Looking for FFXIV RP & Connections. Check out my post, here.
Call me Souls! This is my main blog for my many characters and the many more I will likely make in the future. A place to post screenies, writing and asks etc. I have a blog for my boy, Ezie, over on @bloodredhands. OOC blog is @soulshards-ooc, for more general FFXIV content and relbogs.
All OCs Carrd Dossier
General OC Screenshot Tag
FFXIVWrite2022 Master Post
FFXIVWrite2024 Master Post
FebHYURary 2025
VierApril 2025
Auraugust 2025
OC List Below the Cut!
Awinita, The Blazing Gun: Asks || Screenshots || Carrd
Daichi, The Glitch: Asks || Screenshots || Carrd
Deeza, The Fiend of Earth: Asks || Screenshots || Carrd
Fida, The Hopeful Heart: Asks || Screenshots || Carrd
Gansu, The Shrieking Tide: Asks || Screenshots || Carrd (WIP)
Kintaro, The Golden Sun: Asks || Screenshots || Carrd
Kiros, The Rune Knight: Asks || Screenshots || Carrd (WIP)
Kura, The Jade Spirit: Asks || Screenshots || Carrd
Lee, The Thunderous Strike: Asks || Screenshots || Carrd
Maeva, The Nightmare: Asks || Screenshots || Carrd
Miahka, The Witch: Asks || Screenshots || Carrd
Nanako, The Calming Bell: Asks || Screenshots || Carrd
Rhulvan, The Desert Sapphire: Asks || Screenshots || Carrd
Takemi, The Flame Viper: Asks || Screenshots || Carrd
The Twins, The Nameless Ones: Asks || Screenshots || Carrd
It's time for a (slightly late) FFXIVwrite2025 Appreciation Post to celebrate just some of the excellent writing produced by the FFXIV Community for the event!
Ethos. An inspirational piece from @houserosaire - what will Silvaineaux hold onto when he needs that last ounce of willpower to keep on going?
Muster. Still in Ishgard, but this time at the breakfast table rather than the battlefield... A fantastic set piece from @housedeaubemarle.
Fate. A thoughtful and reflective piece by @starrysnowdrop on determinism and the freedom to choose one's own actions.
Calling by @midnightmagicks. A difficult linkpearl conversation between old friends.
Training Day. A new life requires new tactics, especially when dealing with metaphysical monstrosities. A great piece of character development from @avampyone.
Shade by @soulshards. A short, but strikingly descriptive piece, that will stay with you after reading it.
Soul. A beautifully ethereal piece of writing by @ahollowgrave. Faith and love and something else besides.
Friable by @dane-ffxiv. An exploration of persistance and determination in the face of a steep learning curve.
Brave. A touching story of a fateful meeting and the beginnings of a new connection. By @chocoblep.
Form by @ainyan. A slice of family life, involving practicing slicing with weapons and some wistful coming of age dialogue.
Dense. An unexpected encounter in the Black Shroud startles a wary Viera woman and leaves her with some unanswered questions. An atmospheric piece by @wandererxiv.
Prank by @scrollsfromarebornrealm. A touching piece, simultaneously both endearing and sad, with some intriguing backstory for a certain Paladin.
Obviously this is just a small selection of pieces from a small selection of writers, but I think these examples are definitely worth checking out. I have posted the masterlist of my own FFXIVwrite2025 stuff elsewhere on this blog, but I can say for certain that nothing I wrote came close to the quality of these fantastic writers!
Exploring an AU where Ezekiel dies, and E’mal takes his Svardagi as a memento, and faces the consequences. No I will not elaborate. No I will not apologise for how god damn long this got.
He felt the pain in his chest before his mind had caught up with what had transpired, he felt the warm trickles of blood seeping into his armour from the new hole in his body. A large hole. An injury no man should be able to keep standing from.
But here he was, breathing ragged, ears low, a vicious snarl upon red-stained lips as he reached out, a wide swipe of black claws rendering the mechanical arm from the machine in front of him. Ceruleum dripped across the floor, as here, he stood. He still stood. No man should still be standing.
Black tendrils began to shift and slither across his form, as his free hand pulled the hunk of metal from his chest. His body shuddered, slumped, leaning upon his sword as he glared at the machines still before him.
“One last time,” he uttered, spitting out a glob of crimson as the tendrils wrapped around him fully. The hulking visage of Nátta taking over his form, his mind, his body.
They had always fought over who was in charge of the vessel. They had always fought over who was above the other. They had, always, fought. Even when they were getting along, they were fighting. He’d had this curse for many years. For many years he had come to terms with the creature he was joined with; he had made deals, bargains, offerings. So many words uttered in his mind to placate the creature he called his other half.
ɎØɄ ₩Ø₦'₮ ₥₳₭Ɇ ł₮ ØɄ₮ ₳ⱠłVɆ.
“I know,” Ezekiel was barely alive as it was. He was fairly sure the only reason he was still standing now, was the tight embrace of the voidial creature whose form had taken over, holding him together, keeping all the pieces from falling out. Ezekiel could sit back, he could rest, he could close his eyes and - for perhaps, the only time, trust that Nátta would see this through. He would let him take control. “Just… get him out.”
Self sacrifice was how he had always imagined himself to go. He knew he was fated to it, that eventually, someone he cared about would need him to die so they could live. And while once upon a time he had perhaps promised to take better care of himself so that they may live together, he couldn’t let them die. Too many people relied on the Rava. Too many people loved the Rava. It would be devastating.
Should Ezekiel perish? Not many people would miss him. E’mal would mourn. He understood that. He would apologise for that, if he could. If he had the energy to speak right now. He didn’t. He hurt too much. He knew E’mal would hurt more. But he would come out of it eventually. He knew his friends would lift him up, despite the loss he may face now.
