid waking their their bullpup or the living dolls sleeping peacefully on their shelf.
Finding where Hadlitar had gone was not hard, the light of the workshop left on. The sound of cicadas and night-birds hissed along the wind, the summer air an unbearable mix of cold and heavy, holding onto heat from the sunlit hours before. The muggy air made the atmosphere around the workshop all the heavier on G’raha’s skin, feeling his fur start to stand on her. He expected the sounds of a hammer or saw, maybe even the hiss of steam or bubbling or alchemical equipment.
But there was nothing from beyond the workshop walls. Just the faint fire crackle of the lights and the creak of the door as he pushed it open.
Halditar’s back was to him, the lantern of her woodworking desk casting a long black figure against the far wall. He could see sawdust and smell the aetherical refinement process still in the air, the long robe dragging a path through the mess as he walked toward his partner. Something lay on the table, already polished to perfection.
“Halditar…” he spoke softly, coming from behind. Her body was burning as he held her shoulders. He pressed his hand to her cheek. She was burning up. “You have a fever, love.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” Her voice was hoarse and rough, yet so very soft. His heart ached as he could recognize the way she sounded after she cried. “I just… I couldn't stop myself once I thought- remembered. I remembered.”
“What did you remember?”
“I don’t know.” The tone it was said with was hush and fragile, like a thing whispered about in fear. He watched her hand, shaky with exhaustion and nicked with a few cuts, took up the staff laid before her. G’raha’s breath hitched in his throat.
“Haldi…” It took much effort not to let ‘It’s beautiful’ slip out.
Clearly that was not the right thing to say, even if it was factual. So simple, yet perfect in design. Initially it seemed to be a white mage's arm, with its natural wood so carefully woven. But the crystal at the top promised it was not. An iridescent prism of raw colors and the barest cuts, promising the array of magics it could conjure was pure and raw. A black mage's focus of extreme power, if he had ever seen one.
“It came to me,” she continued, hand tracing the surface faintly. Whether with familiarity or fear, he knew not the difference. “I saw it as I was standing somewhere… I-It felt like the edge of the world and I-I was hurting. I can’t remember from what but I remembered not being sad, and I held up this- my staff. I was holding back something dark, and heavy before I saw the sky crack and- and-”
She dropped the staff, grip weakening as she was lost in a dream. G’raha hugged her, hoping his body's chill would ground her for just a moment to keep the panic from mounting. It seemed to work well enough, feeling hot tears drip onto his arm as she buried her face in his embrace. His mind was heavy with what she said, but he didn’t confide in her the truth. In all likelihood, she already knew. The confirmation may only hurt further that she had re-lived her ancient’s death, even if only in a dream.
“What do you do when you make something that shouldn’t exist?” Halditar asked.
G’raha did not know if she asked only rhetorically or seriously. He pinned his ears back, both in sympathy for his love and uncertainty of what to say. How to comfort her when she didn’t even know what comfort she needed, much less say it.
“All we can do is just live alongside it. Whether that means storing it away safely, or carrying it with us…” he pressed a kiss to her temple, nuzzling the top of her head as he continued, “Thankfully, it is not a decision that needs to be made right now, and it can always be changed.”
It took some convincing to get her to leave it until she was better, but eventually Halditar let herself be led back to bed and cared for in her sick, feverish state by G’raha. He offered all the support he could to what Halditar did with That Which Shouldn’t Be, as she refused to name the staff. In the end though, she decided to bear the burden of memories once and never her own, making it the arm of her Black Mage’s kit.
She rarely ever used it as such, the stone falling to the wayside given time and the weight that came with the weapon. But when she took it up, for a moment, Halditar became more. Something filled her. Knowledge, fear, sadness, memories? She never told anyone, and G’raha never pried. Yet when she did, she used the aether like no other. A prodigy suddenly awakened. Her spells were the same, but different, better composed, better cast.
And never did she smile, when holding that staff. Never telling how the staff weighed heavy with the knowledge of her own past pains, whispering through the wood.
One Size Fits Most - FFXIV Write 2024 - Day 26: Zip
Ao3
[Dawntrail Spoilers and Probably counts as NSFW]
-
Zzzziiiiiiiiiii-chk!
“Nymia curse it…”
Halditar swore under her breath, chin pointed down as she stared with a quirked brow at the cloth embracing her body. Well, trying to embrace it.
There were many things of interest she had taken from the city of the seeming-future now that enough time had to lessen some of the bitter taste she had in her mouth upon her first introductions. The tools, the rides, the more traditional foods and drinks rather than the packaged fare. Much of it to her liking.
Especially the medicine. Even at the start of her healer’s journey there had never been such a spark towards the craft, if only felt like a natural addition to her spellcraft and the aid she could provide. Medics would ever be in demand and better to have too many than not enough. What she found in Solution Nine though was beyond the typical. It bordered miraculous, full new theories and stylings of the science that could make it into an art. She had decided not long ago to stay in S9 for some time, to take up and learn all she could of the ways they healed in hopes it could be taken further.
And part of that was adopting the local style.
“Excuse me, is this available in a bigger size?”
A trying and frustrating adoption, the roegadyn found.
“I’m happy to check for you! May I see the article, please?”
