Eye of the Storm

IC blog for Shael Stormchild

[shaelstormchild]

FFXIVWrite 2025 prompt: Denounce

Sometime during the Garlean occupation of Gyr Abania.

They sat at the table like nothing had happened. Like Johanna’s body hadn’t been discovered floating face down in the lake. Like her parents hadn’t begged on their knees for justice while the whole city turned their backs.

Her father muttered about trade routes and stability, about how things were better now. Her mother chimed in with the same tired litany—cheaper spices, finer cloth, no more raids from beasts. As if a few bolts of silk could buy off the memory of Johanna’s broken body. As if the Empire hadn’t pissed its mark into the very soil they’d once called home.

Shaelen slammed her hand down on the table hard enough to rattle the cutlery. “Better now?” she spat, eyes blazing. “Tell that tae Jo. Tell that tae her parents, if ya can still remember their faces. Or did ya bury them along with yer bloody spines?”

“Shaelen—” her mother started, voice thin with warning.

“Don’t,” Shaelen snapped, standing so fast her chair skidded back and toppled. “Don’t ya dare shush me. Ya watched them. Ya watched them crawl, beg, and ya said nothin’. Ya let those bastards—those boys, not even men—walk away smilin’ while Johanna’s family was run out like criminals!”

Her father’s face flushed, but not with shame. “Careful, girl. Ye think yer brave, but words like that will see ye beaten. Or worse.”

Shaelen laughed, bitter and sharp. “Spoken like a true coward. Is that all ya are now? Bow and scrape, smile at yer masters, pretend their boots aren’t on yer neck? Ya disgust me.”

Her mother reached for her arm, eyes wide with fear. “Please, Shaelen. You don’t understand. We must keep our heads down—”

“Keep our heads down?!” Shael ripped her arm away. “That’s all ya ever done. Heads down, eyes shut, lips sealed. And fer what? So ya can pretend your life still means something? Jo meant something. And ya let them get away with–” She scowled, unable to finish that thought. “Ya let them take everything.”

They stared at her, mouths opening and closing, but no words came. Nothing but the sound of cowards choking on their own excuses.

Shaelen felt the heat of tears but swallowed them down, turned them bitter. They didn’t bother trying to soothe her, the time for that was long gone. And she shut herself in her room, until they left for yet another soiree to court the favors of murderers. Shaelen stormed downstairs and stripped her father’s gun cabinet bare, the weight of each pistol in her arms a bitter kind of justice. She took her mother’s jewelry box too, snapping shut the lid on a lifetime of careful vanity. And for herself, she stole her grandfather’s last bottle of rum—because vengeance went down easier with fire in the belly.

Before she left, she stood in the doorway, brush in hand, her pulse hammering. She dipped deep into the stolen red paint, dragged the Garlean insignia bold and ugly across the clean white wood. The center she scrawled thick, dripping, until it bled down like a wound that would never close.

Let the sun rise on their fine doors tomorrow to that sight. Let the neighbors whisper. Let her parents flinch every time they passed through it.

She dropped the brush, shouldered her pack, and walked into the night without looking back.

And she swore—by Johanna’s name, by every drop of blood that had been spilled—that she would never return.

[shaelstormchild]

FFXIVWrite 2025 Prompt: Threat

The pearl was warm against her ear, the voice on the other end taut with irritation.

“Your absence has cost you dearly,” Justus hissed, irritation dripping through each syllable. “Where Elam Grave once ruled, there’s nothing now but carrion. And carrion always draws scavengers. Hirotame Musa’s making his bid—arms trade, blood trade, call it what you like. And beneath him, something older. Lotus-something. They’re dredged up from the deep. You’d know it, if you’d been here.”

Shael leaned against the railing, eyes fixed on the sea as Sharlayan’s harbor crept closer, the massive stone scholar pouring his endless water into the bay. She didn’t bother answering. The man liked his own voice enough for two.

“Your reputation kept wolves at bay. The fall of the fighting pit—gods, it made men shiver at your name. But fear rots. It fades. And you’ve been gone too long. They don’t whisper of you anymore. They laugh.”

A gull shrieked overhead. Shael smirked faintly. “Then let ‘em laugh. Ain’t costin’ me a gil.”

“That’s your answer?” Justus snapped. “You think Musa’s boy will sit idle while your legacy withers? He’s sniffing already, asking questions, and when he finds the truth—”

“When he finds it, he’ll find nothin’ that matters,” Shael cut in, quiet, almost weary.

Silence stretched, then Justus’ voice came back, sharp as broken glass. “If you’re not in the running, you’re forgotten. Power’s not patient, Stormchild. Influence dies fast. Faster than you think.”

