the seafoam roe 🤍

Fyrwyb Brynwyn The seafoam roegadyn. Urianger x WoL Occasionally NSFW Ahoy! Just threw together a quick spot to post all my gross shippy goodness. Also just my FFXIV character appreciation in general. ♡

[tobyfoxmademeascaly]

Given Urianger’s status as canonically Fucking Shredded I like to imagine some garlean trying to assassinate him in his potato sack era and they get him cornered without his grimoire and theyre like AHA I HAVE DEPRIVED THE SORCERER OF HIS TOOLS and then urianger rolls up his sleeve and clocks the guy’s lights clean out

[searyyn]

Mlem

[seafoam-roe]

That’s m’ girl. ✨

[anneapocalypse]

Together we shall overcome this.

Junelezen: Star / Wolianger Week: All To Bear

[fourteenthz]

late night rides or...... something like that...... ft. @turpalauri's ena

[tallbluelady]

She could only pray for their safe return and let the Soul Vessels do the rest...

[cogentsummoner]

separation anxiety

pairing: warrior of light/urianger augurelt/thancred waters rating: gen tags: abandonment issues word count: 1.5k summary:

Solkgeim isn't ready for things to go back to the way they were.

written for wolianger week 2026, day two: i miss you.

[otherstuffstuff]

{Wolianger Week 2026 Day 2 - I Miss You} 💌

[tallbluelady]

Good morrow, beloved.

[ixion-egi]

come back

pairing: warrior of light/urianger augurelt rating: gen tags: set in stormblood, autistic warrior of light, autistic urianger word count:1.5k summary:

Urianger sees the Scions off on their journey to Kugane… and has a worrying conversation with the Warrior of Light.

written for wolianger week 2026, day three: be safe.

[cogentsummoner]

a good night's rest

pairing: warrior of light/urianger augurelt rating: teen tags: pre-relationship, femroe warrior of light, autistic warrior of light, autistic urianger, sharing a bed, set in the stormblood patches word count: 1.9k summary:

Urianger can tell Solkgeim hasn't been sleeping, so he's not offended when she falls asleep when their conversation stretches on into the night. Instead, he offers her his bed- but her paranoia won't let her sleep alone.

written for wolianger week 2026, day one: good morning

[otherstuffstuff]

{Wolianger Week 2026 Day 1 - Good Morning} ☕

[caffeinated-moogle]

WoLianger Week Month | 1. Good Morning

// Post-ARR -> Not long after Keeper of the Lake

─────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆─────────

She wakes too slowly, at first—more slowly than usual.

It's dark.

Something smells pleasant.

She feels... sad.

Sad isn't the right word, of course. But she hasn't figured out the right word for the empty, gaping hole within that conjures itself anew each time she sleeps; and so she can only assume she must be sad, and that it's the sadness that now makes everything else hurt.

Wait, does- does everything else hurt?

The slow crawl of waking abruptly cedes to an onslaught of fleeting observations:

Her head rests against her arm. She's not in a bed. (That's not uncommon.) She can't recall falling to sleep. When was she last awake? Where was she last awake? She's in pain. (It's not just the sadness.) Why is she in pain? What hurts? Is she injured? Was she attacked? She listens, but- She can't hear. No. She hears her heartbeat. It's too loud. She's panicking. She must calm down. She must lift her head-

She can't move.

No. She can move, but she shouldn't. Not until she reconciles her last known whereabouts and her present circumstance. Not until she knows it's safe to move. She must be careful. She can't hear Hydaelyn anymore, and she's-

"Peace, Aeryn."

The voice that speaks is instantly known to her: Urianger.

She exhales. The breath is unexpectedly cool against her flushed skin.

If Urianger is with her, then-

"Thou art safe within the Sands—in the common room, to be precise. 'Twas but a short measure ago that thou didst unexpectedly succumb to a well-deserved slumber whilst working o'er thy journal."

Her racing heartbeat calms as the melodic poetry of his voice wafts over her, helping her understand. She'd drifted off in odd places before, of course—not least of all at this very table. She can feel the painful impression in her skin where her arm rests atop the pages of her open journal, no doubt smudging some scribble of little import.

Urianger is beside her.

There is no danger here. She's safe.

The scent of candle smoke, warm wax, and old books permeates the air, even within the dim shelter of the crook of her arm—and, too, a faint hint of spice, as there always has been in Vesper Bay, where the aroma of baking Ul'dahn sweet breads fills the air, heavy and mouth-watering in the still of morning, mingling with fresh coastal breezes in the afternoon.