Halditar handed the vanguard jacket to the kindly lalafell clerk, who searched the cloth for the size tag. The Warrior of Light waited quietly, but couldn’t help her leg bouncing in frustration as she looked around and saw once more the top of other people’s heads and the tips of sheetona ears and little else. Normally her height she found to be a serious boon, a mark of pride in some childish sense. But right now, especially as a weaver who was still learning how these clothes were made and couldn’t just whip up her own, it was… aggravating, to put it nicely.
“Here!” A new jacket was set before her, all the same in style and colors, but seeming a big baggier. “It’s the same size but a part of our new ‘Big and Fit’ collection, so it should have a lot more give. Please give it a try!”
“Alright, here does nothing…” Halditar tossed the jacket over her cropped top, one of the few articles of clothes that somewhat blended in with the fashionable crowd of S9. The hem hung about her mid thigh, quite a bit baggier than her own preference of clothes. But it was nothing some hemming couldn’t fix. No straining came to the obvious point… Halditar frowned as while the zipper did finally yield to her tugging, it was not without issue. The fabric was straining across her bosom, holding tight to the round curve of her chest with obvious bunches near the bottom that showed how ill-fitted the piece was to her proportions. A word needn’t be said between her or the clerk, it was obvious just how shit this was.
As Halditar opened her mouth to speak, the matter was only made worse. The dull sound of the zipper being undone went off, and a layer of tension fell off her chest. The jacket couldn’t endure the sheer size of her assets, and gave to their weight. It might have been a passable if not provocative choice of fashion, if it had been intentional or the piece designed for it in any way.
“I’m so sorry! That’s the biggest thing we have!” The poor clerk bowed, as if she had any control over the sizes they offered. “One of the armor shops might have some things more suited to your body type.”
“Got it, I’ll go check…” Halditar mumbled dryly as she took off the jacket, not mentioning how she had already visited the armor shop after being recommended by a few other clothes that failed to have something that could contain her hefty figure.
At the end of a few days searching further, the Warrior’s of Light first month in Solution Nine was spent hoarding fabric and learning how the hell zippers worked and where the fine line between putting just enough and too many was on a piece of clothes. (It was a very zig-zagging, hard to guess line, just as it was with belts.) Rewarded at the end with an outfit that ensured she wouldn’t stand out too much from the crowd.
… Not that it mattered much with her time in the Arcadion drawing everyone’s attention her way. But at least it was because of her infamy and not her chest drawing all the attention.
Time is Fickle, Just Like a Friend - FFXIV Write 2024 - Day 25: Perpetuity
Ao3
[Shadowbringers and Endwalker Spoilers]
-
“What are you doing, lovely?”
Elea looked down from the clouds she had been so focused on their entire walk. Hythlodaeus could not help the soft smile that graced his face as he gazed upon her bare features, bereft of that black and gold mask that turned her unreadable, a freedom offered only when traveling far from the city. Not to say much of her exposed expression though, just because he could see did not mean he could even understand a fraction of what raced behind those crystalline eyes. He did not mind though. It only charmed him further to the Traveler.
“When do you think the sun will go out?” She prosed her own question in turn. Something she did quite often, but he was unbothered by it. Only by the nature of what she asked.
“I don’t know if it can go out.” He admitted, contemplating the idea. Aetheric research of what lay beyond their star was so young, and hardly of any interest when there was so much of their own world to improve. Creations to make, places to learn about.
How fitting for her to think beyond that scope.
“It will.” Elea spoke it like a promise. She waltzed past him, swirling on purposefully unsteady feet like the eddy of a river, black rode hiding the grace of her limbs and arms, turning a careful and free dance into what would look like childish stumbling to most others. Hyth knew better though, he saw it for what it was, even joining her with a skip in his own step, in an effort to keep up with her ever-racing mind.
“And what makes you so sure?”
“It will,” she parroted at first, reaffirming her confidence. So strong it almost made him believe her then and there. “Everything ends eventually.”
“Even you and I will end?” He spoke it as a tease, though a small part of Hythlodaeus’ heart worried at the answer she may give.
For as much as his other partner complained of her bluntness, he knew Elea to be very careful with her words, to communicate the depths of her feelings even to those that may never understand. That knowledge that he could only understand so much, only be so good a partner to her ate at the back of his mind. Would this be the first time he regretted asking for her true thoughts? …What a terrible thing of him to think.”
Elea had to give pause. A frown decorated her features as her nails clacked against her staff in thought. With a deeply furrowed brow, it was clear she at least did not like the question. But she respected it, giving it her time to think. Hythlodaeus felt her free hand, small and dainty grab onto his as she shook her head.
“By my own definition, yes. However, that is assuming the sun just disappears, which is won’t. Things cannot simply vanish,” she cited the laws of physics quickly, before pushing on to her point. “More likely, it will just change, into new things or energy for others. So…”
The grip on his hand got tighter. He curled his fingers around her fist, easily able to encompass her whole hand in a single one of his. “So our relationship will change and it will be up to us if it’s worth keeping. If it means anything, no matter how it changes, so long as we are happy I want to keep our bond no matter what.”
Hyth smiled wide, drinking in her words as she meant them, kind, reassuring. The lavender-haired man leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek, which she returned in favor of his. The weight of her arms threw around his shoulders as she trapped him in a hug, all her passion and weight thrown into it.
“Then so our relationship shall be, changing, but unbroken.” he promised.