She let the words wash over her like the tide. Most of her buyers had surely moved on. Musa, the deep-sea bastards—none of it surprised her. The black market game was never played from afar, never kept alive by memory. It took a heavy hand, a blade in the dark, blood in the water. Elam Grave had thrived on that. She’d worn his mantle for a while, played the part of butcher and queen. But she’d never taken it to keep the throne. She’d taken it so others could slip the noose. So they could walk away free.

“Mayhap I ain’t in the runnin’,” she said at last. “Mayhap I don’t care tae be.”

A bitter laugh crackled down the pearl. “Don’t play pious with me, Stormchild. You’ve always cared.”

Her lips twisted. “Ya always mistaken survival fer ambition, Justus. Easy mistake, I suppose.”

Another silence. Then his tone cooled, sly and thin. “If you won’t act, others will. I’ll be aligning myself accordingly.”

Shael snorted, not even surprised. Justus was a man of many allegiances, all of them temporary. He’d tied himself to her because she’d been the biggest shadow in the room. Now he’d do the same with Musa’s son or the arms dealers that were known as Azure Lotus. She knew very little about them, but the fact that Justus got a whiff of them… they must have been making some moves. Justus always kept his fingers in every pie, waiting to lick whichever one came out sweetest.

She plucked the pearl from her ear, rolled it between her fingers, then dropped it back into her pocket. She could just barely catch his voice still sputtering on the other end until she cut the link.

The harbor loomed ahead. Sharlayan stone, Sharlayan order, Thaliak’s endless pouring jug. Her thoughts turned from the east, from Musa and his greed, to the dangers waiting in the days ahead. The threats before her mattered more than the echoes behind.

Kill or be killed. Coin and power. That was the seat of power waiting in the east. But mayhap she’d outgrown it. Mayhap she’d never belonged there to begin with.

[shaelstormchild]

FFXIVWrite 2025 Prompt: Tough

When Shael was a child, “tough” had been simple. It meant squaring her jaw at the bullies, biting down on her fear until her teeth ached, and showing them anger instead of tears. Fear turned sharp, redirected into fists, payback, defiance. That was toughness then.

When she joined the Resistance, the word grew heavier, darker. Tough meant never letting the grief show. Not when her comrades fell one by one. Not when their names threatened to bury her beneath their weight. She stuffed the sorrow deep, sealed it with hatred for the Imperials, and called it strength. Better to wield fury like a weapon against a faceless nation than face the emptiness gnawing at her from within. Violence was easier than mourning. Destruction, easier than remembering.

For years Shael had thickened her skin. Layer upon layer, until she thought nothing could pierce it. She told herself she was tough, but she was only hollowed out, a shell clattering around old scars. Then Shooey came. Tongueless, grinning, indomitable Shooey. And with him, the shell began to soften. Somehow he had managed to slip through the cracks she swore she had sealed.

So when Shooey was lost, Shael no longer felt tough at all. Her knees gave way, her center caved in. All that armor she’d wrapped herself in cracked uselessly, and she found herself brittle, fragile, terrified that perhaps she had never been tough in the first place.

But time, and strange company, taught her different. Nabi, Anchor, Ghoa, and Brick—they carved new meanings into the word.

Years ago, she would never have called Nabi tough. Small, gentle, a healer’s hands where Shael’s had been made for breaking. And yet… there was a strength in her kindness, invisible but unyielding. For love’s sake, for friendship’s sake, Nabi stepped willingly into danger’s maw, not out of rage or vengeance, but out of devotion. Shael called her insane and naive for it, but it was toughness of a kind Shael had never known, a quiet grit that held even when the world screamed.

Anchor was another matter. None would question his toughness. Broad shoulders, scars that spoke for him louder than words. Yet Shael learned his battles were waged not only against foes in the field, but against the looming certainty that his own life was dwindling. Every swing of his blade cost him, each clash brought him closer to his end. Still, damn him, he fought on. To march forward knowingly into death, sun after sun—that was toughness beyond the flesh.

And Ghoa—silver-tongued, bright-eyed, beautiful. Too easy to dismiss her as soft, or shallow. Shael had seen differently. She had watched her stand trembling, the tide of fear threatening to drown her, yet plant her feet and raise her voice all the same. To stare down that storm of terror, to stand where anyone else would crumble—that was courage. That was tough.

Then there was Brick. A man carved of stone, with a scowl for every occasion, silence for every word. He wore toughness like a second skin, obvious to any eye. But Shael came to know the truth: his fight was inward. Each day, each moment, he held the reins of a beast that wanted nothing more than to break loose, to destroy, to consume. His toughness was in restraint, in the iron grip he kept on himself when surrender would have been far easier.

Surrounded by them, Shael no longer felt like the fractured woman she once did. With them, she found a new layer of toughness, forged not in shutting the world out, but in letting it in. Toughness wasn’t about being unbroken, unfeeling, or unflinching. It was about protecting something more than yourself, about standing when your legs wanted to buckle, about carrying the weight not just of your scars but of the people beside you.