Of course she's at the Waking Sands. Though its walls still occasionally reflect her Echo vision of the massacre here, its warmth and familiarity somehow overpower that loss with an inexplicable comfort—as does the presence of a friend here whose gently flowing words, she's come to realize, offer an equal sense of peace.

She curls her back tight with a quiet groan, working to stretch the aching muscles made stiff by her position, then slowly turns her head without lifting it. It's just enough to pull at a knot of pain in her neck, and it affords her a view—though somewhat bleary—of the man seated beside her.

He peers down at a book open before him, long, slender fingers hovering over its pages. He has folded back the sleeves of his robe and removed his gloves, which lay on the table nearby, casting shadows over the wood in the wake of flickering golden candlelight. She blinks and feels the dancing shadows are not unlike the dark line of damp sand left behind a retreating wave.

"And so it seemeth thou hast now, at last, escaped the realm of dreams," Urianger says.

His voice draws her gaze back to him. Though much of his face is, as ever, veiled beneath the shadow of his hood and the red lenses of his goggles, she likes the way the glowing light and the curve of his smile shift his few visible features.

"A fair morning to thee, Aeryn."

"Is- is it morning?" Her voice emerges raspy with disuse, and she swallows.

"Nay, gentle warrior," Urianger replies. "Mine apologies. 'Twas in jest I didst speak, regrettably at thine expense, for the hour of thy waking seemed of some notable amusement."

He pauses with a contemplative hum, gazing down into the palm of one hand.

"'Twould seem keeping company with a compatriot long-estranged hath elicited some manner of odd influence o'er me. Strange…" he mutters. He then clears his throat and looks her way. "It was not mine intent, nor ever shall it be, to discomfit thee. Forgive me."

He gives a small, elegant bow; and because she can summon no words to form a reply, she nods.

It's enough.

Her wordless responses have always been enough, with him.

"As to the hour," Urianger continues, "though dawn's approach be nearer than not, she shall yet sleep for some bells more… as might present company, if thou shouldst desire."

Aeryn wonders if she could drift away again. Though exhaustion weighs heavily upon her, she rarely finds sleep amenable to her seeking it—least of all in this moment, when the manner of her waking has left her mind and body especially restless.

Her eyes drift back to Urianger's gloves, then to the candle beyond them. Its flame casts waves of flickering light and shadow, ever in flux, across all it touches. She wonders why she had thought them similar to waves and wet sand. She wonders-

The dull pain in her center returns with a swift, cold surge, and she curls her back tight against it. It hurts. It hurts so much, this loss of whatever once filled the gaping caverns within, the sensation of being raw and battered on the shore each time she wakes, wondering what she's dreamed of, what memories linger in the ebb and flow of tides of sleep.

An empty and agonizing unknown.

She wants to reach for Urianger's sleeve, as she has done now some dozen times before—to furl her fingers in the soft folds of warm fabric and glean from that meager nearness all the stability and calm that he evokes with both his presence and his words. But his sleeves are turned back, his focus on his tome, and she doesn't wish to trouble him.

She squints her eyes and bears it in silence until the pain once more settles, leaving behind its signature sadness (that isn't quite sadness). Her shoulders sag. She sighs.

"Ere thou drifteth," Urianger murmurs, "would not a more suitable place of slumber be of preferable comfort?"

She should, she supposes, retire to a room. Seek a soft bed, a warm blanket in which to nestle. But she can't summon the will to stir, because…

Because she doesn't want to.

Though warmer, cozier surrounds would surely beget a more restful sleep, she knows it can do nothing to combat the cold emptiness within. She doesn't want to be alone, and-

Understanding comes to her as a slight tingling sensation at the nape of her neck.

She doesn't want to be alone.

Has she- has she felt that before?

"Aeryn?"

She doesn't want to leave. It's warm enough here. The scents are comforting. The company is-

She wonders when Urianger came to sit beside her.

"Can-" she whispers, then half chokes on her next words before she can utter them. But Urianger doesn't rush her. He is quiet, patient, and still—waiting. She clears her throat and tries again. "C-can I- maybe… stay?"

"Thou art ever free to act in accordance with thy will, dawn bringer," he replies.

Am I? she wonders.

"Though a sounder repose may doubtless be sought elsewhere, shouldst thou truly wish to remain, I would be most glad for the gift of thy company."