Their adventure pressed on down an uncharted path, unaware of how right one of them was to be. How all things ended, how change would sever the bond by force.
-
“Come now,” Emet-Selch, or Solus tried to bid the voidsent closer. “You needn’t worry about eating sparsely ever again, from any other soul should you make a deal with me, my dear. Only one pact is needed, forever.”
His frustration was growing thin. The aether of his soul was burning this magickless shell's skin, knowing it to be unnatural, but it was nothing he would not endure to make a reaper's pact. ‘Twould be a boon to have a tool so powerful in his back pocket, even as his soul could hoped from body to body.
And how he had hunted for this particular voidsent. What a pain she had been as ever. Living in the deepest, untread reaches of the dark world, stalking corrupted wilds rife with twisted abomination. And she was queen of them all. Twisted as the soul was, tarnished and damaged beyond repair to his ancient eyes, Elea’s color was unmistakable. Even this voidsents presence was unlike the ones he had to cut down after every failed summoning before her. It felt like… summer, a playful, warm breeze
The creature tilted her head and chattered unseen teeth in a mimic of a giggle. Its body and face was hidden from view by a high-collared red cloak and large, floppy hat that had seen better days, littered with holes and ragged edges. All he could see were her legs, if he could even call them such. They were more like blades, dully glinting, narrow shafts of bode with a dreadly edge and point, melding with exposed meat and sinew until they disappeared beneath the cloak, One yellow orb stared at him beneath the brims shadow.
She floated close. This voidsent’s movement was comparable to dandelion fluff, ever floating and gliding gently to her next destination. He might have believed her delicate on sight alone, if every piece of evidence did not promise the contrary. As much as the faint glimmer of that soul frustrated and calmed him in equal measures, Emet-Selch knew he had to remain calm.
Hand emerged from beneath the cloak. Grotesque and baroque in equal measures, the finest and sharpest claws he had seen in decades, decorated with gold and pearls, fused onto stumps of grey-ish, emaciated looking fingers, one digit clearly missing while he had the sense there were no bones to speak of with how disgustingly fluidly the hands moved. Curiously tapping the ball of air, she flinched and let out a laugh of amusement and surprise. Disgust rolled over in his stomach. She still sounded so human.
“Can you feel it? Plenty to sate that ceaseless appetite with. You will never know hunger again…” Emet-Selch let his natural voice slip into Solus’s chords. Hoping, in some small way, a small part of her would recognize him. Cause the voidsent to accept his contract without hesitation.
Those claws almost encompassed his aether, tips grazing the surface of the bounty she offered him. His golden eyes stayed glued to her hands, seeing how close they were to grabbing his own.
And yet, they never did. The voidsent tucked her hands beneath his, and in a movement that felt too kind and gentle for a creature with such vicious claws and stained with blood to make, made him curl his fit closed, snuffing out his offering. One of those claws stroked his knuckles, a mockingly familiar action as she danced backwards to the portal he had ripped her through.
“Wait! Why?! I can give you all you need!” He screamed, forcing his legs to steel so he did not foolishly chase where this body would perish. Just as she was about to slip through, she turned to look at him. Though there was no sound of teeth, he heard whispers on the back of his skull.
“Don’t make promises no one has ever been able to keep before.”
And with that warning she was gone. Solus was pactless. Emet-selch incensed.
-
“Do you think they’ll sing the tales I make of you forever, my friend?”
“Gods, I hope not. Not to say anything bad about your music, of course.” Halditar groaned at the idea alone, chair squeaking for mercy as her whole weight sank into it. The Wandering Minstrel just laughed, the tuning of his harp his preferred pastime of the hour while Haldi twirled her drumstick in wait to join him for a concert.
“Of course, none taken. May I ask why?” the Minstrel inquired. With such confidence it sounded she answered as if she had heard this question prosed in several lifetimes.
“Stories change the more they are told. If they go on forever who fucking knows what they’ll become! Best they end when people grow tired of them, I’d despise if time distorted the truth,” she fingers tapped along the stick, weaving a rhythm only she was following. Fitting as one that walked only to the beat of their own drum. “Plus there's a saying that while you can think of the dead, you should speak of them too much, making their soul restless. If I was talked about forever I dread to think how that would impact my soul.”
“Pragmatic as ever, our dear Warrior of Light! Personally, I would revel to have such a spotlight cast upon my very being.”
The quips between minstrel and bard were thrown to and fro, teasing and ribbing light until the show began. And though they disagreed on if it would be good or not for a song to last forever, both found a strange comfort in the sense of being temporary, to some degree. Freed from time, to have new beginnings.
Two wooden platters slid onto the table off the waitress’ arms, lightly sloshing the contents of the various glasses placed upon them. A flight of short glasses, just enough to savor the flavors and depths of each drink, without imparting too much alcohol into the system yet. Some looked deceptively simple, familiar amber liquids akin to that which was served back in Eorzea, contrasted with that which seemed more like harmless fruit juice, and that which was clearly unique to Tural with layers of color reminiscent of the golden sunrise upon the dark sea.
“Thank ya kindly!” Halditar nodded to the waitress, who bid them call her should they need anything else. Something sure to happen, if the past few days of exploring the bars dotted all along the beach was any sort of reference point. “So, which shall we try first?”