Accepting death's embrace was warm. But, it wasn’t quite over yet.
Though eyes could not open, he heard the grumbled reply of the creature surrounding him. It was a yes, in its own way. He would get E’mal out, and that was enough. With a sigh through his nose, deep within the mass of ichor, he felt his body move without thought. He wasn't moving it anymore; the creature was. He let it have the reins, as the earth shuddered with each heavy step, getting faster and faster, a roar from its wide teethed maw before it came crashing into the machines before him. Black and red magic spilled out, as Ezekiel focused all of his essence outwards - he gave it his all. He gave the creature everything he had left to rip and tear through the masses.
Ears tuned out the noise. Just get him out.
Somewhere, inside it all, through the fighting and the screeching and the explosions of ceruleum, Ezekiel could no longer open his eyes. He could no longer think. He just felt like he was floating in nothingness, as the stone around his neck would glow slightly. Another soul for the collective.
E’mal sat wide eyed, in horror, in pain. His captors dead and scattered upon the ground around him, limbs pulled free. Before him, the visage of a creature he had only seen a few times in the past. The visage he knew, deep down, would eat him alive if given the chance.
There was no one inside to pull it back, there was no one inside to claw the creature back to the void in which it belong - but here, it stood, it leered, its form shaking from the effort of trying to stay together with no host, before crouching low to scoop up E’mal.
“Ezie?” Came his voice, weak from all the shouting to be let free. Arms weak from all the fighting to break free. It wasn’t his fault it turned out this way, he was vastly outnumbered, and not built to fight the masses like Ezekiel was. Like Nátta was.
The creature only growled lowly, its only attempt at communicating the Rava had been heard. Even if the Viera struggled in the clutches of the beast, he would scoop him off, and turn away. Out of this hellhole of blood and gore - out of all the misery. It would thump along, holding E’mal carefully. The Rava settled, soon enough, sniffling softly. “Ezie, I’m so glad you’re okay- I saw.. I thought I saw…” he rambled, weak hands reaching up to the creature's face. He knew, beneath it all, the Veena was there.
He hoped he was. Nátta just let out another low growl.
ł'₥ ₴ØⱤⱤɎ.
E’mal inhaled sharply, once they were out of the wrecked Castrum and into the cool, dark night, he began to wiggle and fidget, pushing against the monster's grasp. “Hey - hey - Let me down! What did you do, Nátta? Where is Ezie?”
Nátta released him to the ground, far more gently than he would have in the past. He crouched low till E’mal’s feet touched the ground, and the Rava scrambled away, stomping his foot defiantly. “Give him back! You know the rules!” E’mal voice wavered a little bit, the sinking feeling in his stomach only growing. Were things okay, Nátta would have dropped him on the floor with a cackle. But things were not okay.
The heart inside him was no longer beating.
The creature, whose features were often twisted into manic glee, looked… sad. Almost. Its eyes were not blinking out of unison, its maw not hanging wide to drip saliva and ichor with each panting breath. Its head hung low, its body weak and fading.
ł'₥ ₴ØⱤⱤɎ, Ⱡł₮₮ⱠɆ Ⱡ₳₥฿.
Before E’mal could protest again, tendrils began to unwind, fading into nothingness as it did. They slithered away like an injured puppy, unfurling around the form of Ezekiel. His eyes still shut, his chest not moving. He looked pale - he always looked pale - but somehow, more. Colder. His head hung forward as his face was freed, and as carefully as the creature could, he eased them both down to the ground before it disappeared entirely - back into its host. Back into the nothingness.
Black armour was littered across the ground like an oilspill, bloodied hands unmoving in the dirt. White hair a tangled mess, blessed across the furred shoulders of his armour as the man lay there - dead. Eyes that would never open again, lips that would never part to speak his name.
He thought himself unkillable. Many had tried, many had failed. His counterpart usually pulled him to relative safety before it could get that bad - perhaps, this time, his luck had just run out. Or maybe it was just finally his time.
E’mal wobbled where he stood, blinking once, then twice, before scrambling forward to the Veena upon the ground. “Ezie?” He spoke softly, his voice thick with tears that teetered over the edges of his lids. “E- Ezie… Ezekiel…” hands came to his shoulders, giving him a small shake. They came to his hair, pushing it off his face, even as he lay forward upon the ground. “No, no, no no…” the panic set in. The fear. The terror. Hands reached out, magic weaving around his fingers to send a healing warmth to the man he loves. The man he loved.
“Please, please don’t - don’t be… we were…” Eyes blurred over as tears streamed down his cheeks, fingers trembling as he focused on the magic, feeding it into wounds that could not heal. His good eye flicked about, over his form, trying to see the damage - and there, he saw it. The gaping hole in which had brought Ezekiel to his end.
His voice caught in his throat with a sob, the magic fading out as he leaned forward to shift the heavy man. Somehow, even in his grief, he managed to nudge him enough to bring his head into his lap as sobs began to wrack his form. It hurt to cry. But he couldn’t stop it, he couldn’t stop the tears as they streamed down his cheeks and his pained cries echoed through the wilds.
Help would come, eventually. They would pry E’mal away from Ezekiel’s corpse. They would sooth him, as much as one could, and take him back to Gridania. The healers would help carry Ezekiel with them. E’mal didn’t stray too much from his side.
The next few days were a blur, a statue in motion as people moved around him, preparing the body - trying to pull free his armour before a pained “No!” left the Rava. He knew Ezekiel wouldn’t want that.
