#ffxiv nixie

[willowwhiskershop]

some ffxiv minion charms ive been working on c:

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV||22-8): Tepid.

(Continued from here.) (♪)

In truth, Idanwyn was a cowardly sort.

She confessed this to her crew, and they waved it off. What sort of self-respecting crew would serve a yellow-bellied Captain? By ameliorating her admission, they sought to save their own pride and purpose.

Though she appreciated their defiance of her nature, she was tired of explaining herself. Instead, she sought to reclaim cowardice as a boon rather than a burden. Something everyone faces, and learns how to overcome.

Serving under the elders that reclaimed the Swallow’s Compass made all the sense on the star to her. They, too, were cowards; they fled when Garlemald made heresy of their faith. They, too, hid behind elemental spirits older than memory, trusting their underlings to toll the warning bells.

“Nomak samman vanan vâdâyyâ khâ!” None shall trespass the Heart of Water! Idanwyn took the Stance of Water on the Nixie’s foredeck, enjoying the solitude that early watch granted her. Here, she could invoke her kata with peace and zeal in equal measure; none to remind her that her invocations failed to reach the geomantic fields around her.

Just practice. Simply moving through the kata; feeling the flow. None will judge you.

“Nohm vâdâyyâ khattah!” All shall surrender to the flow! Idanwyn kept her balance, stepping back to the prow, ilm by ilm. Her dance spoke to something old as the star itself; invoking its well-timed blessings to move the elements to her will.

Simply practice; the tepid waters of cowardice releasing their steam to wind. Idanwyn endeavored to allow the elements to speak through her, to serve as their focus. She gave them guidance; they were the flow.

“Nomak samman vanan vâyyâbeh khâ!” None shall trespass the heart of Wind! A craven Captain who could not wield a weapon to save her life. One who feared conflict; who tried to give ease to every situation that held the slightest hint of acrimony behind its honeyed words.

“Nohm vâyyâbeh khattah!” All shall surrender to the tempest! She had words that others sought; writing worth reading. A tale that filled her ship’s sails, and carried her onward.

Idanwyn’s feet shifted back further along the bowsprit, nearing the figurehead. A carved wooden shape so worn by sea, wind, and levin that it became its own being; the Nixie, carving through whatever the sea threw Her way to find yet another shore.

“Nomak samman vanan khâvîddhi khâ!” None shall trespass the heart of Earth!

Idanwyn came to center, her feet balanced perfectly upon the bowsprit, her eyes on the crystalline core that surrounded the Nixie’s mainmast. Cowards, the pair of them; herself and Himawari. The runts of their respective clans that, when pressed, proved themselves to be so much more.

“Nohm khâvîddhi khattah!” All shall surrender to the weight!  Idanwyn bounced on the balls of her feet, feeling the seasoned wood below bend to accommodate her. She could use it as a springboard and dive into the sea below, never to be seen again. The urge nearly consumed her; seemed to speak to her from the stars strewn across the night’s velvet darkness.

She stood there, poised at the end of her kata, the final song singing to her, to leave it all behind. Half a bell passed, and the stars saw Idanwyn step back to the foredeck, depleted aether grounded within herself.

A coward she was; but she has overcome. She surrenders to the heaviness beyond the stars, and lets it pass through her; she is a conduit for the elements themselves. Idanwyn trusts that they will empower her once more, given time.

(Continued here!)

[willowwhiskershop]

Just added some mini charms to my shop !! Final Fantasy 14 minions that are perfectly sized at 1.5 inches to take with you anywhere !! ✨

3 styles to choose from: Paissa Brat, Drippy & Soot Bunny

(LINK)

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV||22-6): Onerous.

(Continued from here.)

Captain Lluan’s-kin set down her annotated manifest, finally confident that preparations were complete. She filled her powerful lungs with air, readying herself to call all hands to their stations. As the command sat behind her teeth, she caught sight of Fasheran trotting onto the bridge. “Kapitan,” the Viera said, her typically-unflappable expression harried at its edges. “There iz word from Mealvaan’s Gate.”

Idanwyn exhaled; not a command, after all, but a great gust of defeat. “Please tell me they’re jus’ sendin’ weall-wishes, lass?” she pleaded with the chirurgeon.

