Ingredients Required and Instructions for a Feminizing Unguent
Two sprigs of Matron’s mistletoe three sprigs
One onze of linseed oil
A small cup of mugwort leaves
A cup of urine from a pregnant aldgoat sheep works better
A thimble of formic acid
Muddle the mugwort and mistletoe together in a mortar, with a pestle, until the leaves turn dark green and give off a distinct aroma
Add the oil. Add half the oil, reserving the other half for later.
Continue to muddle until a paste forms. white specks, from mist.t
In a sanitized glass beaker, combine urine and acid.
sheep urine will foam scrape foam off
Let sit in sun for two bells. The urine will lose it’s colour and half it’s volume.
Scrape the paste into the beaker. Let the paste fall to the bottom in clumps.
DO NOT MIX OR DISTURB
Let paste sit in the bottom of beaker of urine-acid solution for another two bells.
Strain the paste from the solution. Mix with reserved oil.
Store in a tightly-closed container.
Apply once a heaping finger daily to the inner thigh. Alternate sides every day.
Now comes what I think will be the most difficult portion of my life thus far to articulate. It seems to me the most feeble and useless struggle; a fight against my birth. I wonder if my energy would much better be spent on my academic pursuits or betterment, but as time has gone on my anxieties regarding my gender at birth have grown larger and more furious.
It wasn’t apparent to me for most of my growing years. I was a happy child, a happy boy. I didn’t partake in stereotypically masculine activities such as ball games or rough-housing. I wasn’t interested in stereotypically feminine activities either. I enjoyed reading and writing, as my father had taught me, and I kept to myself. In my appearance, I found no flaw, though I will admit I wore my hair longer than any Ul’dahn merchant’s son would. I was comfortable in the androgyny of childhood.
Puberty struck me slowly and in the middle of my teens. My discomfort grew, though at the time I knew not why. I still was neither aligned with the masculine or feminine, and so I reasoned that my anxieties were hereditary. I grew to look more and more like my father, and he grew more and more into an old man. As I looked in the mirror I began to loathe my appearance, my sharp features and my patchy facial hair.
I thought maybe that if I expressed myself in a more masculine manner, then I would be comfortable. I grew out what facial hair I could, and I began to build my strength. I cut my hair short, and I insisted people call me Cornelius to separate myself from my mother. I thought I was happy for a while, but that nagging anxiety returned- or was never extinguished.
Eventually, I grew my hair out and shaved, returning again to a fruitless androgyny. I kept my strength up for the sake of my health. It wasn’t until I began attending balls at the age of 17 that things became clearer.
With adulthood comes expectations and responsibilities. I discovered many of these expectations to be gendered; there are things that men must do and women must do. Doing what a man must do did not sit well with me. I greatly disliked the fine suits I was expected to wear, and I cringed at the decorum I was expected to present. To be called handsome and a young man was the greatest disappointment of my late teens, and to expect to grow into a gentleman and then into an old man was the terrifying realization of my future.
It was this moment of crisis that lead to my understanding. To look in the mirror and see a man, and to look to my father and see what I would become (balding, sad). I knew what I must do.
Not many know, but there are others like me. Not often within the ranks of the smallfolk and the business class, but amongst the adventurers. In my clandestine research, I discovered chemical solutions to alter my appearance and the functioning of my body. To undo the damage wrought by my male puberty. It’s imperfect, but it’s helped me a great deal in the past five years. When I look in the mirror, I see a woman, and I do not feel that burning anxiety I once felt.
I joined the Ossuary shortly before my 18th year. It was a year before I was sworn into duty, having learned thaumaturgy to the best of my ability. Sixth months after that, I fled and began my transition into my new, happier life.
I still don’t know, many years later, the root cause of my dysfunction. Did seeing my father as he was discourage me from manhood? Or was my admiration for my mother so great that it drove me to femininity? Rationally, I seek to justify it somehow as a fault of my upbringing. I have a niggling feeling, a faith maybe, that perhaps this was just how I was meant to be.
Sun-baked rock sizzled, the air near the ground undulating and shimmering in the late-day heat. Chesswood gasped, the dry, hot air burning her lungs. She tore open her shirt to free her sweating torso. Far behind her, she heard the screaming and shouting of the tempered who pursued her. She had time, but not much.