All he could do was sit there, waiting, as they cleaned him up - they brushed his hair - E’mal no longer had the energy to tell them he wouldn’t want that, either. He was given what belongings the man had upon him that were not his armour. A set of keys to his cabin, any gil he had on him, a necklace with two dog tags attached sitting next to the Svardagi - what Ezekiel had come to explain was his people's equivalent to a soulstone - and his sword.
E’mal didn’t know how he was going to carry it home. But, he would. It might take him an age, but he would.
He returned to the cabin that Ezekiel had built. Their home, but now, without him, it didn’t feel like home. It didn’t feel warm, it didn’t feel full of love. It was cold and empty - it was no longer his. But, E’mal couldn’t leave. He couldn’t leave the cabin he had built. The home they had made of it together, for a short while at least. He could only curl up in the bed and cry, clutching tight the only belongings of his beloved he had left.
An aching heart, his body curling in agony from the sobs that just would not stop, his eyes red and puffy from all the tears he had cried. E’mal wasn’t sure how long it had been, it felt like days, curled up here and grieving. It wasn’t supposed to end this way. They were supposed to be happy, they were supposed to get married. They were supposed to live a long life together.
It was these thoughts that would drift him off to sleep, in pained bliss, warm furs over his form as the small stone was clutched in his palm. The stone that looked like unmelting ice, but was twisted and corrupted from time and agony. Not all of it Ezekiel’s, but, a lot of it his all the same.
It was here in his slumber he began to hear it. The whispering voices of many men, from a long time past. Whispering of failures, of torments. Visions of cold, snowy mountains rolling through his mind. Places he did not recognise, but felt familiar, all the same. He saw how all these men had died - cut down upon the mountains, eaten alive by rogue beasts, swords piercing their hearts in hard fought battles. Between them all, he saw the visage of Ezekiel through someone else's eyes - it seemed like Ezekiel. Shorter, younger, a spring to his step. He looked up at the man, before charging forward in a viscous growl.
Before weapons would collide, E’mal awoke with a gasp. Still crying in his sleep, sniffling to clear his nose, a hand rubbed at his face at the pain in the back of the skull. The whispers lingered beneath it all. The voices of a dozen angry men barking and screaming to be heard. To be seen. To live, to fight, to die all over again.
You’re a failure. Why didn’t you tell her you loved her? Ⱡł₮₮ⱠɆ Ⱡ₳₥฿. All you do is let people down. Why did you kill him? Look at how you failed those around you. Ⱡł₮₮ⱠɆ Ⱡ₳₥฿.You should have said goodbye. You’re good for nothing. You deserted your people. You’re good for no one. Ⱡł₮₮ⱠɆ Ⱡ₳₥฿. Go back to the Mountains to finish the fight. Go back, go back, to die.
All their pain spilled out in his mind, all of it turned inward. The voices joined together until they were no longer indistinguishable, until they just sounded like E’mal, though a creeping voice stood out from the rest. A flicker of a distorted voice.
Is this what Ezekiel had to deal with, with the magic he wielded? The constant pain of all those who came before you? All their regrets? All their fears? The nagging voice of a creature who craved violence at all costs? E’mal laughed to himself, just a little. A sad sort of laugh.
“That explains so much, Ezie,” he could only utter to the room, as ears flickered and he shook his head, trying to shake out the thoughts with the motion. It wasn’t as easy as that, he found. Fingers held the shard up, sighing to himself. He was getting a headache; though he wasn’t sure if it was from all the crying, or the voices in his head.
The days drifted by. E’mal lingered around the cabin, touching the projects left unfinished in Ezekiel’s workshop, ignoring the linkpearl calls that would come through to check on him. He needed time, he was still grieving. But, he would also come back to that stone. He held it in his palm like it held all the secrets to the world he would never get answers for.
Why him? Why now? Why couldn’t it have been me?
Though it was twisted and tainted, though it held the voices of a dozen scorned men, it was still Ezekiel’s. It was still a part of him that he could feel close too. E’mal would keep it on his person until the end of days, as a reminder to Ezekiel, and to all the men who had held it before him.
The shard shimmered softly as the light caught it, and he felt the warmth tingle in his hands.
Another soul for the collective.
The voices grew louder over these coming days, angrier, more precise. A swarm of memories mixing with his own, now, as he sat upon a chair in the kitchen. They no longer spoke of their own regrets, but of E’mals. They mocked and prodded and pried, like they could see into his own mind without so much as asking. The Rava’s eyes widened, a slight horror taking over his features as, it seemed with his silent vow - he had accepted the duty of the stone. He was next to wield its power, as great as it may be, it was also dark. It was terrible. It was scary to hold onto the stone.
And even as he dropped it to the table in his horror, he could hear them all clear as day. And then, slowly, above it all, he felt a cold slither across his shoulder. But when he looked, there was nothing there. But he could feel it creeping across his whole body like he was about to be engulfed and dragged through the mattress itself. Tears began to well up again.
ⱧɆⱠⱠØ, Ⱡł₮₮ⱠɆ Ⱡ₳₥฿.
Like the wind caressing his ear, above all the voices, he heard it. He heard the creature called Nátta whisper in the back of his mind, clearer than ever. Like it was a part of his own consciousness, his own thoughts spilling out. He didn’t even need to open his mouth for his reply to be heard.
Oh, fuck this.
He heard the gleeful cackle from the creature, clearer and clearer with each passing moment. It began to snuff out the other voices, burying them beneath its presence.
₩Ⱨ₳₮, ɎØɄ ĐØ₦'₮ ₩₳₦₮ ₮Ø ฿Ɇ ₣ⱤłɆ₦Đ₴?
Leave me alone.