Fasheran shook her head, and though Idanwyn was expecting the negative reply, she continued to deflate further. “Wha’ is it, then? I’ve gone o’er all th’ cargo, ten times at least. Had others check me work. Th’ tide is turnin’ in twain bells’ time, an’ we cannae miss th’ outgoin’ waves. Did they send a messenger?” Already Idanwyn was moving towards the stairs, preparing herself to sign off on something or the other, seething inwardly. “We’re no’ even carryin’ aught questionable, fer th’ Navigator’s sake!”

“I know this, Kapitan, I do. But...there was no messenger, only call to ze medikal bay’s pearl. It seems zat some of ze export fees on our medicinal cargo have increased.” Fasheran followed the Roegadyn down to the main deck, weathering the Captain’s string of swears with ease; she knew they were not directed at her, and she rather shared the Sea Wolf’s irritation, besides.

The pair’s long-legged strides had them at the door of Idanwyn’s quarters in short order. Leaving the door ajar, Idanwyn continued to call out orders as she changed into her formal dress. “Tell Falkgara an’ Rinh tae keep eyes on th’ tides an’ stars, both. If I’m no’ back before they deem it time tae set sail, have ‘em weigh anchor anyroad.”

Fasheran started to reply in the affirmative, then paused, picking at a loose thread on her tunic. “Kapitan...I will do zis, of course, but...you are not capable of aether travel at zis time. Are you saying we should leave you behind?”

Idan emerged from her quarters, closing the door firmly behind her, finishing up a few errant buckles here and there as she walked to the gangway. “I’ll bleedin’ hire someone tae send me tae th’ ship if I must, lass. Whole guild’s lousy wi’ arcanists; might be as they even do it fer free, seein’ as they’re th’ ones causin’ me current issues. As if they couldnae send a bleedin’ invoice; as if I’ve e’er been late payin’ a single one o’ their endless dues!”

The Rava chirurgeon inclined her head once as she followed Idanwyn onto the pier. “Understood, Kapitan. I am...sorry for the distress. I will relay ze orders.”

Idanwyn paused, tucking her hair up under her tricorne cap, then took a breath; calmer, this time, neither meant to bark orders nor vent her frustrations, but to offer apologies. “Ach, Fasheran, I’m sorry, lass. I ken I said ‘twas no’ yer fault, but I’m treatin’ ye lit’ it is. Th’ error is clearly on me ain end; ye dinnae need tae bear me misplaced wrath.”

Inclining her head towards Idanwyn, Fasheran replied, “I forgive you. Think no further on it. I wish you good fortune in this battle.” The steady-hearted medic turned back to the ship, her finger already raised to the ship’s linkpearl; Idanwyn’s own linkpearl picked up the relayed commands as she set off towards the nearest chocobo porter at a jog.

By the time she arrived in Limsa Lominsa, she was pouring sweat. “Fuckin’ traditional finery,” she groused, fanning herself with her hat as she loped across the Lower Decks. Even the ever-present sea breezes did little to cool her body or her temper; the early autumn sun was still warm, and humidity from the coasts so famed for their crops crept across the chalky spires of the harbor city.

Pausing outside the doors of the Assessors’ offices, Idan took a moment to get herself in order. At length, her heartbeat steadied, and she tugged at her cravat, hoping the fact that its linens hung loose with sweat would go unnoticed by the sharp-eyed tax collectors. Setting her hat atop her head, she waited for a pack of visitors from Ul’dah to make their exit before she made her entrance.

“State your name and business,” said the Miqo’te behind the only open counter.

“P’tahjha, ye ken full weall...” Idanwyn trailed off as the woman eyed her steadily over her half-moon spectacles. “Idanwyn Lluanswys, also called Idanwyn Lluan’s-kin, Captain o’ th’ Free Trader Nixie. I’m here at yer summons.”

“One moment.” A carbuncle sitting atop the desk stared at Idanwyn, the ruby-red gem set between its unsettling eyes flashing for a moment before it trotted off, retrieving records and setting them by its mistress’s hand. “Ah, yes. Bound for Thavnair in...my, just a bell from now, yes? Let’s hope we’re able to resolve this for you. Wouldn’t want to face any sanctions now, would we?”