Both she and the empty unknown within shudder, and she doesn't know why.

"Might I impose upon thee to allow a recitation of what words I, at present, mean to examine? The hour being late, that it might conspire to steal away with what secrets may be found within this text is assured. Yet betwixt we two, I am certain, we may avert the night's thievery and find what elusive knowledge may be gleaned in yon pages, together."

Aeryn nods, eliciting another pleasant smile from him.

"I am in your debt, gentle warrior."

You're not, she thinks, closing her eyes. She has agreed to this selfishly, knowing it will afford her another precious opportunity to slip away beneath the uniquely calming cadence of his mystical poetry.

Though his tone is pleasant and his words carefully measured, she can't quite follow all he reads regarding surveys on the nature of unaspected aether and its myriad uses. From beneath the fog of her weariness, the complexities of each observation swiftly muddle like ink smudges. Urianger murmurs something about Moenbryda's studies, about Ascians and primals; and though she tries to bring the words into focus, the warmth in the air and the soothing sound of his voice lulls her all too quickly toward inattentive thoughtlessness.

Her breath slows. She lapses in and out of awareness. She must be quite near to sleep again when Urianger's recitations cease. The silence lifts her from near-slumber, affording her a moment of clarity, enough so that she feels the air stir when Urianger rests his hand upon the table, surprisingly close to hers.

"Would that I might do more to aid thine efforts than merely pore over tomes and steward these halls. Yet that thou shouldst return again and again to this place in search of rest…" he trails off, and all is still for one breath, and another, and then-

"Doubtless it must seem to the contrary, when our every request draweth thee nearer unto ever more dire foes and such unfathomable dangers, but… we do care for thee; and we can but wish thee safe." His voice wavers at the last.

Aeryn's eyes spring open. The candle has burned much lower than she'd expected, emitting little more than a soft orange glow. Urianger's head is bowed, his hood blocking her from his view. He- he must think she's asleep.

"Though I can offer no promise of safety, I can but offer this: with steadfast devotion shall I assure thy rest go undisturbed, for as long as thou shouldst seek for it within these walls. Though such aid remaineth laughably meager, I nonetheless am heartened to offer freely of it to one who-"

He stops.

He stops, she thinks, because she has stretched the very few ilms it took to touch his hand with hers. He looks down to where their skin meets, the pads of her fingers just barely pressed to his small finger.

The fading candlelight glints across his goggles as he raises his attention to her.

Aeryn sucks in a breath, half-strangled, and draws her hand away. She twists her face back into the safety and shadow of her arm, curling her back tight—so tight. There erupts from the emptiness within a vortex of far, far too many sensations: myriad feelings interwoven like tangled yarn, such that she can't seem to pick apart the ones she's come to recognize from the ones that remain undefined.

She can't make any sense of it. She knows she couldn't bear to hear him speak of her any further—and she knows she wishes now that he would speak of anything else, if only so she can find peace once more in his soothing tone.

She- she doesn't know why she reached for him.

His skin was colder than she expected.

"Forgive me," he says quietly. "I had hoped not to wake thee."

Aeryn can think of nothing to say in return.

After a lengthy pause, Urianger resumes his reading. He continues without interruption, and his voice is still a wash of low, velvet calm when she finally, finally drifts back to sleep.

⋆────⋆

When she wakes to a proper morning some bells later, the candle has long since been snuffed. Urianger and his tome are gone. But his cowl is draped over her shoulders, like a shawl. The flood of feelings tangled in her center come alive at once, no more easily discernible for the daylight.

She folds his cowl over the back of the chair beside her own, then departs for the Rising Stones and the next mission.

The scent of candle wax and spice accompanies her.

─────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆─────────

[seafoam-roe]

Wolianger Week: Pray Return word count: 1045

Fyrwyb’s seafoam hair glistens under the dimmed lights of her cozy room in the Annex as she runs a fine bristled brush through it. A soft breeze ruffles the curtains of a nearby window, wafting past her nose; the smell of salty, fresh air fills her lungs. She smiles fondly and lays her brush down before standing and walking the few steps to the large table in the middle of the room. Her favorite lounging robe had been laundered earlier in the day, and was left neatly folded among other articles of her clothing that she’d since put away before her bath. She scoops it up and admires the fine silk, like she does every time she wears it. It had been a gift from the people of Yanxia after she had helped rid them of the Imperials. To slip it on every night was one more reminder why she continued to fight. Though she hoped she wouldn’t have to finish any more fights any time soon.