E’mal sighed, reaching to pick up the shard and hold it in his hands again. A blanket he had left draped over the back of the chair was pulled around his shoulders as he stood. He tried to block the voice out. He tried, desperately. To think of anything else.
Leave me alone. Leave me alone. Just. Leave me alone, please.
Nátta continued his taunting, his whispering, his mutters of death and destruction and telling E’mal to get up, to leave, to fight. To let him feed. Please, please, let him feed. He’ll be quiet if he gets to feed.
And then, like a blinding light through the darkness, he heard another voice. Even louder, even stronger, even clearer. A worn out voice, scraped from years of snarls and growls, yet warm all the same. A soothing voice, a gentle voice, only for E’mal.
07. BLIND ∙ FFXIV WRITE 2025
Character: Ezekiel (@bloodredhands)
Words: 642 ∙ cw: none
ft. mentions of @midnightmagicks's E'mal
Ezekiel had spent much of his life relying on his hearing. And it was a long life to rely upon it for, so it did, over time, become quite acute. He could pinpoint heartbeats, here the clouds distant rumbles as rain dared to fall upon the horizon.
The Veena’s eyesight was poor. Though he could see - it was all blurs of colours and shapes. The village healers said it was to do with how he was born; different. As a babe he would stumble into things others would not. He had a hard time recalling faces. His parents were not pale, and they suspected something had gone wrong with him.
The child didn’t seem to mind. He soon learned people from their footsteps or their voices. He could hear a hunt before the others could even see it. Where they thought he would fail in being a Guardian, he proved in fact, he could be better.
Yes, he was clinically blind, but that did not stop the young Ezekiel. It spurred him on to train himself to be better, to recognise what shapes were friend or foe. It made him want to be better, despite the shortcomings placed upon him.
He could hardly see. He would not be a burden. He could never be a burden. So he trained, and trained, and trained, until he could hear those first drops of rain spill out of the clouds - until he could hear every heartbeat of the people in his village. He trained until he could hear even the slightest of hesitations in someone's movements, in order to strike hard and fast. Having poor eyesight would not have him be a burden.
He thought himself a burden, anyways - he failed. He failed his home and his family. But the use of his ears continued on. Through every fight, every battle under the Garlean banner, though every hardship he faced - the man relied solely upon his hearing to live. The explosion that made his head right despite not being close to them, the screams and cries for mercy--
Ezekiel would continue. Eyes closed, as if blocking out the sights before him entirely would help imbed it less into his memory. It didn’t.
Though, he found, it helped him focus. Focus less on those noises and on more distant sounds that were unrelated to the horrors he was enacting upon innocent men and women in the name of a people he did not believe in, not belong with. So, despite leaving that life - long after he should have died - his eyes stayed closed as often as he could. So ears could pinpoint those distant sounds, and not those close to him. To focus less on his own thoughts, and more of the world. To focus on anything else, but now.
Eventually, the now become more important than those distant noises. The now became something he wanted to pay a little closer attention to, despite, well, everything. Over time, he found he couldn’t keep that weakened gaze away from a certain Rava. He couldn’t help but watch, even if it was a blur, the way in which they moved or danced. The way ears would wiggle when they were happy, or slump when they were sad. He made an effort to use his gaze, despite the ache behind his eyes from the strain. Despite the fact he could tell what the man was doing with his eyes closed, from his hearing alone. Despite the fact he could hear the way in which the mans heart fluttered in his chest. Despite how he could hear the way in which his tone would change in those subtle ways, when something was wrong. He didn’t need to look at E’mal at all.
But, despite all that, he still wished to look upon the face of the man he loved anyways.
The room was dimly lit, candles flickering from the counters they were placed upon. Bukhoor smoke drifted across the ceiling, calming and soothing the many people in the room. Plush cushions littered the loungers and brightly coloured rugs, with many bodies lazing among them. Enjoying a drink, a quiet word with a scantily clad associate and daring glances across the room, to garner each other's attention. It was peaceful, in a way, as the musician in the corner continued to play upon his stringed instrument; a light and playful tune to match the atmosphere.
Rhulvan headed through upon silent feet, his robe barely held together across his muscled form with golden tassels. Chains and jewels hanging from around his neck and arms as leporine feet trailed him across the room, a slight twinkle of the jewellery the only sound of his presence. Two drinks in hand, an easy smile upon his lips.
The patron sat in a booth in the corner, away from the light chatter of the room, a hungry gaze upon the Viera as they approached; Rhulvan smiled a little too softly, a little too smugly, as he slipped into the booth beside the gentleman. An elbow on the table, his back to the room, his fire-like gaze upon the Highlander before him, and quiet words would begin to be whispered between the two. The soft touch of hands, smoothing and straightening out the others' garbs as they grew closer in the booth.
The sounds of the lute drifted through the room, the acoustics carrying it along without a flaw in its sound; though blue fluffed ears cared little for the tune, and would drown out the noise as Rhulvan focused entirely upon the man before him, fingers brushing by one another as he reached for his drink.
Note: This story involves themes of SA, please do not read if you may find that triggering.
It had taken months of planning. It had taken months of placidity, months of pretending to do what they’re told in order to let their owners drop their guard, just a little. It had taken months of getting ordered around, beaten on, and used like a plaything.
The crew would have acted sooner, if they thought it would have worked. For Deeza alone, they would have done it sooner. They saw what the Keeper was going through. They saw them getting thrown into their locked barracks of a night, barely able to stand or think. Bloodied and bruised from trying to fight back each time. But if they were too quick, too foolish, someone - all of them - could die. They would have done it sooner, if they knew it would ruin their life. But they didn’t, they couldn't know.
So they had planned carefully, even if it took way too long. The cook spiked the food and drinks. The deckhands spilled oil upon the floor when cleaning. The weaponsman loaded guns with dodgy bullets.
O Captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done.
They waited until it was late in the evening, where stomachs would start twisting and aching, when their captors would stutter and stumble from drinks a little too hard, they waited until the Captain was occupied.
They didn’t want to use it as a distraction. Their hearts ached at the very thought. But they knew if the Captain of this ship was otherwise occupied, the groups chances were much, much easier. It hurt to think about. So, they didn’t. They focused on the task at hand.
The task of sneaking from below the ship to the upper deck, bodies low to the ground, sticking close to the walls as the Crew made their way up. Silent hand signals, from the First Mate - a lean Hyur with dark hair, and darker eyes, and heavy nags underneath them. Despite it all, he had stayed the leader. He had stayed the plotter, the glue that kept them all together in these turbulent times - despite the fact that many would consider the actions of their Captain to be enough justification for the man to break. No one would have blamed him, if he just drank, and drank, and drank until he drank himself to death.
Instead, he was there now, with a simple shiv in his hand at the front of the group as they ventured up the stairs. The boat swayed and shifted in the waves, on a steady course, wind strong in its sails, smooth enough that they could ascend up without stumbling.
The lanterns lit the deck, basking salted wood in a dull orange hue, as the men and women of Deeza’s crew prepared to strike. It was quiet upon the deck.
Cole, the First Mate, signalled with his hand for the others to stay low as he slipped around the door and to the bottom of the stairs, just out of sight of the Cull’s First Mate, who was on the night shift, while the Captain was…distracted. A small whistle was given, and from the doors burst the rest of the crew while Cole stayed out of sight. Make-shift weapons on hand, a couple of guns they had smuggled from the weapons lockers pulled free, and any man upon the top deck was soon face to face with an angry, tired and worn out captive.
The man behind the helm roared out the order to fight, to kill, as Cole slinked further up the stairs - just as the larger Highlander jammed the wheel in place before hurrying down to the deck, unsheathing his sword. He did not, however, make it very far as Cole jumped out from his huddled up position, and quickly silenced him with a few hurried shanks of the shiv, and a slammed fist to the temple.
Below deck, footsteps started to scurry and scatter as they made their way up top to see what all the shouting was about; they were soon descended upon by Deeza’s crew. Freedom in their hearts, murder in their fists. Anything to get out.
In the Captain’s Quarters, Deeza was left hardly lucid, a thick smog in the room as the larger man sniffed and grumbled, pulling on an overcoat as he headed for the door, gun in hand. Two dark eyes squinted and tried to focus upon the visage of the man as he disappeared up some stairs and into the night. Ears twitched, a groan leaving them, as they rolled onto their back with a hiss. Their head was foggy, thoughts a swirling mess as they tried to push themselves up to sit - only to fall back flat on the messy bed, a twitch shooting through their arm before exhaling.
Here was fine.
Maybe the ship was being attacked - by other slavers, pirates, or even the law had finally caught up to the Culls and their ways. Maybe it was a coup. Anything was probably better than what sweet hell they existed in now.
A few gunshots were heard, louder now, closer than the distant bangs heard upon the upper deck. Like down the hallway, echoing through the wooden walls, as yelling and shouting continued up top.
Eventually, a shadow would come to block the light in the doorway. Deeza whimpered, a hand coming to cover their eyes and a soft, pleading, “No” leaving dark tiers as they shifted to curl up on their side. “Please… don’t.”
The form that entered the room came much more gently than the one who had just left. Their footsteps quieter, as if not to disturb the Keeper, and a soft hand reached out to their shoulder. Deeza flinched away, tears starting to pool over lids.
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won.
“Dee, s’okay, it’s me,” a softer voice came. A familiar voice. A deep and warm voice, that would sing soothing songs to the Keeper when they had trouble sleeping. Eyes peeled open, still not quiet there, not quite able to focus, but Dee could see those bright green eyes looking upon their face with nothing but love and concern, and specks of blood on his cheek.
Dee’s chest began to heave, gasping for breaths they could barely take as their naked form scrambled towards the Midlander, wrapping weak arms around him as they began to sob. They didn’t know what was going on up there, but they assumed - they could feel it, really, the relief. The relief in the young man's gaze as he wrapped Deeza into his arms and a sheet around their form.
“It’ll be okay,” he mumbled against her shoulder, nodding softly, as if he could hardly believe his own words.
Slowly, after the Keepers tears had subsided, he helped them get dressed. Carefully offering out a shirt and some pants, and helping put on their shoes. Eyes clenched shut, opening again, trying to get some clarity back into their brain. It came slowly, but it was all coming back. Even if the memories of the night were coming with it.
Deeza would come to block those parts out, sooner or later, but the Midlander would offer a hand out for Dee, as he made to leave the room. They had to step over the body of the Captain to make it to the stairs, but soon they were ascending up to the sound of silence.
Upon the top deck, men and women alike stood, faces bloodied and bruised. Weapons dropped to the floor, and bodies by their feet. Their heads would raise, seeing Deeza and the Midlander - the man they called Jack - emerge from the darker depths of the vessel. The relief was palpable see the Keeper was okay. A cautious glance passed over all the faces of their crew. Their family, before turning to see Cole behind the wheel. He gave the pair a small nod, as he began charting a course to home.
It would be wrong to say that now was not a time to celebrate. But it felt wrong to even try. It felt wrong to drink, and be merry, despite the hardships they had overcome. It felt wrong to do anything else, but sit there in silence, as they watched the clouds go by in the dark blue skies, as the sun began to gleam over the horizon.
In its own way, that was the celebration. A celebration of peace. Finally, peace.