Idanwyn stowed her temper, but her left eye twitched. She felt fresh sweat start to prickle beneath her brow; she was going to need a tonze of water after completing this onerous task, and perhaps a second tonze of ale. “What issue is sae pressin’ tha’ it couldnae be sent via moogle, lass?”

“Well, for one thing, the cost of exporting the Yellow Ginseng your vessel brought back from its most recent venture out East has increased substantially. Congratulations on avoiding another entanglement with Kugane, by the by. For another,” the Assessor continued crisply, “our carbuncles’ latest inspections have revealed that you are carrying an unusually-large amount of Trader Vetch. Surely you are aware that these two potent, medicinal herbs, being delivered to,” she traced her left claw down the page, “the Great Work, yes, is subject to further levies? Only ships flying Maelstrom colors are duty-free, Captain Lluanswys.”

“Oh, aye? Navy’s been doin’ a lot o’ tradin’ voyages lately, has it? An’ here I t’ought we Free Traders,” she emphasized each word, “were responsible fer tha’, while th’ Navy is providin’ assistance elsewhere.”

P’tahjha set the file down and folded her arms. “Captain, I deal with furious blowhards like yourself all day, every day. Are you going to pay, or not? Last I heard, you still have no idea how to wield an axe, and your...aetherial capabilities seem rather...deficient, so I confess I am not feeling particularly threatened right now.”

Idanwyn leveled a sharp glance to the carbuncle, which squeaked in reply; it had noticed her weak personal aether. “Tattletales, all o’ ye,” she growled, then turned her attention back to the Assessor. “Fine. How much?”

As the frazzled, sweat-drenched Captain rode a chocobo back to the porter near the Mist docks, she was relieved to see that the sails were raised, but the Nixie was still in port. Her crew had heeded her orders; they really would have left without her. Still, deep down, she was relieved she hadn’t missed departure; despite what she’d claimed to Fasheran, she wasn’t entirely sure she would have been able to find someone to send her to the Nixie’s on-board aetheryte. No reason to tell them that; the news that their coffers had taken a hit would be disheartening enough, even if such last-minute inconveniences were part and parcel of running a ship like theirs.

(Continued here!)

[idanwyn-et-al]

The Free Trader Nixie

Serving as the base of operations for a motley assortment of folk, the Nixie is a highly-unusual galleon. Though much of her interior is lavish, the ship is known to sit lightly upon the waves. Rumor has it that the crystalline core, which completely surrounds the mainmast and is half-grown into the decking itself, is responsible for this uncommon buoyancy; a rumor that the captain and her crew neither confirm nor deny. Though the ship is nominally chartered out of Mealvaan’s Gate, she is a Free Trader, and thus enjoys special dispensation.

The Nixie’s dock house and gardens can be found in the southernmost part of Mist’s fourteenth ward, with ship’s home slip directly across from the dock house. When ashore, the crew often enjoys entertaining friends and prospective clients in the gardens and cafe; truly, a not-pirate paradise!

The former pirate ship is fitted throughout with ceruleum engines and cermet pipes; a more-recent addition to her still-present rune-embroidered sails. All of the Nixie’s systems, whether classic or modern, are tied into the crystalline core. This network allows the ship to endure long-haul voyages at great speeds, making her a sought-after vessel for cargo and passengers alike. 

Though the voyages are often faster than the norm, long stretches at sea are common, and the Nixie is outfitted with an entertainment deck featuring the Rogue Wave Stage. Guests will enjoy fine fare, often produced by the culinarian captain herself, as well as coveted musical and theater shows; being a Free Trader, the Nixie has been known to sail to neutral waters to allow more politically-charged performances to take place without legal repercussions. There is also a semi-hidden crew’s lounge on this deck where the crew have many of their less-formal meetings.

The main deck includes what many consider the ship’s second-greatest treasure, after the core itself; Hymlbyrta’s Legacy Library. Named after Idanwyn’s aunt who was the former captain of the Nixie, these books are collected from all over the star, their tales lovingly catalogued. Additionally, the core is at its thickest, here, and those who wish to delve into its mysteries are often asked to take a seat on the so-called Captain’s Chair carved within the luminous stone.