The final battle with Zenos had taken a toll that Fyrwyb couldn’t say she hadn’t expected. Her role as the Warrior of Light was an impressive one, but she was still only a woman. She knew that eventually, there would come a fight she might not walk away from. And she nearly hadn’t. The memory of waking up on the Ragnarok played back in her head at least once a day since returning to Sharlayan. She hugs herself as she recalls, squeezing her arms gently.

”Fyrwyb, mine heart. P-Prithee, mine dearest. The stars would wax dim in thine absence. Pray…thou must awaken. Thou must return to me. Thou MUST."

Urianger’s broken sobs had been the sounds that lead her home. He was the only reason she was not lost to the void.

She blinks and slowly comes back from the memory. It has been many moons since then. The roegadyn woman—well recovered—was becoming ever so antsy to return to some kind of work. Even if it were just to bury a trowel in a garden bed. Gods, did she miss her garden.

Knock Knock

The sudden sound startles Fyrwyb—she was still a touch jumpy, even with the realm declared safe once again. Oftentimes she wonders if anyone could ever really claim to be safe. But she tries not to get lost in such dismal things, especially now.

“Twelve willing, I’ll be around a few more decades yet,” she snorts to herself as she strolls over to the door, pulling her robe on and fastening it in the front. When she swings the door open, she is pleasantly surprised to see a familiar face framed by silvery hair.

“O-oh! Urianger. I wasn’t expectin’ ye t’be back so soon,” she grins. The elezen stands before her with a rather large brown paper bag. From the smells that fill the air between them, she suspects it is her favorites from the Last Stand. They always kept her preferred meal on hand.

“Apologies, mine heart. Dost thou require more time in the bath? Twould be no trouble to excuse myself a while longer.”

Urianger’s tone was gentle and full of concern as he peaks in around the door. Fyrwyb wraps her fingers around the bend of his bejeweled elbow and ushers him in. The door closes gently behind them.

“Nonsense, love. I told ye, I’m doin’ much better now. Ye don’t have t' fret so much. Shtola and Alphi have been takin’ great care o’ me.”

A small huff escapes the elezen, much to Fyrwyb’s surprise. She hides her grin and walks him to the table, listening to the sound of his jeweled skirt sway with his steps. Something about the way the beading and metal adornments clink together soothes her.

“I doubt not the abilities of our companions. I desire naught but to grant thee the time thou requirest to fully recover. In both mind and body. Twould be selfish to consider naught else.”

As he speaks, he unpacks the paper bag on the table. It was indeed a full spread of all Fyrwyb’s favorites. Veggie dumplings, pastries loaded with fresh berries, a full La Noscean supper, and even a bottle of red wine.

“Mm, suspicious. I don’t know a soul workin’ in the Stand who would send wine t’ my room after that incident with Estinien,” she says, lifting the bottle by the neck to examine the label.

“Estinien?” Urianger freezes with a raised brow, his half grin the only indication of his amusement and curiosity. “Thou shouldst enlighten me. Tis the first I have heard of such.”

“Well, really, it was Estinien’s fault. He knew not t’ let me indulge overly much. I think he did it on purpose,” Fyrwyb states, her voice heavy with accusation. Urianger only shakes his head and chuckles.

“Our dragoon companion doth oft seek entertainment in thy vexations. Would that thee might refrain from pushing back."

Fyrwyb sighs, an exaggerated sound.

"All the time I spent wishing for an older brother and I s'pose I finally got one."

She places the bottle of wine back on the table and crosses her arms over her chest, eyeing Urianger. He busies himself with fixing her a small plate but she's completely uninterested. She watches his arms and the way his jaw flexes when he notices she's watching so closely.

"Is aught amiss?"

After a moment, his motions slow and he meets her eyes now. Fyrwyb, much to her dismay, is reliving that same memory again. Behind her eyes is a shadow of him leaning over her, expelling aether recklessly for her. She shakes her head.

"'Pray return'. That's what ye said t' me. Over and over."

He swallows as he too relives the moment.

"And thou returned to me."

Fyrwyb forces a smile, but her lip trembles. Urianger abandons his task and wraps Fyrwyb up in an embrace that threatens to bruise her ribs again. Her arms fall easily around his neck.

"Worry not, my dearest, mine heart. Tis over and done and I vow naught shall harm thee, so long as I remaineth at thy side."