Deeza could still, to this day, recall the taste. They could recall that drifting feeling that came with each, deep, inhale of the blissful smoke that would drift from their old, worn out pipe.
A fist smashed against their jaw, disorientating their brain for a moment, even as they tried to move with the strike to lessen its impact as much upon their face.
They could barely recall the days in between, memories lost to a painful addiction of their youth. One not chosen, but thrust upon them to keep them hazy, quiet, isolated. Fingers still shook, when they weren’t really paying attention, when thoughts were elsewhere and hands were fussing around in idle manner. Their fingers would still tremble, as if reaching for something that was no longer there. That hadn’t been there in years.
Fingers would tremble now, as worn out fists would collide with the face of the Highlander before them, bone cracking beneath the impact as skin was split with the might of their strike. Their chest heaved with the effort, sweat dripping from tattered hair as another strike followed the first, an uppercut to the jaw to send him flailing back to the ground in pain.
The whispers of that voice, lingering in the back of their mind. More. You need more. You will always, always, need more.
“C’mon then, you fuck!” The Keeper bellowed out above that whispering voice, bloodied knuckles tensing, flexing, before a swift turn and a duck had them dodge the swing of the foe behind them.
It had gotten better over time, of course. It got easier to quell the cravings of addiction. They had begun to fill their time with physical activity in those first few months, something they were always interested in, but their form was bolstered by the sheer need to do something - anything - that wasn’t sitting and sucking on that Somnus pipe. Muscles amassed, strong arms getting more solid, defined, as they spent every waking moment working or fighting. Some would say they had only replaced one vice with another. Deeza would scoff at the idea.
As they raised their hulking form up, eyes sparked with that deep, heated rage they kept bubbling beneath the surface. The rage that had consumed them for all too long. The rage and fear and pain that had pushed them to keep going, all this time. A wicked grin slipped over painted lips, flashing blood stained fangs from the blow to the face they had sustained before. A quick dart forward had their shoulder collide with the Roegadyn woman, slamming her frame into the wall behind them, the wood creaking from the momentum as it dared to crack with the force. Fists curled back up, coming to repeatedly slam into the core of the muscled woman, jabbing her in quick succession in the side as the Roe’s elbow came to slam down upon Deeza’s spine.
It was nothing like the pain of getting clean. The feeling of wanting to tear your own skin from your body as it felt like a thousand needles were being pushed into every fibre. The sweat, the heat, the need to throw up with nothing to come out. The convulsions of muscles contracting and relaxing without will or want.
An irritated growl left them, but their grip did not loosen. If anything, it grew tighter, pushing on the woman firmer into the wall behind them before shifting their weight, knees slightly bending, before pushing away from the ground to send the Roegadyn over the Keepers shoulder and into the ground in a rough tumble of limbs. By now, the Highlander was back on his feet.
The pain helped. Each punch to the face, each blade to body or fang to bone, it helped scratch the constant itch they felt beneath dark skin. It helped distract from the feeling of nerves on fire. It was wreckless, mind. It was stupid. It was an equally dark path they found themselves walking down. The hit of adrenaline could be equally as addictive, they found. In a different way to their old addiction. But they kept going, just trying to get a fix or something, anything, that wasn’t the very thing that nearly killed them not long ago. The very thing that killed their relationships with friends and partners alike. The very thing that had them leave the only place that ever really felt like home, because it pained them too much to see how they were hurting those around them.
But at least here, in the ring, the voices that trickled in the back of their mind telling them to get just one more hit were shut out by the leers and cheers of the crowd. By the yelping and the booing, by the commentary of the action, in these less than legal circles. At least here, they could hurt and hurt and hurt again, only to get back up, and keep going. When all bets were on, Deeza liked their odds.
They were better than what they used to be, anyways.
Ears flickered atop their head, as the Highlander came fast and hard to strike at the Keeper, a reckless rush in an attempt to break their defensive stance quickly to just get one potshot in. Fists barely grazed the toneed abdomen of the Miqo’te, as their own hand reached out to grip his arm, turning and twisting to bring him over their shoulder and throw him towards the wall that was desperately trying to stay together despite the onslaught of the Keeper.
It was hard. It had been five, six years? Since they kicked that habit. They’d lost track. They’d fallen off the wagon one too many times. They’d lost count of how many times they’d tried. They didn’t count how long it had been since their last hit - they tried not to, anyways. Even if it was there, always lingering, in the back of their mind. Even now, as the referee of the match would count down.
Three…
Two…
One…
Just one more hit.
Wide shoulders would rise and fall in deep pants, blood trickling down their nose as that mismatched gaze would flicker from one opponent to the other - neither of them, seemingly, in a rush to get back up. The crowd cheered. The crowd chanted their name. The crowd stomped and shook the floor of the arena as the violence they so craved had been displayed before them in feats of hand-to-hand strength. Their gaze shifted to the proprietor of the ring, as they gazed down into the pit with a smug little grin. The smug little grin of a man who was getting what he wanted; money, and a show.
The Keeper had seen that grin too many times, from another man, with another face - a face they barely remembered, really. But it was the face and the hands of the man who would give them their supply, whenever they came crawling back for more. Deeza had wiped that smug little grin from his face not so long ago, in some form of vengeance. The man who ran the fighting rings, at least, they didn’t want to pummel into the dirt.
Deeza sneered right back, their own grin smug, proud, powerful. They were getting what they wanted. A few hours of mindless violence to quell the vice they had kicked long, long ago. They inhaled, deeply, eyes closing for a moment as they focused - centered themself - revelling in the way their skin tingled from the lingering flames upon their nerves and the pain from all the bruises, and the adrenaline that coursed through their system.