In front of her was a massive crag, the deep chasm that split Broken Water and Zanr’ak. She didn’t have time run to the bridge over Burnt Lizard Creek; the tempered would route her by then. Chesswood dug through her bag, producing a hammer and a handful of pitons, dropping to her knees and driving the iron spike into a crevasse in the ground near the crag’s edge. She hoped the tempered wouldn’t have the presence of mind to kick the piton out.
She tugged her rope from her belt, looping it around the spike quickly, then securing it to her waist. The crazed screaming grew closer and she could see the fanatical group cresting the shimmering horizon. It only occurred to her for a moment that she didn’t know how to escape the crag once she descended, but she’d rather chance that than be torn apart, limb by limb.
Chesswood secured her stave to her back, and in a moment she was descending the rock wall, looking down hundred fulms, maybe more, into the deep canyon. The muscles in her core flexed as she held herself steady, climbing down the thankfully rough and varied sides of the canyon. Above her, about twenty fulms or so now, the tempered reached the precipice. An unfortunate miqo’te woman stumbled off the edge and tumbled in the air. Chesswood had to press against the wall to avoid being taken out by the tumbling woman, who disappeared from sight into the crag below. The rest of the tempered remained shouting at the top, witness to the woman as she continued on her way down.
Almost a bell later, Chesswood’s boots clapped against the dusty bottom of the canyon. She immediately fell on her ass, groaning and massaging her aching arms. The sun had thankfully disappeared behind the top of the crag, leaving her in the shade, the air down here cool on her sweating skin. Nearby the Burnt Lizard Creek rushed, blue-green and crystal clear.
She thought herself out of danger, and rested for once in more than a day. It was a mistake to have traveled through Zanr’ak alone, and despite having avoided any confrontation with amalj’aa, she didn’t expect the tempered the travel so far from Zahar’ak.
Her peace was broken by the sound of something massive beside her. Instinctively, she clamoured away and pulled her stave from her back, feeling her aether ignite and ready to fire from her palm. Looming over her, an amalj’aa carried the body of the fallen tempered on his shoulder. His lips curled on his snout, drawing a cruel blade from his belt.
“You are not tempered.” His voice rumbled in urbane Eorzean.
“Kill me now, beastman. I’d rather die than lose my mind to your god.” Chesswood put on a brave face, but inside she felt her hope begin to crumble.
“He is not my god.” The amalj’aa snarled back. Chesswood collected herself enough to study the company she kept. He wore hides dyed blue, unusual for any amalj’aa from Zahar’ak.
“You aren’t from Zahar’ak.” Chesswood muttered, searching her memories for any bit of lore on the amalj’aa of Southern Thanalan. The beastman didn’t seem immediately hostile, and she set aside her stave. He, likewise, lowered his blade.
“Can you get me out of this crag?” She asked, and the amalj’aa snorted and turned away. Chesswood followed.
Through howling winds and striking sand, the wind-whipped tent billowed and fought against the engulfing sandstorm. The fire-pit outside had long since been smothered and filled with sand. The only thing that saved the erected shelter from being torn from its stakes in the ground were the remains of some ancient structure looming over it, sand pooling in the reliefs of its fallen walls.
Candle-light betrayed life behind the tied-tight and closed flaps of the tent. Inside, Chesswood sat cross-legged in the middle, avoiding the whipping walls. The interior of the tent was crowded with belongings, materials of survival and materials of academic interest. She had put aside her research into the adjacent ruins for the night, rubbings she had taken stored in wooden tubes and reference texts stacked beside.
A tome of intermediate aetherological theory lays open in her lap. The body is a font of aetheric energy. A skilled thaumaturge wielding a stave can harness these energies, through incantation, to their will.
Chesswood reached for the steel staff laying beside her bedroll, tugging it close and running her fingers along the carefully etched shaft.
With this manipulation comes danger. Let this be a warning to over-eager novices: without discipline, you may turn your own aether against yourself. With this in mind, you may wish to practice the following Umbral Ice incantations first.
She closed the book, setting it aside. This was review, something she had already learned at the Ossuary. Pulling the stave into her lap, she held it with both hands and breathed in. The whipping winds outside the tent faded into the background, and she could feel the energy begin to pulse in her hands first. Like veins of electricity, she became aware of the energy animating her limbs. It tingled as she tapped into it, the aether concentrating in her hand as she rose her. Her lips spoke an incantation, and her fingers directed the energy. Invisibly, her shaped aether left her hand. In the bowl of the candleholder, the wax froze, and frost crept up the shaft of the candle until crystals formed and encased the flame, smothering it. The interior of the tent was in darkness.