Her toughness now stretched beyond her skin, beyond her grief. It wrapped itself around her crew, her family. And for the first time, she understood that strength was not a wall against the world, but a bond with it. A bond worth fighting for.

[shaelstormchild]

FFXIVWrite 2025 Free Day

Prompt 2: Memory

Shael’s boots struck hard against the gangplank, every step ringing sharp against the creaking wood. The ship to Sharlayan swayed in the harbor, ropes groaning, gulls screaming overhead, and she felt that familiar prickle in the back of her neck.

She turned, only half expecting it. Maybe less. More out of instinct than hope. And there she was. Sleek and lean against the swelling tide, prow cutting the water with grace, quietly confident. Peregrin. She could’ve picked her out from a graveyard of wrecks. Even now, under another captain’s flag, with another name splashed gaudily across her stern, she was still the same ship. Shael’s ship. Shooey’s ship. Theirs.

Funny how that worked. The ship had survived, sailing on, while everything else had gone to ruin.

She remembered how Peregrin had looked when they first laid hands on her. A battered hull full of holes, sails patched so many times they were more stitch than cloth. A ship not even a pirate would bother pissing on. Shooey had seen her differently. Shooey always saw things differently. No tongue left in his head thanks to Garlean steel, yet still he found ways to talk the world round. His grin did most of the speaking. His silence did the rest. They’d said every job he touched was a shoo-in. The name stuck, twisted, and softened into Shooey.

And damn him, he’d lived up to it. Every rotten deal, every smuggling run, every knife-edge scrape—they’d walked away with blood on their hands but coin in their pockets. The Peregrin, once a ship fit for the breakers, had become a whisper among pirates and smugglers alike. The ghost that slipped through blockades, struck quick, vanished quicker. Shael and Shooey had beaten her into shape with sweat and scars, and she had carried them across the seas that should have swallowed them whole.

But that was then.

Now the suns of smuggling had set. All those nights of running silent under starlight, laughter smothered by the crash of the waves, Shooey’s bark of a laugh even without a tongue—gone. Like a dream Shael woudd wake from, and find it’s already slipping through her fingers. She stood on the deck of a ship bound east, with a new family, and Peregrin faded into the distance.

Still, she couldn’t look away. As the port of Limsa Lominsa shrank behind her, her eyes clung to that lean shape cutting the waves. Peregrin would keep sailing, same as she would. Two paths diverging, but both alive, both owing their breath to the same roegadyn. To Shooey.

The Hellsguard who never let silence stop him. The first mate who grinned at ruin and found a way forward. The friend who, for all his scars, for all his losses, had been the reason the Peregrin existed at all. The reason Shael still did.

[anchor-management]

C&F: Corruption Arc

Featuring: @sea-and-storm [Ghoa Mankhad], @shaelstormchild [Shael Stormchild], @anchor-management [Anchor Saltborn] and [Brick], @afreesworn [Nabi Kharlu] and [Roen Deneith], @sentryandco [Egil Nylor] and [Estrid Nylor] + ∞ NPCs, @tribblesfuriousart [Buoy Saltborn] [Diya-something-or-other], @banquoviaquo [Gideon North], [Orfeuille], [Luri Kai].

Until Dashboard format isn't borked, you can view full post formatted correctly here.

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The group's search for answers has taken them from The Far East, to the shores of Vylbrand. Their continued research into corrupted aether leads them to investigate a reclusive "Doctor Nylor", a name given by an ailing man--Abner Funk--that had a curious and yet similar sickness as Anchor during a visit to The Salt Strand.

Things quickly go wrong when the group splits to investigate the lead on two different fronts: Nabi and Ghoa devise a plan to infiltrate a theatre posing as entertainers, while Anchor and Shael travel to Upper La Noscea to follow a lead concerning the doctor's apparent employment of ailing individuals.

Separated and without contact due to a number of troubling circumstances, multiple plans fall into action over the course of the following days--with the help of some allies and friends in the midst--all eventually converging on Doctor Nylor's residence.

Of course, no amount of planning could prepare them for what surprises lay in wait...

- - - - -

- - - - -

Some closer-ups.

This pic took entirely too long to do. That is all.

Oh, just that and the fact I appreciate the people involved in this ongoing story of stories. It's been years actual years and that is pretty cool.

[arysamisu]

recent commissions c:

[afreesworn]

I see @shaelstormchild and Nabi up there! I love the dynamics between these two! Thank you for the lovely art!!

[quotemadness]

“Some old wounds never truly heal, and bleed again at the slightest word.”

— George R.R. Martin

[afreesworn]

A Happy Birthday

@anchor-management surprised me with this very wonderful birthday present! It brings me such joy since it calls back to Nabi's first nameday celebration she shared with her closest people.

The picture shows that years later, they remain as close as ever, if not more so.