The bridge and chart room sit just beneath the weather deck, and include a number of shuttles to allow the crew to traverse topside as needed. The helm is most often manned by the first mate, while the rest of the crew tend to the modern displays and classic instruments throughout. Navigation is conducted through both mundane and magickal means, the ship’s primary navigator being a Sharlayan astrologian. 

There are numerous cabins and staterooms throughout the interior, including a clinic; the engine room; crew quarters; the brig; a film theatre; and more. Indeed, another curious aspect of this definitely-haunted vessel is that its cabins are known to shift places from time to time without warning. Either in spite of or due to the ship’s eccentricities, She serves Her crew well, leading them ever into Uncharted Territory.

The Nixie, home of the Uncharted Territory FC, can be found on Mateus, in Mist, Ward 14, plot 6! The ship’s current IC location is always listed in the welcome message of our guestbook. Please feel free to stop by! We are also recruiting, as well as looking for others who might want to RP with us and our ghost-soaked ship! The carrd needs a few touch-ups; that’s actually what inspired me to take these screenshots, among others, but the information is there. I solemnly swear I will make a proper recruitment post Someday :tm:.

OOC rambling: Though I have posted a few screenshots before, I’m continuing my apparent trend of touching up places I’ve decorated this month. Like everything else I decorate, the Nixie was done entirely by me on PS5, using the mouse to float furnishings when required. Rinh Relanah, our IC navigator, did help smooth the slanted skylights on the bridge into a nice arc, for which I am eternally grateful!

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV||22-3): Temper.

(Continued from here.)

Scalding water sluiced Ul’dahn conditioner from Idanwyn’s two-toned hair. As she ran her gnarled, arthritic chef’s fingers through its strands, midnight-blue fading into last-of-sunset-red, she found herself still preoccupied with thoughts of her late father. He’d always said her hair was a blessing; a sign that the horizon would always favor her, a perpetual red sky at night. Even knowing it was more a curious twist of genetics that had produced its coloration never really expunged that belief of hers. Ceigybet, it was; sail-prayers, a loose code of sailor’s superstitions her clan had adhered to since their earliest days as reavers from the Far North.

Idan wondered what her father would make of her now. Lluantoum had favored superior furnishings; she’d inherited them after he’d died. Perhaps he would poke fun at his eldest-yet-smallest daughter, with her love for quality clothing, fine cosmetics, her tendency to stand in the creaking quiet of the cargo hold and run her hands over wrapped bolts of brocade and velvet. Perhaps not; she liked to think if he hadn’t gone down with his ship, his sunset years as a merchant instead of a pirate would have seen him enjoying his ease on the shore. Sailor’s delight, indeed.

With an oversized bath towel knotted above her breasts, she completed her daily cleaning of her shower. Another ritual of hers awaited as she padded into the main room of her quarters; clothing was laid out just-so on her canopy bed, a luxurious relic left behind by Hymlbyrta that Idanwyn couldn’t bear to rid herself of.

So many things she’d inherited from them all. Only recently had she started to believe she was worth any of it; the purported good ceigybet her hair conveyed, the fine goods, the Nixie Herself. Her crew, too, remained steady and capable folk. Idanwyn knew she should hire more crewmates; she thought this over as she finished getting dressed, lacing her low-heeled boots and blowing her hair dry with one of Zakuro’s contraptions, named the Aerobonnet Mk. III. It was too loud for Idanwyn’s liking, but seeing as she was still unable to channel wind aether to perform this cantrip of a task, she was grateful for its existence.

“More crew...Regulars, especially,” she murmured to herself as she tied her hair up, reaching for her lip paint. “Our ventures are gettin’ bigger e’ery year; need folk what’re,” she trailed off, here, applying her lip paint, finishing her monologue internally, ‘ready to do battle as well as use their brains,’ she thought. ‘A medic, too. Dedicated medic. Fasheran’s contract is up, soon, and Rinh can’t keep pushing herself all the time.’