“I would say I’m most partial to the drink with crushed ice, ere it melts in the building heat…” Urianger fanned himself with a paper hand fan, sweat already collecting on his exposed arms and shoulders, still white cast from the sunscreen his drinking pal had forced him to apply, else the red already starting to blossom across his complexion would only get worse.
“Aye, cheers then, friend!” she held to him his glass, and the rims linked together, sending small chips of ice cascaded down their fingers before tilting the bottom of the glass up.
The first thing that coated Halditar’s tongue was a creamy, thick coconut liquor. Soft, and the perfect base for the dancing notes that followed. A sharp zap of lime that made the smooth comfort of coconut become a tropical, nearly spicy burn over taken by a funk that was like drinking swill that happened to hit the spot. All washed over and finishing with a natural sweetness only nature could provide, no sugars or syrups added to amplify the flavor. Not an ounce of artificiality to be found as she swished the smooth liquid in her mouth, feeling lime pulp snag between her teeth before gulping.
“Fuck, that’s nice,” she groaned, tilting the glass again to chew on some of the ice. “Calling it a punch is misleading, but they can call it whatever they damn well please if it’s that good. I might need to push to know who they buy their fruit from so I can snag some myself.”
“Agreed, beyond being the perfect representation of the idea of the New World, its quality far surpasses any other coconut drink we’ve had so far. They made it the canvas, not the main event, as it should be.” As usual, the Elezen offered a far more articulate analysis than Halditar was one to give, at least while still sober. His long, limber fingers trailed to the next drink. A pastel orange-pink mixture with a frothy head and accompanying lime piece. “This one is made of mezcal, and I have not heard much from other patrons other than it being ‘surprising…’”
“Let’s hope it's a good surprise then,” she offered silent cheers to whatever gods that listened that such would be the case before downing it.
If the previous drink gave the illusion of spice through zest, this one showed her what a properly hot drink was like. A sweet note of prickly pear and floral notes pulled her into a false sense of security before her throat and mouth were assaulted by mezcal’s signature burn of smoke and acid, but with the citrus it rounded off the sharp edges into something that still contained a hint of sweet. A chill ran through her in delight, holding onto the liquid as long as she could endure before the overwhelming senses forced her to swallow.
“I feel bad I didn’t go sipping and just demolished the poor sucker, there’s some complexity to that one. And it’s made with cheap mezcal too, which is even better in my mind.” she coughed, getting the smoky taste out of her system and Urianger swirled the drink with a look of distrust. They had found quick mezcal was not his favorite thing, Elezen palette just a touch too delicate to find any joy in the harsher liquors where the whole appeal was the burn. But together they were determined to sample every drink together, so he did.
As expected, his lips did curl a touch in disgust, but he chipped away at the drink with the aid of water sips every so often. After knowing the profile, that such a feminine drink contained such harsh flavors made its status as ‘surprising’ understandable, and looking around why it seemed most popular with those that hailed from Solution Nine. They were more open-minded to things that tasted far different than they looked.
“The fruit flavors were indeed impressive. Perhaps another take with a finer mezcal could be noteworthy.” Halditar couldn’t help but chuckle at Urianger’s verdict. It was clear that was the only compliment he would give it as he quickly moved on to the next glass to wash it all away. It was the one with a multi-color layer. The most exciting looking of the bunch, and perhaps the most exciting flavored. As the roe watched her companion go wide-eyes, and take the drink in a single go. A rarity, as Urianger was determined to savor every order, no matter how nice. This was something special, clearly.
She couldn’t wait to hear his verdict, taking her own cup and drinking carefully, refusing to shotgun this one. Despite how much she wanted to upon feeling the chill of mint dance between her lips and kiss her tongue. It was balanced bliss in a chilled (though now somewhat warmed) glass, layered so each sip was an experience. A little extra sweet to brighten the earthy flavors of tea and truly enhance the taste of vanilla and spices. And rum, oh sweet, wonderful rum. For how much she enjoyed mezcal, rum was a mistress of Halditar so missed from Eorzea. It was here, but it was not nearly as popular, and that which lacked the aged, historic barrel flavor from those across the salt. But this one, who needed no aging due to being over proofed and tasting wonderful as it danced with lemon because of it? Tural instantly felt like home now.
“Sweet Nymia, has definitely been one of the best ones yet. Might even be my favorite…” Halditar, licked her lips, savoring the lingering kiss of flavor she sampled.
“It is in my top three so far, for certain.” Urianger nodded.
“Shall we order a full size? Just to make sure?”
“It doesn’t hurt to be thorough in research.”
Come nightfall, watching stars slowly fade into the growing black expanse above, both were laughing and chattering with piled up glasses and bottles in hand. They had been cut off some time ago, but kept the gil flowing with light meals so there was no chance to lose their spot at the open-air bars edge. Their faces were flush and voices surprisingly so for two drunks, but perhaps that was only natural when two softer souls were inebriated, gates removed.
-
“... And I could not help but think, ‘If ye doth have the foresight to predict an enemies movements day, even weeks in advance, how could ye not think the first reaction of another chocobo to seeing her egg is missing would be to gather her fellow mesters and hunt the dead meat which took?’” Urianger’s laugh was slow and light, more a giggle as he wiped tears from his eyes recounting the story and hearing Halditar laugh in turn. Gods, what wonderful dirt to tease Thancred with. Not herself of course, stories to impart on to Ryne, which still gave the Roe similar such joy. “Truly, he looked no different from the muddy patch once they finished trampling and pecking him. I believe they stole his shoes and coat for good measure.”
