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!
...so I made my own daily prompt list for the month of September instead. Use 'em if you like! My own prompt fills will go up at @ffxiv-swarm as usual.
Waking slowly is an indulgence that is new to Y’shtola. When she was a girl, her limbs had always itched for movement, her mind restless with study and discovery. When she grew older and ventured beyond the comforts of her homeland and Matoya’s cave, the sky had fallen again and again and left her with no opportunity to try.
Only now, after so long, has the world quieted enough for that to change.
Y’shtola first wakes with her ears. They twitch against the silken fabric of her pillow and the song of the seabirds outside. Her fingers come next, brushing the crinkled cotton of her sheets, warmed with the heat of her body. Her nose follows to track what has shifted overnight: cooled wax from a candle she’d used to temper the clasp of a necklace; a seabreeze that is different from the night before.
She wakes next with her chest, her stomach, her knees. She’d cracked a window open overnight and the air she breathes is fresh with the morning market. It invites her to breakfast, stomach grumbling in response, but Y’shtola has been a student of patience all her life. Her knees twinge when she shifts, a new but already familiar change of her body. She is growing older and autumn will soon give way to winter. She makes a note, idly, to ask Krile for another tin of poultice.
Y’shtola wakes with her eyes last. This, too, is new, when looking at her life as a whole and not parceled out in pieces, but it is now familiar, as well. No longer does she see the hewn stone ceiling that makes up Sharlayan architecture, or the changing colors of the sky over the ocean. No blooming bouquets greet her at her bedside, and she has not seen her own face in a long time.
Y’shtola wakes to darkness. The sun is warm on her skin. She turns her head towards it, noting how the dwindling aether of her cut flowers is fainter than before. They will need to be thrown out before the wilt of them has turned to rot. Her jewelry pulses bright with her own imbued aether beside them and she reaches for their familiar shapes. The rings slide smoothly on first, pulsing in welcome when they tangle with the currents of her body; and then her headpiece, feathers soft and oiled and humming a gentle aether-tune.
Y’shtola breathes in, long and peaceful. She tilts her head towards the sunbeam and stretches her neck, her shoulders. She breathes out.
Her feet sink into the thick weave of a rug when she rises. She has an apartment in the Archons’ Quarter further in-land, where the streets sprawl just a little more and the bustle of the port is less audible, but she finds herself seeking the familiar comfort of people to awaken to.
Her quarters in the Baldesion Annex are small and easy to navigate. First the bathroom, where she washes away the last vestiges of sleep. Then the wardrobe, where she pulls out a garment bag containing one of several outfits Krile helped her coordinate. She stops by her bedside again to select one of her necklaces, their gemstones pulsing in the darkness around them.
She takes the vase of dying flowers when she leaves.
The murmur of voices is louder outside her room. The Annex, much like the rest of Sharlayan, is all stone and gilt, with aether lamps lighting the way. Y’shtola follows their will-o’-the-wisp trail with measured steps. Here, she passes the personal chambers; here, the meeting rooms. The library. The doors to the courtyard. She passes them all until her feet lead her into the kitchen, where the sounds of Krile and G’raha waiting settles over her like a well-loved cloak.
They have opened the windows wide. An opportunistic bird has settled on the sill of one, its soft grey aether painting her the picture of its shape. Trees and flowers color a landscape of branches, leaves and blooms beyond.
Krile calls her to the breakfast table with easy warmth. The sounds of tea and serving platters join the noise of their chatter. Y’shtola’s nose picks up the selections of the day: peaches and grapes and melon, and buttered toast with berry jam. G’raha spears a link of sausage as he gesticulates with his free hand to make a point to Krile, who’s pouring herself and Y’shtola their preferred peppermint tea. Y’shtola doesn’t bother pointing out the inaccuracies of his statements, content instead to sit back and listen to Krile do it.
Krile’s aether is the verdant green of new growth. It flows in her body to map her every detail and loops back in on itself when there is nowhere left to go. Y’shtola always thinks of early summer when she’s around Krile, especially summer in the Black Shroud: she remembers the sheer greenery of life that greeted her every which way she looked, uncurled and eager to stretch into the sunlight to grow. Grow bigger, grow stronger, reach towards the far-away sky.