He pets the back of her head and the two sit in the quiet of the room. Thankful to have one another, hale and whole.

[seafoam-roe]

Wolianger Week: Be Safe

Fyrwyb and Urianger stand so closely together, their breath mixes between them. Neither of them concede to the kiss that so desperately hangs there in that space, just waiting to happen. Fyrwyb smirks and teases Urianger by barely brushing her lips against his. He groans, quietly enough, but his longing is plainly on display.

"Thou art cruel, my dearest."

His tone on the last word is on the edge of spiteful.

"Me, cruel? Oh, sweet Uri, ye best tread carefully."

The two finally collide in a hungry kiss, leaning against a great tree behind the little settlement called Many Fires. They've not had many chances to meet in private, ever since their little rivalry began. But here and there, they steal a small moment to revel in each other.

When they pull apart, Urianger tugs affectionately at a strand of Fyrwyb's hair.

"Thou hadst better keep thyself safe. I have plans for thee anon that do greatly depend upon it."

Fyrwyb stifles a giggle and the two share another thoughtful kiss. She whispers her reply against his lips.

"I wouldn't miss them fer the world."

[seafoam-roe]

Wolianger Week: I Miss You word count: 584

A salty breeze blows past Fyrwyb as she gazes up at the starry sky. She's perched herself on the rocky overlook in the Anchor Yard of Limsa, above the docks. The Mark of the Navigator stands nearby, as it has for many many years. The gentle sound of the fountain mixes with the lapping of the sea down below. Fyrwyb sighs and speaks aloud to herself, though her tone is that of one who speaks to a loved one. She speaks to Llymlaen.

"I hope yer watchin' over him. Guide him true. Bring him home safe."

Her eyes sting as they begin to glisten and she clears her throat, her gaze dropping to her hands in her lap.

"He holds faith in the stars, and that faith is well placed. I know that. But it would do my heart good t' know the Navigator might bless his journey. Well-behaved seas and all that," she grins, huffing a little laugh.

She allows a silent moment to pass before looking to the stars again. Sometimes if she focuses hard enough, it's like she can feel his gaze mirrored back in them. Two souls, sharing a view of the same sky. A familiarity settles within her and she smiles.

"I miss ye, Urianger."

A whisper in the wind, spoken with a break in her voice on his name. A single tear streaks down her pale cheek.

"Twould seem our lady Llymlaen hath heard thy prayers long ere this night."

A familiar voice sends a jolt of warmth through her. She straightens upright, her eyes wide with shock. Much to her dismay, she cannot control the tears that well up more intensely now as she snaps around, her hand covering her mouth.

Urianger stands there in the shadow, true enough. He steps out to join her under the full moonlight and scoops her up easily into his arms, despite being only just smaller than him in comparison. She gasps and he chuckles and their foreheads press together in a moment that belongs to only them. Their lips meet; finally, finally. Her arms wrap tightly around his neck while they kiss, feverish but slow—like two lovers relearning each other.

When the kiss is broken, Fyrwyb is actually the first to pull away. Her brow furrows and she gives his chest a gentle tap of discontent.

"Why didn't ye tell me ye'd be home soon? Really, Urianger, what good is a linkpearl if ye don't bother t' use it when ye can reach me?"

Urianger offers an expression of guilt, which he tries to combine with a soothing backrub as he sits down with her in his lap.

"Come now, dearest. Thou knowest I have always preferred quill and parchment to such frivolous devices."

Fyrwyb huffs and rolls her eyes.

"Ye can just say ye misplaced it."

Urianger chuckles nervously, guiding Fyrwyb's head to nestle against his neck.

"I shant misplace another, I swear this to thee."

Fyrwyb snorts and shakes her head against him, hugging him tighter. The night breeze blows past them gently and Fyrwyb feels herself truly relax for the first time in several moons, taking in the scent of him.

"I missed ye," she murmurs against his skin.

"Mm, I did miss thee, mine dearest love. Shall we returneth home?"

The roegadyn nods gently and Urianger smiles, reaffirming his hold on her before standing and carrying her in the direction of the aetheryte plaza.

"Thank ye, Llymlaen," she thinks to herself, squeezing around his neck.

[cogentsummoner]

separation anxiety

pairing: warrior of light/urianger augurelt/thancred waters rating: gen tags: abandonment issues word count: 1.5k summary:

Solkgeim isn't ready for things to go back to the way they were.

written for wolianger week 2026, day two: i miss you.