“Poor Thancred, I envy his tailor though. I have never met a man with such bad luck in the way of losing clothes in my life!” She tried to sip from her bottle, but found it empty. With a shrug, she set it amongst the rest, their table filled to the brim. Around them the tables and crowds were starting to thin, her vision slow to follow how quick her head turned. She curled her toes and shifted her limbs. A bit heavy, but she would just need to avoid steps and she would walk fine.
“We ought to head out, rest up for our next outing in a few days. That fancy place near the palace.”
“Of course, my friend, of… course…” Urianger made to get up, sitting tall and shifting his weight. But nothing followed. Again, Halditar could hear the legs against the wooden floor, but the Elezen did not move from his spot. His brow furrowed, Halditar could only compare the expression to a dog thinking after he caught his own tail, unsure what to do. Before an embarrassed grin dressed his features. “I seem to be unable to move my legs!”
“Ha! I warned you to drink more water with your cups, lad!” Halditar laughed. Oh, what a familiar sight, the fate of many young sailors that dove into grog a bit too eagerly and ended up needing to be dragged back to the ships. She was sure if she did the same with a man as tall as Urianger it would have been a sight, but she was kinder than that. She rose to her own feet and made her way to his side, taking his lanky arm and throwing it over her shoulder. “Good thing you have a mount jost as reliable as any chocobo tonight, friend. I’ll even sweeten the deal by promising not to steal your shoes!”
“How very kind you, my noble steed.” Both were laughing as they made their way out of the bar, the staff thanking them deeply for their orders and generous tips, and service to Tural these past weeks. The night time air chilled their flushed skin and provided a perfect path of moonlight to follow back to their cabins upon the pier. Their words were lost in the wind, as the heat and touch between their bodies felt familiar. A bond she never thought she would have with another.
“I'm happy I get to be here with you and everyone. And I’m happy you’re here, Urianger, everyone is.” Halditar stumbled as the words slipped out, unable to stop them as they came to mind. It was tender, and perhaps sappy, but it needed to be said.
“And I am grateful for every moment we’ve gotten to learn about each other, kind knight,” he spoke the last words in her mother tongue, emphasizing just how seriously he meant those words. The form was proper, clearly from learning the language as an archon over speaking it as it was meant, but it was special nonetheless. Just another layer to the warm bond they shared to no alcohol could dull or twist their sense of.
I have a question for the very small niche of people that are knowledgeable enough on both of these subjects to answer my question.
Is the Warhammer universe relatively comparable to the Warrior Cats universe in regard to their creation history, some concepts, and lore mostly being found in the form of book?
Cuz like, from an outsider perspective on both, they are both popular pieces of media that can take up and become a pillar of someone’s interests and personality. With very extensive lore, again, found mostly in books.
Like the main difference to me just seems to be Games Workshop has a better grasp of quality control on its products than Warrior Cats does.
Weapon of Heart - FFXIV Write 2024 - Day 22: Gift (Free Day)
Ao3
Feat. DarrenXirias' Warrior of Light
-
Darren truly should have expected things not to go so easily.
Perhaps it was natural he would feel some overconfidence, the shores of Yanxia were so close to his homeland, after all. He and his hunt partner both were more than familiar with these hills and beaches with their many adventures and travels, from the hunt for the great Byakko to ensuring the Namazu’s antics were sufficiently in-hand. And how far beyond these lands he had done, becoming stronger the despair that dared to engulf the world itself.
Maybe it hadn’t even been the faint whispers of overconfidence that crept in when they had accepted the mission. Perhaps it was just a mistake. Something none of them could control, the force ever unseen but always felt out of hand. The red string of fate that unknowingly tugged them all along their uncharted course. His woven around his neck, and the fangs of the beast above him. Sparks flew in his face as his sword arm struggled to hold the beast at bay from the ground, those teeth sharper than steel. Hayabusa was screeching from somewhere, no doubt ripping into the beast best she could to get it to yield. Moonlight was singing shrilly, trying her best to ease the bleeding from his legs and gut but it felt useless. How the monster’s breath was hot on his face, the smell of iron sharp and fresh, red dripping from the tongue.
“No!”
The shout was followed by a swear in a language he never heard, and a flash of light. A feeling of aether washed over his face, cool and quick as he could suddenly heave in a breath, Angada’s weight forced off his chest. The beast's face contorted into pain, a scream ripped out and cut shout at the thin, arrow-like nouliths that had slammed into the side of its head pierced flesh and bone. What followed was too quick to see. Darren only felt blood splash across his face and heard a scream cut short but a loud mechanical beep. Heat blossomed to his right where the monster tumbled, the sound of an explosion made his ears ring as the sound of gore of pebbles hitting the earth echoed up the mountain side.
“Darren, are you all right?!” Halditar skidded in from the left, kicking up dust as she switched to another job in a flash, the robes of a white mage not too dissimilar from her usual sage attire. Darren felt a wave of relief and energy flow into him from the crystal-topped staff as it glowed in her hand, enough that his heart slowed and it had hardly felt like he was face to face with death seconds earlier.