As her lip paint dried, she examined the henna clan markings on her cheeks and brow. Still in fine condition, thanks to Falkgara. Another quirk of her clan’s; the markings each Roegadyn wore that denoted their profession had to be reapplied by family, either blood or chosen, and the brush-wielder had to tell a new story while performing this rite. Idan particularly enjoyed the stories Falk would weave, the brush perfectly-suited to his own Sea Wolf hands; a marvel in a world that sometimes seemed too small for their kind. His latest story had been an addition to what they’d encountered in Gyr Abania, where the crew had helped the First Mate lay some of his past to rest. He was always so gentle and meticulous when applying the acrid substance to her face, carefully following the lines it had permanently etched into the delicate skin over decades of wear. None of the First Mate’s famed temper was ever present in those moments of kinship; he was as a bonfire after it had consumed the bodies of one’s slain enemies, now a source of warmth, light, and life.

She knew her dearest friend was abovedecks currently, checking over the helm, roaring commands through the speaking tubes. Though the one to her own room was muffled---if there was an emergency, she’d know---she could nevertheless hear the First Mate’s voice, faint echoes of what she knew were anything but to those close by. Zakuro was likely returning the bellows with volume of her own.

Idanwyn allowed herself to relax for a moment, and smiled; her vanity mirror caught her expression, genuine and free. She stood, heeled boots clicking against the decking as she left her quarters, and tried to carry that vision of herself within her mind’s eye. Whatever else her father would think of her now---thoughts she dearly hoped would stay sunken along with him---Lluantoum would be proud of the crew she’d chosen, past, present, and future.

(Continued here!)

[idanwyn-et-al]

Her Rings, and Her Things, and Her Fine Fare, Oh. (The Nixie’s Tale; A Very Long Post.)

A transcript found in the Nixie’s core; of late, floating near the surface of the curious artifice. When accessed, it speaks in halting language of a history from an Era long past. Its terms are succinct, clipped, yet heavy with feeling that bubbles up from far below; the story is narrated in a woman’s lilting alto.

I was a musician.

That is what I remember, first. It was so long ago, but music is older than I, or you, or anyone. I know this to be true.

I had a drum; I had a voice. Horns, too, like fins; scales, a tail for balance. I played for festivals, for the ceremonies that the shamans presided over.

There was bounty on these isles. Isn’t that always how sorrow starts? With bounty that one takes for granted, and others that grant you no succor when they come to claim it for their own?

So it was, with the Line of Ice, under the Autumn Queen’s rule in the far north. And so, too, it was, with my people; another forgettable tale, with bounteous isles ripe for the rapacious winds of the North; their unceasing hunger for fruits and twine and herbs that would let them forget how their eyes bulged with starving rage.

I was a musician. And I will never let anyone forget. I have kept them hungry, in stasis, for Eras. 

There is no hero, no villain, in this tale. Like many other ballads, survival is chorus and coda, both. Petty triumphs. Sorrow-tinged victories. What else is there? There is no redemption; there is no champion. The Warrior of Light and Darkness holds no court in my forgotten Era. There is only the many-threaded manuscript of harmony and melody, countermelody and chest-rumbling bass as the feet of the star’s greatest hero echo somewhere far beyond here.

I was born. This happens to the best and worst of us.

I grew up. This happens to only a select few.

I lived a long time ago. This, you already know, or have surmised.

The islands were warm. They so often are; few chase lands where one must fight the icy fist of hunger driven down their dry throats, pressing against the shrunken walls of their bellies.

I was to be wed. To a boy, then a man, now beyond dust. Tale old as the Races of Man, and older still, like song.

I was a musician.

The songs I sang are not important. They will be, later, but this is how songs work. You listen to them; you are drawn in. They take you somewhere else for a time. This gift, I can still give. I am giving it right now.

We had seasons in those isles. Those not native to the tropics come in winter, and are surprised when the seas are stormy. They wanted the blue-blue glass, like my eyes were and still are; they wanted the diamond arcs of foam across tranquility. 

Everyone wants something they did not grow up with. It is always easier somewhere else. 

I was no different. I did not want to be married to the boy, then a man, then bones rolled to ash, from my village. I was twenty autumns old, and I wanted to be a shaman. 

I was a musician.

The shamans were, too. But being a musician was not enough. I do not know why; I did not get the chance to ask. I never will, now.