G’raha’s aether is red. She doesn’t know if it is the same shade of red as his hair. It reminds her of Coerthas’ mirror apples before the Calamity swept all their orchards under snow. Aether has no taste nor scent, but sometimes she wonders if his aether would taste the same way the apples did: sour first on the tongue, and then a rush of sweetness that lingered long after.
Y’shtola takes a sip of her tea. The mint is a familiar burst of sharp flavor.
“Oh, Shtola, I think you left this in the library.” Krile breaks her debate with G’raha to turn to her, her green arm holding out a void. Y’shtola’s had years of practice since losing her sight—and her jewelry has been a welcome help in orienting herself against the world—so she takes it without issue. The material is soft but smooth, and cool to the touch—a tome. She turns it over.
Letters written in enchanted ink declare the title: Codex Chrysopoeia.
Her ears perk up at the sound of G’raha sitting up in his chair. She doesn’t need sight to know the look of envious curiosity on his face.
“Wasn’t that banned in the Sixth Astral Era?” He breathes. “However did you get your hands on it?”
Y’shtola runs her fingers over the ink before setting the tome in her lap. The curve of her satisfied smile is hidden behind her cup as she takes a languid sip. “A dear friend saw it in her family’s library. She was kind enough to let me borrow it.”
There’s a moment of silence while she drinks, in which she imagines her companions exchanging knowing glances. There is a very small number of family libraries with the privilege to hold on to such a tome, and the first assumption of the Leveilleurs gets thrown out the window considering its current head of household. The process of elimination continues leaving even fewer, and when taking into consideration that the original Codex Chrysopoeia was not written in enchanted ink, and would therefore need to be transcribed with it to ensure Y’shtola could read it…
“D’you think she’d let me visit her library for my nameday?” G’raha sighs wistfully.
She would do far more than that if you asked, Y’shtola thinks privately and with no small amount of amusement. But G’raha rarely asks, and it is that which endears him to her on behalf of their shared friend.
Krile laughs and chides him in the same breath. The two go back to their good-natured bickering and leave Y’shtola to enjoy her tea. She flattens her fingers against the curve of the cup, feeling its weight; her other hand brushes once more against the inked title.
Enchanted ink comes in many different hues and vibrancies. There are inks that blaze bright and blinding in her eyes, allowing her to read them only in short bursts lest she be left with a migraine; and there are inks so old, and others so cheap, that trying to read them is reminiscent of reading next to a guttering flame.
She’s spent the last half a sennight reading the Codex late into the night. The ink must have been custom made, she knows, because she’s never seen its unique color before. The letters blaze steady against her fingers, clear as stars.
How kind, she thinks, her chest filling quietly, to be seen through such a gift.
How kind, after all these years, to find her own eyes gazing back at her from the pages.
The other soldiers had long since taken to the bunkhouse as Varrus' feet carried him silently down the slopes of Gridania, to the very edges of the slumbering city. Only the moon above guided his path as the cobblestone gave way to well-trodden dirt, the lanterns of the chocobo stables glowing softly in the distance. If he was smart, he would have joined his comrades, getting what little rest he could before their departure in the morning.
But his thoughts stewed too much to achieve any amount of slumber that night.
Instead, he found himself strolling through the stable rows, coming to a stop outside one in particular.
She glanced up at her sudden guest, a joyous kweh leaving her beak as she quickly stood and ruffled the straw from her feathers.
"Shh," Varrus whispered, reaching out to unlatch the door. "Can't have you waking everyone up, now can we?"
Angel merely chirped in response, butting her large, purple head into the man's chest as soon as he stepped inside. With a sigh, Varrus closed his eyes, running his fingers through her soft, thick feathers.
He almost felt guilty for what he was about to ask of her, to carry him alongside his fellow Serpents into the thick of the war. By all accounts, the proceedings in Carteneau had been nothing short of horrifying… and the Eorzeans were being pressed for all they had against the might of the Empire and their war machines. Certainly no place for a chocobo.
And yet… there they would charge come dawn. To what he couldn't help but suspect would be certain death.
Yet Angel's presence gave him comfort, if only just enough to face the coming day. For if he was to charge into the carnage and chaos… there was none other he wanted by his side.