Chesswood laid her staff aside, and laid herself to rest on her bedroll.
The elder Chesswood’s words pricked at Cornelius. His stone-face betrayed his unhappiness, thin lips turning into a slight frown, the most emotive action the teenager was capable of. He shifted in his fitted black tuxedo, hands finding the pockets and burying themselves in them. Staring back at him in the mirror was someone else, and his mother standing behind him. She didn’t seem to perceive his discomfort.
“Aren’t you handsome?”
He wished it wasn’t so.
“It would be prideful of me to agree.” Cornelius responded in deadpan, lips twitching back into a straight face as he looked up to his mother.
“Clever boy.” The garishly dressed woman leaned over to peck him on the cheek and gave his shoulders a loving squeeze. That brought a slight smile to his face. “Let me go check on your father.” She added absent-mindedly before turning and heel-clicking out of the room in a flourish of ball gown and powder.
Cornelius stood alone in the room, surrounded by Ul’dahn finery. The window was cracked open, letting in a warm, dry breeze and the sound of the bustling exchange streets beneath. The mirror he turned his attention to was framed by gold spirals and hung against a stone wall painted with a mural of blooming vines.
In the mirror, he saw a boy. A handsome and clever one by his mother’s account. His black hair was combed to the side and styled with oil. His features were sharp and thin, fair-skinned and lacking blemish. He supposed, by his account, he was handsome. He couldn’t understand why he didn’t feel that way, or rather why he was unsettled by that knowledge.
He put away all doubt for the night. He was handsome. That’s how it would have to be.
I was born Chesswood Cornelius Carver. As the alliteration would betray, my parents were somewhat sensational. My father, born Tedwick Fletch, was a writer of dubious success and my mother, also Chesswood Carver, was the heiress to the Carver Family business of ice importation into Thanalan. My father, naturally submissive to my mother whom he adored, accepted the insistence of the Carver family that he take on his bride’s name rather than deprive her of the legacy of recognition that Carver afforded her.
Likewise, I was given my mother’s name, being the first child of a Carver union. Regardless of the sex, the first child in any Carver family was given the name “Chesswood” in honour of our ancestral homestead in the North Shroud. Time and conflict has long since eroded our connection to the wood, and the Carver family now resides wholly in Thanalan to conduct business.
I felt pride in my youth for my family name and the lineage which my given name represented. In Ul’dah, coin is important, but a storied name upon a pile of coin is even more prestigious. I enjoyed a comfortable, dull childhood. I was a shy child, but used to getting my way. When it came time for me to attend classes, I protested so much that my parents allowed me to remain at home, to be taught by my father.
Tedwick Carver was a frail man with whom I share a definite likeness. He had pale green eyes and dark, rapidly fleeting hair. Despite being madly in love with my mother, it was obvious even to my undeveloped perceptions at a young age that Tedwick was deeply unhappy. He claimed himself a writer, but had no published work to show for it. I mean not to demean my father; I loved him dearly. He was an adequate teacher, and he made great use of his private library to teach me all manner of things a budding child may require. Of most interest to him, and as a result to myself as well, was the annals of ancient civilizations. His writing consisted mostly of retellings of history, stylized to focus on important figures or battles, and he brought that passion in teaching me. I have him to thank for the direction in life which I pursue. He died during the Calamity, crushed by falling debris in the streets of Ul’dah.
Chesswood Carver, my mother, is a woman whom I admire greatly. I have her to thank for the confidence which I hold today, living as a woman. From her, I inherited not just my physical style, but also an unbound confidence. While my father reared me, my mother worked tirelessly to not only keep the family business profitable, but also keep our name recognizable. She attended many balls and social functions, some of which I had the pleasure of attending once I was old enough. She is a tall beauty to this day, though she spends much less time attending functions as she once did.
I left for the Ossuary shortly after my 21st nameday. I remained there for a year and a half before my departure. For now, I travel Thanalan and explore the ruins left behind and those unearthed by the Calamity. There is much to learn out here.
I remain in contact with my mother, though only through written correspondence. She knows of my flight from the Ossuary, and though she never has said it, I know she feels I have disgraced the name of Chesswood Carver in breaking my vows to Thal. I also know not how she would respond to seeing the new life I lead. For now, I sign my letters as Cornelius Carver. I hope someday I may show her the woman she’s helped me become.