“ANOTHER ONE,” Deeza’s voice rang out, clear between the crowds, as medics came to drag the two contenders out of harm's way - and, The Fiend stood, waiting, bouncing from one foot to another, as the gate would rise to release another foe for them to scrap with.
The link-pearl sat between finger and thumb, pressed gently into the pads of her fingers as the Xaela rolled it around idly in thought, an absent gaze upon the fire before her in the cold, Ishgardian manor.
A low hum left her throat, as with a sigh, the linkpearl was tucked away as footsteps approached behind where she was sat, a hand that had begun to grip a little too firmly, resting on her shoulder.
“Who were you calling?” The man's voice came, while soft and gentle, the accusations were there - lingering - beneath the service.
Miahka blinked, head giving a soft shake, before leaning back to regard the Midlander with her winning smile. “Ah, no one, my dear.” The words were spoken soothingly, a clawed hand coming to rest upon his own as he squeezed her shoulder, before slipping away to the drinks cabinet by the fireplace. A glass was procured, a bottle of whiskey, and a glance cast to his wife with an eyebrow raised in question.
She gave a small shake of her head, claws idly motioning to the glass of wine that was sat by her chair, with a light, pleasant smile in place. The same one she always wore in his presence. Despite the tension she could feel; by the way his shoulders tensed, and he gripped the bottle a little too tightly.
Crystalline eyes watched his form, a brief bored expression passing over her features with the man's back turned, before she pushed herself from her seat in a silent motion, tail whisking behind her as heels clicked upon the floor to sound her approach. Hands would come to wrap around the man's waist, fingers trailing over his lean form, as her chin would rest between the Hyur’s shoulderblades.
“What’s wrong?” She’d ask, ever the doting wife, as she felt him tense just a little in her grasp. He stayed still for a moment, perhaps part of him reveling in her touch, in some way or another, before he began to turn slowly. The Xaela’s arms unwound from him, letting him move to face her, as her head gave a small tilt to the side.
Samson, was, somewhat aloof most days. It was why she had picked him. She had put herself in his line of sight with intention - he was smart, there was no doubt about that. He was an excellent merchant and had brought success to his House's name. But, he was not the most perceptive. It was a quality she had picked up on early in their days of courting, and had used it to her advantage over the years.
But, over the years, things had changed. Either he had come to realise there was a slither of ice to her gaze at the best of times, or others had pointed out the way in which she conducted herself, to sow some seeds of doubt amongst his mind. Not because they at all realised she was lying to their faces, as she had gotten very good with that mask, but more that some of the higher rungs of Nobility still, despite the change amongst Ishgard, still loathed the idea of a Xaela being in their circles.
The Midlander let out a sigh, a hand reaching up to cusp Miahka’s chin. “Have you been in my study recently?” He asked, a harder edge to his tone.
Most days he was kind. That was another reason she had picked him. He was kind, he was kind to her, he doted upon her like any loving husband would.
But, over the years, things had changed.
“I popped in to get some wax for a correspondence I needed to send, why? Is there aught amiss in there?” Her brows furrowed out of practiced worry. It would not be the first time she had turned the blame upon one of their servants, and had them dismissed from their employ. It would not be the last time.
His thumb brushed over her bottom lip for a moment, before Samson’s hand dropped to his side. His gaze flicked up to the open door of the library Miahka had originally settled in, then back down to her crystalline orbs. “Do not lie to me, Miah.”
The shorthand version of her name that she loathed him saying. To make her sound more Eorzean, no doubt, but she took it in stride. She always did. “I’m not lying to you, Sam.”
“Someone has been through my desk.”
“Well, it was not me,” Miahka huffed, eyes rolling, before she turned away from him.
Samson’s arm snapped out a little too quickly to her wrist, stopping her from getting more than a step away, as he moved closer to shorten that gap.
“Let go of me,” the words seethed out, but spoken quietly. Despite everything. Despite the touches that were no longer soft and gentle, or the gaze that was no longer warm and loving, Miahka did her best to keep up their appearances. That they were happy. They were in love. In a way, he did love her. But he loved her in the way a man loves an object, not a person. He loved her in the way she was a prize upon his arm, an exotic being, to help him get stronger connections in his trade routes outside of Ishard. His wife was a Xaela, how open minded. He loved her in the way that she was his, and no one else's.
So he knew, anyway. That part she was very good at keeping a secret.
He did not love the idea of her snooping around his desk, his study, as not all of his business was above board.
She already knew that, of course. She did not need to snoop in their house to know that. Then again, she had been snooping around his desk in order to get copies of certain incriminating documents to add to her plethora of evidence to use against him, should the time come. But she was very practiced in leaving everything how she had found it. She was, at least, certain this was not her doing. This time.
Samson pulled on her arm a little holder, pulling her closer, his gaze turning into a small leer. “You are lying to me, Miah. I thought we had talked about this.”
Miahka’s jaw clenched. Her clawed fingers twitched, glimmers of magic daring to swirl around her fingertips. She could, quite easily, burn him alive. Some days she really wanted to. Some days she wanted to burn their entire house down.
But she had made a promise to someone else, that if she is to get out, she is to do it the right way. The way that doesn’t get her locked up or executed as the Witch she once was. The way that allows her to be happy, and to live again.
Miahka gave a small nod, the magic retracting back into her claws, her features softening as she made herself smaller - somehow. “I promise you, my love, I am not lying to you,” she stood still in his grasp. Not pulling away. Not fighting against him.
Her answer was not good enough, it seemed, as his free hand reached up and in a motion so swift - perhaps he had not even meant to do it himself - his palm came to smack against her face in a hard, slapping sound.