“I am now. I can’t believe you battered it to death with your milpreves like that, how very ‘healerly’ of you.” he joked with a relieved sigh just before being tackled by a very thankful Hayabusa and Moonlight, buried under both bird’s fluffy feathers. Halditar couldn’t resist laughing herself, adrenaline and panic becoming a joyous thrill in the aftermath.
“What can I say, I’ve been called a few ‘resourceful’ magic users for many reasons. Including learning if you’re in a hurry, anything will die if you just whack it hard enough, no matter the weapon.” She recalled, choosing to phrase it as a compliment rather than the insult it had clearly been thrown at her as.
The smell of burning flesh and aetheric fire drew her eyes away from Darren. All that remained of Angada’s head was a thin strip of jaw attached by sinew and charred muscle. Blood flowed from the neck stump into the dirt as a small river, watering the land with its death. The odor of rot and death would come soon, but for now they were spared by the sharper scent of pure aether heat in its most distilled form, no smoke or wood, just the fire, bright and chemical. She wandered near until her boot hit something that gave off a tinny, metal ‘chink’ beneath her book. “Gods, damn it…”
“What’s wrong?” Darren pushed the affectionate birds off himself and looked to Halditar, hand going to his blade in case it was another foe approaching. All he could see was the roegadyn holding a chunk of crumpled, burnt metal that sparked with loose aetheric energy. His eyes were wide, “Those are your… Oh kami, Halditar, I’m so sorry-”
“Hey now, none of that shite.” She put a stop to it before the samurai could start, reaching up and ruffling his hair playfully and giving that wide, carefree grin that held so much weight given all she had gone through. “I’d blow up a million more of my milpreves with a point-blank toxicon if it promised me you’d be safe. And it’s nothing some gathering and time won’t fix.”
Darren was not convinced. Perhaps it was natural, given how the samurai and all of Doma treated their weapons and tools, especially the ones that sung to you, turned each action of your beloved job or craft into a dance. It was no stretch to say the weapon was the heart of a warrior, another way to see the soul. And one of the strongest he knew happily gave up her own to save his life… Hells, it was even more so since they were both crafters. The materials were disgustingly expensive and their weapons had been tuned specifically for themselves, by themselves. Taking into account their weaknesses and flaws, the journey and time it took to craft each piece and aspect that would make the weapon their own. It had more than their spirit of adventure and fighting, but their love to make and respect for the craft.
Darren looked up into Halditar’s eyes. Behind the glass those eyes were kind as ever, promising she meant her words. And while he did accept them, it didn’t stop some small part of him from feeling a guilt eat at him. Knowing she would feel the same way if something similar occurred with Summer Storm. It wouldn’t have been hard to believe she would do all she could to help him repair-
His eyes lit up. Of course, the answer was quite simple. While he had never made a sage’s armaments before, it would hurt to try. He relented, offering a weak smile as he was already scheming in the back of his mind. “Why don’t we stop early then and make our ways back to the hunt master and collect our reward. I’m sure we’re due for some complimentary sake for the close call today.”
“Ooh, I’d never say no to free drinks!” Halditar was quick to hitch onto Moondrop. Dorren could almost laugh at the eagerness of the roe when it came to any mention of alcohol. He joined her alongside Hayabusa, quieter than usual as he worked out the schematics of a yet to form weapon in his brain…
-
The first part was obvious; actually learn how to make nouliths in the first place. It was moments like this Darren could not be more grateful for his connections. While reading about the construction from Sharlayan tomes would have been effective, if not time consuming with the jargon, he found it easier to get his answers straight from the chocobo’s beak. Or in this case, some friend’s experience.
“You need to learn to make a sage’s arms, and which would be best to make for Halditar? Hmm…” Alphinaud and Fourchenault were happy (more so in the younger’s case) to hear out his request for information. The younger boy offered a smile to the samurai, “I think that’s a wonderful idea. I don’t believe she’s started yet, being swamped with requests from the weavers guild of late, so you should have plenty of time to whip something up before she does.”
Darren nearly felt the relief roll off his shoulder. The time it would take had been his main concern, the roe worked maddeningly fast when she finally got the hang of something. If she hadn’t even had the time to chart out the design, that gave him quite the buffer to work with. Though, Fourchenault was quick to temper any hopes for rising too quick.
“‘Wonderful,’ but perhaps a bit ambitious. Sage’s arms are considered some of the most difficult magical instruments to craft, both due to their size, properties, and the sheer variety. Especially when trying to construct one of extremely high quality. A single mistake, which is very easy to make I promise you, guarantee throwing away hours and thousands of gil worth of material,” the Forum members tone was as dry and serious as ever, only adding to the warning he tried to impart unto the Doman. “I would advise you to consider commissioning an artisan instead. It would save you a great amount of headache.”
“Your concern is appreciated, but I feel I simply cannot take that path,” Darren said and pounded his chest, a habit picked up from the other smiths in Limsa when expressing their pride and stubbornness in equal measures. “Her weapons were destroyed in a bid to protect me. Had she bought them, or I had no experience with metal work I may have considered that an option. But her milpreves were made of the highest quality and for what she gave up I will not expect anything less myself. Besides,”
He smiled wide, the weight of the hammer in his crafter’s garb heavy with the want for work, “A craft that precise and requires subtly sounds like a wonderful challenge for a blacksmith. Something to really test my limits.”
The elder Leveilleur failed to hide a sigh that came through his nose, his exasperation at the stubbornness of his child’s associates seemingly knowing no bounds. Alphinaud, by contrast, was bright eyed and inspired by the Doman’s honor.