Thank you SO MUCH @anchor-management!!! <3

And if you want to go check out more wonderful art, you can look up @r2ruen!!

[quotemadness]

“If I have learned anything in this long life of mine, it is this: in love we find out who we want to be; in war we find out who we are.”

— Kristin Hannah

[afreesworn]

First Snow!

Every time @britishmuffin draws Nabi, I just get this cozy warm feeling. She looks so SOFT!! And her mood is so perfect!!

Nabi is wearing the winter coat from the AU cafe art that Muffin blew me away with two years ago.

THANK YOU SO MUCH Muffin!!

[shaelstormchild]

Inspiration

The guards were now twice in number as when Brick and Shael had scouted the place. She wasn’t sure if either of them had been made or if it was Roen’s late visit that triggered the sudden need for increase in security, but no matter the reason, getting to Nabi had now become a much more difficult task.

Shael looked at the map that Luri had drawn for Ghoa, committing it to memory. If all went according to plan, Ghoa should be able to draw the guards to the east side, if she met Estrid on the balcony as they did before. The library, on the other hand, was on the opposite of the manse, near the theater. That would be where the Doctor would emerge from, along with Nabi if they were lucky. 

If they weren’t lucky, she would have to go in and retrieve the Xaela herself.

“A concealed door in the middle of one of the bookshelves.” The handmaiden hadn’t observed the mechanism herself, only that it opened a way down into a labyrinth of tunnels that eventually led to an underground laboratory. Probably under the theater somewhere, maybe even linked with the sewers. It would be convenient to do away with any waste material or bodies. Had they had enough time, exploration of the sewage tunnels may have revealed another way in or out.

But they had little time. Shael wasn’t about to let Nabi remain in that lab for another sun.

“About those new arrivals,” Brick’s words returned to her as she rubbed her brows. “Two of them will be familiar to you. The duskwight and the roegadyn from that lighthouse. Zurvine and Blauwaht, I believe.”

Shael wasn’t sure if this was a blessing or not. Saving Saltborn’s crew from the corrupted undead beneath the lighthouse had been a boon initially, with Fuller repaying the favor by giving her the address to the Doctor’s. But now that the other two were here to strengthen the security, could she trust them? 

Of course not. The idea was dismissed as soon as it came. She trusted no one outside of her own crew. To mistakenly let her guard down around those she had just met, whether they were grateful or not, could be deadly. And she knew better than that. 

She didn’t even know if she could believe this map either, since she knew nothing about this handmaiden. Listening in, she seemed demure and helpful enough, but why was she going through such lengths to help strangers, against the interests of the master of the house?

But it wasn’t like Shael had any choice. This map was the best lead they got to getting to Nabi, so she had to trust that it was legit. Ghoa was confident, at least, in Luri’s motivation for helping. It would have to do.

So then what was the plan? Shael had gone over various scenarios in her head, and none looked promising. The success hinged on so many different What Ifs, and one failure in the chain would endanger too many people that mattered to her.

Shael slid down against the wall, her gaze lowering to the Xaela in the room below her as Ghoa was starting to measure out the ingredients to put together the potion. The Mankhad didn’t have to say it out loud, but Shael spied it on the woman’s face; taking this potion was not without a huge risk. Ghoa was making herself the center of attention, heightening her powers to intimidate a ruthless man into a hostage exchange. It was possible that things could go very wrong for her.

Shael leaned her head back, a light thunk resounding against the wooden wall. Ghoa as a distraction on the inside. Brick with her turret to draw more guards on the outside. And she only had herself to try and get to Nabi. The odds were not in their favor.

“I'll leave it to you, then. Best to leave the making of a plan out of an impossible scenario to the woman who managed to explode a heavily guarded dais tucked under a mountain, no?" Was that false bravado or some kind of pep talk to try and bolster her confidence? Or was the Mankhad actually hopeful that this would all work out like the fighting pits? Sure, they had gone into a mountain full of hostiles, just the three of them, to save two within that were just as likely to get killed before getting out.

The odds weren’t so great then either. But they did all come out, didn’t they? Everyone was in on the crazy plan.

Everyone.

Shael continued to stare at the Mankhad, but her eyes widened behind her shades. The fighting pits, the Junghid, and the ruins... They had all come through, working together. Even the most impossible missions with the Resistance, when the team was synched together, they were able to pull off the impossible.

The odds were against her here, because Shael wasn’t playing all the pieces on the map. She wasn’t trusting everyone to do what they needed to. It was time that changed. For everyone’s sake.

Her hand rose to her ear, activating the pearl. 

“Saltborn. We need to talk. About Nabi.” Her jaw clenched. “Now.”

[afreesworn]

28: Vainglory

Gashuul’dyn. It was said the ancient horn was carved from the bones of a titan now lost to history. 

The warriors on the field oft spoke of its deep timbre when it bellowed over the plains, its hail resonating through the earth beneath their feet. Not only did it command the winds to spur them into battle, but the will of the land as well. 