The Xaela flinched, eyes starting to well up from the sting of pain across her cheek, her senses a little clouded and a small yelp leaving her. This caused his hand to snap to her face again, gripping her jaw and covering her mouth so she couldn’t make any more noises for the others in the House to hear.
“You keep lying to me. I know you are. I know you slink around this house when I am not here like you own it. You are only here because of me, do you understand that?”
Miahka stood still in her defiance. Her eyes widened a little - not out of fear, not out of real fear. She knew if nothing else, she was not in any real danger at this moment. She was more than capable of looking out for herself. She just didn’t want him to know that. So, as always, she acted the demure and hapless wife. But she would not nod her head to his words; that, she refused. She was here because of herself, and no one else.
“Do you understand that, Miahka?” The words came louder, almost a shout - enough for the others to hear him raising his voice at his beloved wife. Enough for them to stay away from the open door, and to whisper between themselves at how angry the Baron was getting. Enough to help her keep fueling her plans of freedom.
Tears pooled over her lids, landing upon the edge of his hand as he kept it wrapped firmly around her mouth and jaw. After a moment, a moment too long, she gave a singular nod.
His hand released from her jaw, after giving Miahka a small shove in the motion, and she stepped a little away from him, tail curling to wrap around herself.
The redness from his strike would begin to form over her glamour, the bruising starting to bleed around the edges of her jaw as she forced the damage to be visible above the illusion she wore, as those crystalline eyes peered at him in a dull, placid, way. Beneath it all, however, a silent fury. A rage that she could barely contain as she stared at the man she had begun to loathe for years now.
“Cover that up,” Samson muttered, as he turned back to finish filling his glass.
Miahka scoffed, a reflexing noise that was not at all supposed to come out, and for a brief moment she did freeze up. Shit.
His rage was a little less contained, as Samson turned back to her in an instant, the glare upon his kind face uncharacteristic - mean, twisted, full of fury. “I said cover that up.”
Miahka slinked back away from him, lips parting in a soft gasp as she expected him to strike her once more. This time, he didn’t. This time he just stared hard at her, until she gave a small nod of her head, and turned off to go and tidy herself up elsewhere.
As she left the room, the linkpearl she had been toying with before was fished out from her pocket and held in her palm. Swallowing hard as she stepped through the empty halls of their Manor to the powder room, trying to stop her fingers from shaking, before it was tucked away once more. Not now. As much as she wanted to, as much as she needed to, not now.
It would only make matters worse if she was to disappear for the night. That call she so desperately wished to make would have to wait; for now.
Wide eyes watched as the house moved with life - people she somewhat recognised, faces she had passed in the street when walking with her parents. Merchants from the markets, Priests and Shrinemaidens, farmers and anyone and everyone. People her parents knew closely, and people she knew in passing.
Nanako was confused, mostly, as she stood near her grandmother and held onto her dress with small hands. While their home was suddenly alive with people, even at her age, she could feel the tension. She could feel the unease in the room, as people mumbled here and there, saying words she didn’t understand. Invasion. Forces. Imperials.
The young Raen caught a glimpse of her father, usually so tall and proud - proud of his village, of his home, of his family - was slightly hunched over at the table with a drink in hand, a solemn expression upon his features as he spoke to the other farmhands who huddled around him. He couldn’t quite look over at the face of his daughter, as she lingered on the edges of the room. He only glanced to her grandmother, giving the woman a look that Nanako didn’t quite understand. Her grandmother seemed to ignore it, as she merely gave Nanako a small pat on the head when the red-headed girl peered up at her elder.
“...wha’s going on?”
“Just a town meeting, dear.” The older woman said with a gentle smile, as gentle as she could, even if Nanako could see the glimmer of worry even in her eyes. The small girl furrowed her brow, olive eyes searching around the room once more for sight of her mother. She stood in the corner, caught up in a quiet conversation.
The child's brows furrowed even more, before settling back on her father. He looked sad. He looked tired. He looked worn out. The young Nanako pulled away from her grandmother to slip through the legs of all the people in her home, bumping into a few here and there, as she was only small, before she was soon at the legs of her father - and, somewhat rudely - crawling herself into his lap before he could even protest the idea.
His smile got a little brighter seeing her appear before him, one hand putting down his glass, the other reaching to help pull his daughter up. Hands then fussed, sorting out her clothing, smoothing out her hair, wiping a smudge of dirt she had gained from being out in the gardens off her cheek. Nanako grinned wide, uncoordinated hands reaching to try and do the same for him - though, much less practised, and much less accurate, she likely just made his hair worse. The man didn’t seem to mind.
“Okay?” She’d ask him, in a small voice, as if aware that everyone in the room was speaking quietly and therefore she should, too. Her father nodded softly, settling Nanako in his lap to hold her closely, sighing softly as he pressed his horn against her own, little ones, still bound up while they grew.
“I’m okay now, Peach,” he’d mumble just for her. “For you, I’ll be brave.”
Gave the hub Carrd a big update, better character visibility, and added all the new blorbos I've created recently with bios!!! Not everyone has an individual carrd because I'm not that insane, right?
Scarred fingers curled into the dirt, feeling the dew that had begun to gather upon the grass and soil. Arms trembled, weak, struggling to keep himself from landing face first on the floor - as knees dug into the ground from the strain of staying here, now, hunched over and weeping from eyes that could not even see the glorious sight before him.
Lungs burned with each cold, crisp breath of fresh air that entered them. Like a fire in his chest, setting alight his very fibres. As here, in the shadows of the trees, the sun began to rise and light began to spill across the ground and cast a gentle warmth over those withered and wounded hands.
A warmth they had not felt in so long. A warmth they didn’t think they could feel again.
Here, in the shade of the lush green canopy, he had finally found freedom.