“Then best we tell you what you need to know, and quickly.” With that a wave of his hands those familiar, narrow wings Alpinaud wielded into battle flew off his back and before Darren, letting him carefully observe and touch them with the intimacy of a smith.
Both sages gave him an excellent crash course on the nature of the weapon, so graciously skipping the history lesson for his purposes an opting for a summary; all sage arms were made from a stone that possessed high aetheric conductivity in a metal chassis that while decorative, was there for the purpose of helping the stones focus the confluence of aether and manifest the correct arcanima and somanoutic spells with minimal delay. While amulets and canes were options, for versatility the use of aether propelled apparati were now the most popular form these carefully constructed foci took.
He tried to imagine if Halditar knew all this, or could even repeat it to him in her own way… All things considered, he truly doubted it. This all sounded like the ‘prim’ way to do things, something that a sage that rammed her weapon’s directly into her enemies wouldn’t do. He wasn’t over his head yet, however, and still had plenty of questions to ask.
“What style do you think would be best for me to make then? Compared to other weapons I’ve studied, Sage’s seem to vary wildly yet function all the same.” He asked.
“That depends entirely on the Sage in question. Some swear by the more archaic milpreves due to the stronger mental connection supposedly, where I was more fond of the wing style for the sheer aetheric output and speed, as you can see from the pair Alphinaud inherited.” Fourchenault began, speaking as a man that had clearly done a lot of shopping before settling on his own pair. “From what I’ve been told, a style of wings may be best since she’s fond of keeping up on damage, and they certainly don’t falter in that regard.”
“I’d agree, were it not for the fact she’s always on the front line.” Alphinaud interjected, hand to chin in thought. “Wings are best used from a distance for their travel speed. With her being close by both foe and friend, the time it would take for a nearby wing to properly target itself would only be a bane… Ah!”
Alphinaud struck his fist into his palm, a moment of eureka practically seen shining above his head. “You could try lancets! They are much more blade-like so they should be more familiar for you to craft. They boast the same general principle as wings, but with the express purpose of being made for frontline fighters that need to apply medical aid quickly.”
“That sounds like exactly what I need.” Darren was grinning now. What he was searching for had a name, and materials he could start looking for. Slowly, the amorphous idea began to take shape in his head. He spoke longer with the two Elezen men to ensure he was getting his details right, before rushing off to find the nearest merchant he could bargain with.
-
“Llymlaen’s tits, I haven’t seen you make this much scrap since you waltzed into the guild like a kicked puppy.” Brithael’s voice broke Darren's concentration. Likely for the better, as he could feel his hammer hand shaking with an exhaustion that struck once every blue moon. His precision was shot, that much he could tell, meaning the untempered crystal before him would have been reduced to shards before he even made it to the furnace.
“At least it ain’t your metal I’m making scrap.” He shot back. Gods, his voice was all dust and gravel, dried by the past few days pounding away at the anvil and worktable with hammers and pliers of all shapes and sizes. There was no other choice, for the sake of sparing his dwindling supplies, he needed a break until he was in a right enough state to work with it again. Who knew when that would be, seeing as it had already been six days with no satisfactory set of lancets to show for it.
“No sir, and I thank the Twelves every fucking day you’ve since stopped moocing off the guild’s store house,” the Limsan hyur joked, following him to one of the benches shoved in the back corner of the private smithing room. The wood creaked as the settled, and Darren felt a flask shoved in his hand. He truly should have asked before sipping, but mercifully found it was only water to quench his now-noticed thirst
“So what is all this crap for anyways? Seems like goldsmith business.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me. Serendipity has been on my ass since I told her about this project and that I was putting my own ‘take’ on it…” he groaned, already hearing the pink-haired guildmaster’s voice echoing in his ears. Trying to block it out, he informed Brithael of his mission, and his plight. “Not a single one has been worthy, Brit, not one. I’ve done work on weapons deemed ‘unrepairable’ or made with materials said to be lost to time. And I can’t even forge a simple gift for a friend who destroyed her weapons, the heart of her warrior’s drive, to replace what she gave to help me…”
Brithael’s response took no time. It came not as words, or a pat upon the shoulder to comfort him. He responded to Darren with a quick, hard jab on the back of Darren’s head. A groan of pain wheezed from his chest as he held the back of his head on instinct, ears ringing from the shock as he could hear the forge master cursing at him for his stupidity.
“Ya blasted salt-licker, no wonder you’ve been fucking up in here all day! Had I known this was what had you moping I woulda’ come in here and beat the lessons you seemed to forgot back into ya! Hells, I guess nobody’s perfect but it pisses me off to see a smith like you fuck up on such a basic level.” The words didn’t cut as deep as the sudden blow did, but it did draw Darren to attention as he glared at the offending guildmaster, tired eyes still capable of a deadly glare.
“What are you on about? What lesson could I have forgotten?”
“The one that applies to everything from orders to gifts; the customer comes first,” A coal covered glove poked into his chest with every word, smearing a dark dot onto his smithing apron. “You’ve been in here thinking about the way you think about weapons, not how Haldi does. Of course your work is going to be garbage, you’re making healer arms for yourself and you’re the last person I’d trust with some magic sticks!”