So how was it that the very thing that began the day of blood also called for its end? 

Tugan Kharlu stared at the long aged instrument with disdain. It was kept in a shrine built within the mountain overlooking the coastlands, and guarded by the previous victors of the annual war.

The shamans spoke of the revered relic with such awe. Stories were passed down through the generations that the artifact was left by the gods, to echo the sadness between the ever parted day and night. It was granted to the children of Azim and Nhaama, as a way to ease the passing of souls onto the next life, to call the spirits forth from the fallen bodies so that they did not lose their way.

These stories were all foolish and romantic depictions in the Kharlu’s eye.

Tugan cared not for the lore that was tied to gods, or honor, or love. As long as it fed the unending cycle of battle, allowed him to ride into the plains upon his stallion and cut down his enemies with abandon, he cared not what stories the old woman spun by the fire. The day of blood was a day of glory; bloodlust and violence were not only needed but celebrated, the only day when acts of brutality ruled supreme.

But he hated the fact that such a mournful wail would end such a mighty spectacle, muting the grandeur of his victories. Even when the Kharlu had lost more than the Junghid, the blood of those that had fallen at his feet made his body burn with exhilaration.

The song of Gashuul’dyn did not recognize his triumph. It only called forth the tears of bereaved wives and the whimpering of children. It diminished the display of superiority through strength, and lamented the beastiatlity that was at the heart of all men. Tugan believed that such a contest deserved a roar to shake the heavens. He deserved something far more than Gashuul’dyn to welcome him home.

Tugan walked out of the shrine, vowing to himself that one day, he would claim the seat of Khan and shatter the cursed horn to pieces. And in its place, he would erect a bonfire so tall that only those who survived the day of blood would be able to see their might truly celebrated.

[sentryandco]

Prompt 19: Turn a Blind Eye

“Any new word?”

Salaifa did not look up as she poured a dollop of milk into her tea. Her movements, as ever, were gentle and precise, never hurried. Ahrahd watched for a moment longer before answering, his gaze following the stirring of her spoon three times, never more, never less, before she set it down and took up her cup. 

“Nay. But she is within the grounds.” He waited until the raen took her sip, before he reached for his own. “And there have been no further inquiries from the emissaries.”

A patient smile touched her lips, the tea cup held just beneath. “We promised no further shipments would reach the man, and they will not find any.” Her pale blue eyes glanced up at Ahrahd. “And what of these dancers?”

“Nothing of import, as yet.” Ahrahd allowed a pause, knowing full well that their inclusion in the letter was not to be dismissed. The correspondence was always composed with deliberate care, every phrase purposeful. “There was a suspicion that an arrangement was made through a servant, but the true interests of the performers have yet to be known.”

The tea cup was set back down onto the plate, Salaifa folding her hands upon her lap. She looked out to the gardens, the thin mist from the central fountain glistening faintly in the midday sun. The raen had a distant look about her, and Ahrahd knew the ambassador was pondering the next step.

“Might I suggest preparing a contingency plan,” he began, his tone grim. “If these Thavnairians have any connections to the Ocular–”

“Then that is precisely what we are hoping for.” The dainty pose never wavered, although Salaifa canted her head in his direction, her blue gaze brightening with delight. “I am certain the opportunity will not go wasted.”

The straightening of his posture was the only thing that betrayed his doubt—not of the ambassador, but in the capability of the agent upon whose shoulders the burden was placed. Ever since the day they found the unconscious body washed up on the shores of the Dalal estate, Salaifa had invested much of her time in training her newest protégé. Not that there had been any failures to warrant Ahrahd’s apprehensions, but it was his job to always prepare for things to go wrong and plan for an exit strategy.

“And if they are not agents of the Ocular?” He placed his tea on the table. 

The delicate smile returned. “Then they are of no consequence, as long as our goals are met.” She dropped a single cube of sugar, stirring the tea three times again. She lifted the drink back to her lips, but paused to look at him.  “Diya knows her priorities. She will do whatever is necessary. She has done so before, and she will do so again.”

[anchor-management]

Growing Concern

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[TW] Body horror? Probs.

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It was impossible to forget the feeling within those tunnels. Dark, dim, humid, and often so cramped you could smell the breath of the person working beside you. The stench of sweat permeating the stale, thick air, accented only by the aroma of ozone and earth. With every strike of the pick, he knew one wrong move could be his last. He’d seen it so many times before–whether it was the wrong part of rock, or the wrong part of crystal–either leading to one getting crushed and battered, or a good and much needed piece of one’s self torn asunder by the corrupted energies being abruptly unleashed. 

Anchor drew back the pickaxe in his hands, readying it for another swing. He could see his mark, the divot he’d already created to guide his aim. As the sweat dripped down between his shoulder blades, he brought the tool back down towards the stone surrounding one of those dimly lit crystals, the eerie amber glow enveloping his form in a swathe of radiating warmth. 

ping.