There were sunset-pink fruits that grew on trees on our island. We called them blossomfruit, or something like that; the language is long gone, now. I learned the word from Captains that have taken me into their service since I was drawn up from the sea. We are getting ahead of ourselves, but that, too, is a form of song. 

I was a musician.

The Line of Ice came, as they had countless times before. From the north; under the Autumn Queen’s rule. My mother told me to hide. She was not beautiful, my mother; she had been taken by the reavers when I was younger. I learned she was not beautiful from others who scoffed at her long white scars, her missing eye, the part of hair that would not grow back. Her limp. She made cloth at her loom. I loved her. I loved her. But I did not listen to her, this time.

I was to be wed, to the boy-who-became-a-man-who-became-ash. I am certain he achieved many deeds. So many do, in these old stories. But I am afraid that my memories of him are not mine, anymore; they are stories I have dredged from the sea. Lost bottles, glass, pulled from marine snow in what is now My body. We are getting ahead, again, but this is by design.

I was a musician.

The boy-who-became-a-man-who-became-ash is lost to me. All I remember is that the Line of Ice came, and everyone went inside. Cookfires were snuffed, leaving a curious mingling of domesticity and fear on the air. Fire smells much the same after any meat is cooked. My mother told me to go in. But that day, I did not. I was tired of it. It would never end. I would be wed; I was on the cusp of becoming a mother, myself. And...I did not want any of it. I walked down to the shore, away from my fellow villagers fleeing the strand. And I saw them.

They were able to freeze the seas solid and walk upon them. That was the gift of the Line of Ice. Many of us had died to it; many in the rest of the island chain, too. That is how the story goes; cold seeks warmth, and depletes it. As they were sinking anchors, walking across the ice, the Sea Wolves from the far north, I met them with my drum in hand, and its melody just behind my lips.

I was a musician, and I had a song just for them.

They jeered; they always do. Never a polite greeting. A little woman with skin green as mountain cedar spines, my mother told me. My mother, who was not beautiful, but also was. Beauty is in everyone, even the reavers. Their skin, blue and white, like the crests of winter waves. The waves that no one wanted to encounter in winter, on our warm islands. But we weathered them, every year. The waves, and the Line of Ice.

I knew about the shamans’ secret. About the place beneath the waves, carved of air and holy magicks and prayer, that kept the waves away. I had hidden within a blossomfruit tree on the shore and watched them make the path down; with earth magicks, and music. I had both of those things, back then. I still do. They are different now, though, because I am so much bigger. Diffused.

I was a musician. And I sang the earth to my bidding. Promised the reavers the treasure below. I think I was afraid, then; I remember my heart---so long gone, now, but there, then---beating fast. But I kept my breath steady. And I sang to the sea. 

I sang to the river. I was a musician. The nixies lived in the river; all knew this. We held rites for them every spring. They would rush down the mountain, screaming the songs of winter still cold in their scales, and we would feel the shiver in our own. Spirits that would take you if you got too close. I wanted the reavers to get too close to where they had flooded into the sea; into the shamans’ cavern.

They did. The waves held; the reavers did not hear the nixies coming. I was not supposed to be there, either, but I paid for that, later. I led them down, and then, when I thought I was safe, I pulled on their mizzenmast. I could sing to the sea, then; I can, now, too, but it is different when your throat is so much larger, gilled, half-full of teeth. I thought I had trapped them. They showed fear. But...they were ready for me.

The Autumn Queen’s reavers had been coming to my island for a long time. Not as long as music has been there, but still very long. They knew our shamans. And I was not one. My magicks brought their ship down, but when I trapped them, they trapped me, too. In a crystal of ice, where I began to change.

From there, it gets hazy. I know I moved about their ship, the Queen’s Revenge---revenge for what? for not being born on my isles?---and I froze their bodies in place. Their faces, scared of me. Of what I did. But I wanted to tell a story. And their bodies, their faces, frozen within their Queen’s Revenge provided the perfect opportunity to do so.

I was a musician. I was called Himawari. I still am both. Now, I am something else, too.

((The Nixie’s story will continue soon! Thanks if you read this.))

[idanwyn-et-al]

I run a very serious RP FC.

@heroicn0nsense​ makes the pun of the century.