Some may have called him foolish, but he knew better than to dismiss the bond between a chocobo and her rider. In the end, it may just be what saved their lives…
It wasn’t all that difficult to try and ignore the buzzing in her ear, the low and constant drone of a language that was not spoken anywhere but here. Inside this room. This room of polished stone and wood, of fine tapestries and scrolls so fragile with age that…well, she wondered what sort of upset they might cause if shown the light of day. Why else would he keep it, besides?
Just to have?
To read?
His room was one of the more special in the Temple considering he did not seem to otherwise…partake in what the Temple had to offer. An incredible rarity, that. He was allowed where he pleased within the halls, was assigned his own attendant and even his own guard. He did not have to attend service, polish marble statues or dust floors. Did not have to…well, do anything she had to do.
The epitome of mystery, her tutor.
The things in this room felt eerily out of place compared to everything else she had seen in the Temple. Most were not allowed to bring their own personal belongings, but he had an entire room full of them. Things. Trinkets. They were unique, exciting. She knew where everything was kept, knew how he liked to have everything arranged. If she was respectful, she could touch them. His things.
Or their things, he would say. While they belonged to him in the physical, their histories and knowledge were shared. It was why they were important. So he said. He said a lot of things. Even now she could still hear him lecturing on…something. He made a motion. There was a glint of light—
whack!
Her yelp was more of shock than anything else, the pain of the switch striking her hand causing it to flinch back and knock into her inkwell—
He caught it. Quick for an old man. The pallid youth frowned, rubbing at where she had been struck. The flesh did not bloom like it should have.
He said something neutral. It sounded like he had sand in his throat.
She couldn’t see what expression he wore as he set the ink back onto her desk, right where it should be, her attention focused on his fingers instead. They were well taken care of. Lightly calloused. Mostly from writing, she assumed. She had never seen him wield anything but a pen. Or a switch.
Her gaze drifted. It was freshly cut, wasn’t it? It was eyed with mixed emotions as she responded in the only language she was allowed to use here. In this room. This room of new and old things.
She had seen them all before. Had seen all his clothes. His jewelry. Saw his pens and books and artwork. Statuettes and shoes. Like the rest of them, he wasn’t allowed to leave. Even if he did get a nice room like she did.
And yet….
Firelight flickered off a ring that wrapped around one of those well kept fingers.
So I just made something really really cool, for the first time ever, with my best friend, and I’m really really proud of it and it makes me want to get back into social media so I can tell people what a fucking crazy experience it was and the CRACKED workflow I developed to get it finished
So I guess maybe I will get back into tumblr and this is a bit of a life/journal update as a 31 year old who first posted on tumblr when I was freshly 18, because! Im trying to start my own small business. I lost my job as a games artist at the place I worked at for five years. I worked my blood sweat and tears into games that were nationally nominated at a fancy awards ceremony stage. I was really good at it!!
But my life suddenly fell apart when I went no contact with my mom, and my best friend/housemate was diagnosed with very rare cancer, and we were kicked out of our house so they could jack up the rent literally the week after their emergency life saving invasive surgery, and my wrist injury came back from moving and work and stress and I became disabled because of it, and I lost my job and several close friends because I had a full on nervous breakdown and physically couldn’t work or leave the house.
So that’s where I’ve been at for the last two years. And it was really overwhelming. I kinda have ptsd from it. But I’m getting my life back on track a little bit more and more and my wonderful girlfriend supports me while I try to venture back into making my own art and working for myself. I’ve got some really fun stuff in the works, I’m combining my art, 3d and ideas into 3d printing, which I really love and have gotten into. And I want to get back into making art and merch. And I also get to do it with my best friend, which is really cool and exciting! And we’ve been writing together for years and years now and have these two characters who turn the world for us, and now!!!
Now I’ll get to share a little bit about them because!! We worked hundreds of hours in a single week including over 60 hours together in two days and a 24 hour nonstop sprint to the finish line.
And it’s a comic about gay rabbit suplex yaoi.
I’m feeling very nostalgic because tumblr was crucial in helping me find myself and connect with others back in the golden era. I had so much fun back then, and I published my very first webcomic when I was 13 on Drunk Duck, and in two days I’m going to be selling my debut comic at a local queer market. And that’s just so cool.