The familiar ringing sound of metal on solid rock pierced his ears as the tool met earth, and suddenly the hyur’s pick was embedded, not within the cavern wall he remembered so vividly on that island, but within a figure. Except, in place of flesh and blood was earth and crystal.

The creature’s ghastly face lifted slowly and stared back at him. No eyes; just that dimly glowing amber. The place where a mouth might be split open in a hissing wheeze, gradually revealing the molten insides of its cavernous maw. It got closer. The heat grew more intense. Anchor tried to get away, but he was held in place. There were many more of them. Once men, lost to the effects of the corrupted aether flooding the depths beneath the lighthouse he had been sent to; their features all distorted and deformed around the crystal protruding throughout their bodies. 

Closer. The very air started to swirl and waver between them, the intense heat making his eyes squint as the moisture was pulled from them. Closer. He could feel own skin peeling away, the reddish glow overtaking his senses, consuming him. His lips split as he opened his mouth to breathe; to scream. 

Anchor gasped in a ragged breath, and his eyes reopened not to cavern walls, but to tile, his senses returning to familiar pain throughout his lungs, limbs, and the feeling of water pelting overhead. 

The hyur reached numbly for the faucet, quieting the hiss of water pouring through the pipes until silence overcame the small shower. He sat there for a moment longer, letting the current reality clear the recent nightmare wrought by memories old and new. 

Roen and he had returned to the tavern. Things appeared to have slowed down enough. Or rather, he finally allowed himself to slow down, now that the situation apparently was under control. So, he finally made time to wash away the suns of sweat, dirt, and sick. 

A shame to say it didn’t make him feel much better. 

It wasn’t because of the aggravating ache permeating from his core and throughout, but rather it was this whole situation which left a restless, uncomfortable feeling in his gut. 

Anchor pulled himself upright, grabbing for a towel as he stepped out of the shower, water dripping off in his wake as his bare feet dragged over slick tile. His thoughts were still busy with this whole mess as he dried his hair. The ruined opportunity to meet with Doctor Nylor for one, which led to him being rendered unconscious for several suns due to overexposure of saturated, corrupted aether within the lighthouse. 

But mostly, it was the absence of any word from Nabi. Ghoa too, though recently Stormchild was able to make contact. But, why hadn’t either of them left word before then? Especially Nabi. 

No matter how much reassurance he got, nothing felt right about this. How could it, knowing they were in the estate of some doctor likely poisoning his patients with the very corrupted aether he claims to cure? He never much liked the idea of Nabi studying such aether as his in the first place, much less with some lunatic! 

He tossed down the towel onto the sink in a short burst of frustration, leaning his hands against the basin of it with a heavy sigh as it just as quickly left him. His gaze lingered, crestfallen at his own ineptitude to do aught but wait until he was updated. Curse this body. His eyes narrowed over to the left arm steadying over the sink, onto the hideous charred-like growth scarred along his forearm, then slowly lifted to the unfortunate reflection that greeted him in the mirror mounted just above. 

Anchor never really was one to look at himself fully. Suffice to say, he didn’t much like what he saw; the lack of restful sleep over the sennight, the aether sickness, and the usual aches and pains all took its toll. His calloused fingers ran over his more pronounced cheekbone, following it over the bruise-like circle under his eye. 

His eye… 

As he leaned in closer, Anchor could see within the unnatural crimson; something so small, it almost looked like a trick of the light. Small veins glimmered within, that sickening amber color he knew so well. And the longer he stared at it, the more pronounced it seemed, almost like it was glowing brighter, and brighter. Or was it that, in fact, it was growing? His chest felt tight suddenly, and his lips parted to take in a tentative breath. Despite the building panic, he couldn’t seem to look away, just watching as that eerie glow seemed to fill his iris, flooding crimson within amber. It melted into his sclera, then peeled back his eyelashes and eyelid, breaking into the flesh surrounding it. 

He watched in horror as charred earth split around a fissure of corrupted aether, spreading through his features like burning paper. He tried to gasp, but he could not breathe. All he could do was watch his reflection as his hardening lips peeled open into a gaping, glowing maw, the memory of those corrupted figures mirroring onto his image as dark ichor poured from the corners of his mouth.

Anchor’s back met the opposing wall in a heavy thud as he pressed a hand to his features, ready to claw at the formations overtaking him, but all that was felt there was skin. His skin, just as it had been before. Short, halting breaths puffed between his palm and fingers, and he slowly lowered them to look back to the mirror. 

There was no growth or alteration on his face, nor further around his eyes.

Not yet. 

Anchor stood there, breathing raggedly, regaining his equanimity, then let his features sink back into his hand. 