Insults aside, a realization dawned upon Darren that there was a kernel of truth in Brithael’s words. In his rush to get materials and plan his schematics, figure out what Halditar needed, he had not taken the time to consider what she would want in a gift of lancets. Her own philosophy of weapon, why she thought. Brithael’s words faded. The sweltering heat of the furnace dimmed. The orange glow of the sunset and flames that filled the smithy darkened as he closed his eyes to ponder that question.
How did Halditar fight? What was it for, beyond herself, beyond her role as an adventurer? Did Darren even have a close enough bond with her to know the ideals of one of the few that could rival him?
“I’d blow up a million more of my milpreves with a point-blank toxicon if it promised me you’d be safe.”
Darren’s eyes snapped open. The faint headache, the shake in his arms faded, as he drew himself up onto legs whose ache faded in a moment of zen. He didn’t hear the bustle of the city beyond the stone ‘windows’ nor the chatter of his fellow smiths. Just the waves far below and his hammer on crystal on metal as he set to work, making adjustments to his schematics on the fly. A dangerous decision, but one he was confident he could make. No longer was he guided by a recipe and steps in his head, an abstract idea of what he should make his friend. He could see it. A weapon that fit a roe with a heart forged by trials into gold, great help to all, and one that deserved his highest quality work.
Seeing his once student now in the zone, Brithael let him be, leaving with just a passing comment to clean up his mess before he rushed off to deliver his gift.
-
“Twelve, man, you look like crap.” Halditar couldn’t help but say with a grin when two familiar faces appeared at her door. Darren took the words like a champ, just chuckling and shrugging with a familiar, tired sway to his stance any crafter would recognize.
“What can I say, I wanted a challenge and I found one.” he stepped past her into the apartment, and Halditar stepped aside to let Ashe have more space to step in. She greeted the Bozjan with a firm hand-arm shake.
“And how’s my actual best friend?” she asked.
“Hey!” Darren shouted from the living room, feigning a tone of hurt. Ashe laughed, his ears tilt up in joy as his tail swished, full of energy.
“Well enough, better since I’ve been using the herb tea you suggested for sleep. It’s kept quite a few witching hours at bay.”
“I’m glad to hear,” she nodded and followed him to the living room. Darren was already sitting in her recliner, leaning over to pet the bullpup Thistle on her chest, her tongue lolled out of her mouth in pure bliss. “Shall I make tea for everyone?”
“If you’d like, I can brew it. I actually brought over a little tea that’s best served iced. Much… easier, on a cat’s tongue. Assuming you do not mind me perusing your kitchen.” Ashe offered.
“Knock yourself out, kettle and everything should be in plain sight. She instructed and collapsed on the couch near the Doman man. Ashe helped himself to the kitchen, chased by Thistle who caught sight of that swaying, furry tail and was eager to investigate. A chuckle escaped for a moment, silenced by a box being placed on the coffee table in front her. Her gaze traced the arms over to Darren, who sank back in the chair with a wide, tired grin. It was plain to see an excitement in his eyes, like a child that was just dying to open a present.
“What’s this?” She asked, flicking the box’s lid lightly, popping it up only a smidge.
“It’s what it looks like, a gift.”
“What for?”
“Open it, and find out.” Sensing she would get no further answers, she did as instructed. Tearing away tissue paper until a glint of metal and some type of marble gave her pause. She tilted her head, slowly, eyes widening and mouth falling open as she peeled away the final layer of paper keeping her from seeing the whole gift.
“Darren? Are these your work?!” She couldn't help but raise her voice, glee seeping in as she pulled out one of the lancets with a wide smile and held it to the light. “These are beautiful! I would have never thought to make something like this!”
She meant her words, beholding the practically divine looking weapon as she held it to the light. It was impossibly light, impressive considering it was made with a highly conductive marble streaked with red quartz rather than the faint black edges. It paired with the rose gold casing beautifully. Paired with the perfect materia slots and other decorative jewels and swoops of the metal to make it fashionable without sacrificing efficiency. Halditar felt she was holding an art piece and not a weapon.
“Is it good?” Darren’s voice couldn’t help but waver as he asked. After all, he had poured so much into trying to do right by her, and while it was high quality, he didn’t know if it would please her at all…
“Good? It’s great! Wonderful, even!”
All that worrying for nothing, as the redhead’s face was bright with joy. She couldn’t even wait, grabbing all the lancets and in seconds they were flying around the room, gliding and stopping on a dime, turning and glowing with bright connections that promised strong aetheric flow. It was like seeing a child play with a new toy, utterly enraptured by how they flew and hummed with power. “They’re smooth as butter, and the edge is sharp enough to where I can attack with these without worry. It has everything I need and more. Gods, Darren, I can’t thank ya enough.”
“It’s the least I could do, for a friend,” he promised. And in the back of his mind he promised it a hundred times over. For Halditar’s weapon was only a vessel for her heart, all the kindness and empathy she had to share through the way she shielded others. There were few other things a smith could be more proud to work on, a weapon of such a pure purpose as to express the owner’s being, capable of changing and being used to fulfill that goal by any means.
Reunited with weapons to match her perfectly, Halditar spoke with Darren until Ashe returned. The small moment of distraction in passing out tea gives enough time for the exhausted smith to pass out after several nights of smithing in a row. Neither minded though, letting the Doman enjoy his nap as they chatted away, warmth spreading from them all.
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