In the future, I may reflect more on my journey. I do not write this memoir with the intention of publishing it, but just to account for my experiences personally. I would rather that my life as a man be scrubbed from any memory, however I understand that my veneration for the name I possess may interfere with that venture. Until then, I will remain as I am, wayward and searching for what I desire in this life.
“Aether is not by any means static. It constantly flows though creation, forming currents through earth, water, and air which ensure that life is sustained throughout the world. The stoppage of these currents would be akin to the atrophication of a limb cut off from the heart. Aether is the lifeblood of Hydaelyn, and without it She - and Her children - would perish.”
- Encyclopedia Eorzea, Basic Aetherology
I felt like an idiot, hunched over an encyclopedia, reading a section on basic aetherology which I had read a hundred times before. My cohort around me likely delved into the lore of Nald’Thal or thaumaturgical theory, and I loathed the thought of one of them spotting me turned to such an infantile page of the most basic textbook. I was meant to be studying the history of the War of the Magi, and the formation of Belah’dia, however the familiar passage in the beginnings of the encyclopedia proved too alluring, and my focus was broken. It was hardly befitting of a sworn member of the Ossuary.
And yet, I felt a sort of comfort in the passage. The elegance of aether intrigued me, it’s constantly changing nature enamouring. Aether was mutable but ever-lasting. In aether, nothing was permanent, unless it was meant to die. Change or die.
My attention was stolen by the sound of a familiar voice ahead. I shut quickly the textbook before me, and shoved it aside, hiding it amongst the pile of books that littered the study desk. Erich, whom I shared a dormitory and admittedly my only acquaintance in the Ossuary who stood taller than a few fulms, approached accompanied by a roegadyn who I knew in passing as Tymbmhar and a lalafell who did not know.
“Greetings, Brother Chesswood.” I winced, glancing up from the notes before me to meet the eye of the other hyur. He smirked down at me, clutching a parchment in one hand, the other resting on the rod tucked into his belt. “We’ve found ourselves a condemnation order.” He held the parchment aloft, a bounty for a criminal guilty of petty theft. “Perhaps you’d consider putting down your books of…” His eyes scanned the pile of books next to me, “… Belah’dian history to join us.”
The thought of spending any time with Erich and his kind made my skin crawl. I had taken vows to join the Ossuary for access to its library, and privately the dispensation of vengeance in the name of Thal interested me very little.
“The history of Belah’dia is integral to an understanding of-“ Erich interrupted me with a click of his tongue and his companions chortled quietly, one high-pitched and squealy from below and the other deep and gravelly from above. “You are aware, Chesswood, that you’re required to participate in the financial ventures of the Ossuary?” I pursed my lips and turned away, gathering my notes into a clean pile. “I only want what’s best for you, your membership, and Thal Himself.” He continued, “I’ll have to speak with the Guildmaster.”
Dressed down, I felt the shame well in my cheeks and colour them a deep red. Erich and his cohort turned and left without any further reprimand. I stood quickly from my chair, the legs scraping against the stone floor of the library loud enough to disturb the respected silence of it.
I shoveled my research into my rucksack, taking with me the tomes of ancient history, as well as the encyclopedia (though I possessed my own copy at my dormitory). I no longer felt safe within the halls of the Ossuary for the day. Was my negligence a crime? I only sought to further my understanding of aetheric arts through a thorough exploration of the ancient Magi city-states. Would my name appear on a condemnation order for that? Or for the other transgressions which swam through my thoughts.
It didn’t matter. All the knowledge in the world wasn’t worth the humiliation that the Ossuary brought me. Burning petty thieves with fiery incantations, loathing my living conditions and myself. I would never change in this environment. I would die in these halls, surrounded by books and the scorn of the poor.
That night, I planned to leave Ul’dah. I had copied the most important chapters of my research. I could continue it on the road, perhaps explore these ruins myself. I knew enough thaumaturgy to protect myself, and I would no longer be beholden to the Order or the stagnancy which rot me from within.
Chesswood's New Year's Menu-- Reserve Now Before it's Sold Out!
Chesswood’s New Year’s Menu– Reserve Now Before it’s Sold Out!
Chesswood will forego their regular menu on New Year’s Eve for this specially selected menu created by Chef Dan Serson especially for New Year’s Eve..
Open New Year’s eve from 4 p.m until closing. Reserve now!
Chesswood 151 Bridge Street Carleton Place, ON K7C 2V2 (613) 492-4377 Please note that Chesswood will be closed after New Year’s Eve and re-open January 10th.