[afreesworn]

20: Anon

“You’re ridiculous.” He had called her that so many times. Ridiculous. But the last time she heard it, it was a soft murmur full of affection. “I’ll be back soon.”

Despite her best efforts to keep Anchor from her thoughts, his voice returned to her unbidden, especially during the lonelier moments when Nabi was left to her solitude. When her eyes grew tired from squinting at the parchment in the dimly lit space, her lids grew heavy, and amongst the shadows within her peripheral vision, she could imagine him sitting there. Small flickering motes of light blinked in the distance, much like the ones she’d watch dance in Kugane’s twilight. 

She could feel the ghostly whisper of the small metal bell brush against her hair, and the gentle press of the butterfly pin just above her horn. Just as he’d placed it there.

These moments, birthed by a desperate wish and weakness of her resolve, made her tremble. How many suns? It hadn’t been many, Nabi reminded herself. But it felt so much longer, as if time was stretched beyond its limits in this confined space. Seconds ticked by slower in the dark, away from the warm touch of sunlight, away from the scents she loved, of grass and flowers and sun-warmed earth. There were no songs to be heard here.

Anchor’s absence was palpable most of all, and every moment she wasn’t focused on something intently, her mind wandered to that empty place in her heart. Where was he? Was he alright? Was he worried? Was he ill? Would she see him again?

It was in these moments that anxiety gave way to regret. What if she never saw him again? She had been so consumed in pursuing a cure, did she miss signs of danger that landed her in her current predicament? Was she too reckless in coming here?

Their last words to each other played over and over in her mind. 

“Yara’æ,” he called her. A small promise of hope in the dark. The name felt like a secret treasure she could keep, all for her.

“I love it.” Her heart swelled when he gifted it to her. As it had, so many times before in all the little things he did for her. 

In all those times, did she ever say those words to him? Did he know how she felt? His life had been absent of petals. So many years devoid of color. Has she done enough? How was it that she had never said those words to him?

In the darkest moments when everything seemed uncertain, these were her greatest regrets. That he may never know how happy she had been, because of him. The profound joy that he had brought into her life. The love that had rooted itself so deeply into her heart, that it ached. The fact that she never told him, and were she never to see him again, that he would never know… that pained her most of all.

Nabi pressed her hands over her eyes, to stop the flow of tears before they began. Had she learned nothing from Anchor? Ghoa? Shael? She knew of the hardships they all endured, and even witnessed them play out before her eyes in that place below the ruins. They were so much stronger than her. She needed to at least try and follow their example.

She could not have regrets here. She has to see them again.

Nabi sniffed behind her hands, pressing firmly one last time to dismiss the sadness from her face. She didn’t want Mister North to see her despair upon his return. He too was trying his very best to comfort her in every way he could, staying with her in a place like this. She reminded herself to thank him upon his return. Then once more, upon their escape.

And then, most importantly, when she left this place, Nabi needed to let those she loved know just how much they meant to her.

[afreesworn]

23: Pitch

“I should have known better than to add all the peppers,” Chanai said ruefully, one hand going to her swollen belly as she leaned back against her elbow. “Although Nabi seemed to have enjoyed them. I think she is dancing in the womb.”

“I warned you,” Chagur chided with a soft smile, lightly pressing his lips over her navel. “Our child will relish all sorts of flavors.” He reclined next to her on the pelt he had laid down for both of them. They couldn’t bring too much with them for these secreted unions away from both of their respective tribes, but Chagur was determined to make the mother of his child as comfortable as possible. Especially since she was only a few moons away from bringing a new babe into the world.

Chanai shook her head, her raven locks falling in small wisps around her golden eyes. Chagur could see her struggling to hold back her amusement. “I will never get any sleep tonight. I think our daughter is hosting the next Naadam in there.” Then a knowing smile came over her, and she canted her head, giving her lover a coy smile. “Unless you think you can woo her to sleep?”

There was nothing Chagur would deny this woman, especially when she looked at him so. But this particular request had him promptly pushing off the rug, rolling over to his pack, where he grabbed a wrapped oblong instrument. He sat up and uncovered it carefully, the fabric falling away to reveal an elegant wooden carving of a horse’s head first, then the rest of Morin Khuur. He had packed it with such care, knowing that it would be needed in exact moments like these.

He could immediately see Chanai’s expression softening. She always loved the sounds of Morin Khuur. She pulled up a rolled blanket to serve as a pillow to lay upon, as Chagur sat cross legged in front of her, situating the string instrument. He twisted the end to tighten the bow hair, before testing out the strings themselves with a few gentle plucks.

Then resting the wooden neck against his shoulder, Chagur’s gaze bowed, as he put the bow to the string. His left hand moved knowingly over the pair of woven hairs, summoning each note, from low deep timbre to a gentle lighter pitch. It was a song that came to him in a dream, where he imagined singing to his child, under the warm golden sun and the bluest ocean skies. And since he felt helpless as a Junghid in being unable to provide for Chanai as their child living amongst the Kharlu, he wanted to gift their daughter the only way he knew how.

The Morin Khuur sang soulfully in his hands, the male and female strings together composed a harmony that filled the space around them. It reminded him of the rolling winds over the tall golden grass of the plainlands, and the chanting of shamans that greeted the arrival of dusk. The mood of the song shifted from night to day, then light to dark, carrying the distant neigh of the wild horses, the high echoing calls of the yol, and the chorus of crickets that filled a quiet night.

It was all the sounds that filled his suns, and since he couldn’t be with Chanai and Nabi as he wanted, he wanted to leave his child with his own vision of the world. So that his daughter would know, when she eventually heard all these sounds of life, that his thoughts and love for her were ever present in them.

When the last note faded into the night and Chagur raised his head, Chanai gazed upon him with such a look of affection that stole his breath. But she drew his attention back to her belly as she rubbed it lightly, an amazed look on her face.

“Nabi has gone to sleep,” she whispered, as if anything louder might disturb the peace within her womb. “She takes to your songs like a lullaby, resting so peacefully.” Chanai sighed, her voice full of awe. “And each time, it fills me with such a sense of tranquility.” After a pause, she added in a quieter whisper, “And hope.”

She shook her head, incredulous and yet amused. “Is this what all women experience when carrying a child? This sense of enlightenment?”

Chagur set the Morin Khuur aside, and slid upon the rug to come lay next to Chanai once more. He placed a light kiss upon her lips and nuzzled their scaled noses together. 

“I do not know of any others, but you and Nabi make me want for more. A new world. A better world. For us. A new life.”

Chanai regarded him quietly, and Chagur could see her expression starting to dim. He recognized the shadows of doubts and worry that were never far in her thoughts. They haunted her like a ghost. But before he could lose her to her darker thoughts of the future, he pulled her face closer to him, embracing her in another deeper kiss. 

For as long as he was able, Chagur swore to himself a silent oath, that he would protect the two people he loved most in this world. To Azim he swore to protect them from any darkness that would fall, and to Nhaama any harm that would threaten.

On his soul, he swore.

[afreesworn]

22: Veracity

The chocobo let out only a small huff of protest as Roen nudged him forward, having been woken from sleep to bring both her and Anchor back to the tavern where they had started the afternoon. 

It had been an eventful sun to say the least. In the bells that Roen had come to know Anchor Saltborn, an ailing man that was left to her charge by Shael Stormchild, Roen had come to discover rumors about an eccentric nobleman named Doctor Nylor, who was possibly poisoning people with corrupted aether and conducting unscrupulous studies right in the heart of Mist.

What was most surprising was that one of her oldest friends and sometimes confidant, Gideon North, had also been recruited by Shael to help a small number of her friends meet this Doctor. Never in the passing years that Roen had been corresponding with Gideon could she imagine their reunion would come about in this fashion.

But that anticipated meeting would have to wait, since by the time Roen was at the Nylor estate, it was well after midnight. She was promised a visit with Mister North in the morn, which seemed to have partly appeased the otherwise disagreeable Anchor Saltborn.

Roen knew better than to believe that he became suddenly amenable from her inquiries alone, she suspected that Shael and Brick had something to do with the hyur agreeing to return to the tavern rather than marching into the Doctor’s estate. By his words, Shael and Brick have “got things handled” when it came to his xaela acquaintances.

And yet, something still felt off. Whatever was said to Anchor, it still didn’t satisfy him completely; the consternation upon his visage never eased. He only barely resigned himself to rest for the night. Then there was the miqo’te who seemed too sprightly for a stroll – in a dress, no less – in the middle of the night within the Nylor grounds. That in itself would have garnered a liking from the paladin, but Diya – as the miqo’te introduced herself – then proceeded to provide the details regarding the xaelas in question. Only, Roen had specifically and carefully asked about Gideon North only.

But all these details on their own didn’t warrant much more than a passing curiosity. So, why was there a nagging dissatisfaction in the back of Roen’s mind? Was it the number of guards she saw around the estate? Or the fact that something bothered Shael enough, that these details were deliberately not shared with her? Did they tell Anchor what he needed to hear to simply keep him out of trouble? The man wasn’t well enough to involve himself in any conflict as he was. Even Roen could see that clearly.

She gave the estate a look as the wagon slowly rolled past. The wealth of the place was obvious even from this distance. An expansive mansion surrounded by an immaculately maintained garden, and even with a private theater built onto its west wing. A few lights flickered from the windows of the residence, but the frame of the large home was darkly set against the white bluffs of Mist. Could something nefarious be afoot within?

Roen would have her answers in the morn. It would not be the reunion she was hoping for, but find Gideon North she must. She trusted that he, of all people, will not mince words in telling her the truth of the matter.