For the first time in 9 years, I’m putting the writing challenge on hold, returning next year on September 1st, 2026.
Life is extraordinarily busy: I had a baby toward the end of July (yay!) and am in the thick of sleep deprived, early postpartum. Between new baby, family adjustment time, work, and my hubby in school, running the challenge this year would just be too much, even with my awesome team of friends to help out.
Putting the challenge on hold was an agonizing decision that was not made lightly, but at the end of the day self care and real life must come first.
In the meantime, if you're looking to scratch the FFxivWrite itch you could use this time to go back to previous years that you may have missed and write to those prompts (no forms, no prizes). Or, consider organizing your own challenges amongst your friends, discord groups, FCs, etc. I bet if you keep an eye peeled you'll spot other FFXIV writing challenges as well. Links for all prompts can be found on the FFxivWrite Carrd website.
Should you choose to run your own challenges this year, I ask that you please refrain from reaching out to me to ask for help or advice. I really needs this time to focus on family and big life transition. 💚
I was sad about no xivwrite (congrats to Moen!) so I channeled that into making a pretty spreadsheet of past prompts to revisit for this year! feel free to make a copy for your own use~
Thank you everyone for your help and support with this season of the podcast. Episode 30, all about fanfiction writing and the 10th annual "FFxivWrite" fanfiction challenge is now up!
Thank you @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast for joining me for a wonderful late night conversation.
All prompts are former prompts from previous years’ events, and all credit goes to @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast! This is purely unofficial and I made this prompt list for myself to use, but please feel free to use these if you’d like! Text version of the prompts below cut.
Destruct (verb): Destroy.
A force of nature bottled in obsidian skin.
Prompt from the 2021 prompt list.
feating Yein of @iron-sparrow
The flower in your hands is now leafless, petalless, and stemless. As you pinch and roll and crush the center of it so that it rains from your fingers. You murmur an apology to it, breath hitching a little in genuine grief as you reach for another.
The park is very crowded. You are here on purpose. Eventually a band of performers will take to the stage and you will be whisked away on the wings of a story. But for now… the park is very crowded.
You have shredded at least six flowers as your fingers close on the seventh. You cannot stop yourself. There is something in you that shakes at the crowd around you, trembles like a dog kicked and cowering beneath a table. It is better to focus on the careful, systematic destruction of the flowers in your vicinity than to think of the press of bodies, the loudness of their greetings and laughter. The wailing of children too young to understand boredom and waiting. It is all so much.
You pull the first petal off the seventh flower. A shadow falls over you, all the warning you get. But you know the silhouette. You’d know it in the dark.
Yein’s weight falls over you like the slowest of avalanches. Giggles puncture the bubble of dread in your chest and spill from your mouth, taking to the wind like dandelion seeds. And while you stand strong against the pressure as long as you’re able, they win out in the end. Soon you’re flattened to the grass and your little pile of flowers further crushed beneath you and Yein’s growing laughter above you.
They squish you for only a moment before rolling to your side, flopping to the grass with a smile that burns away your pinching fear. You admire them through your laughter. The cool richness of their obsidian skin, the glowing jewel of their jasper eye; the color nearly lost for the force of their smile. The river of scarring that makes a delta of their face. ‘My moonlit friend’ they greet you and the last remnants of that buzzing worry quiets.
emmanellain & aureia [warrior of light]. heavensward.
tags: grief/mourning, ishgard politics
ffxivwrite prompt: feckless [2021]
ao3 link
You’re spineless, little lordling, unbefitting to your father’s name. Is he certain Lord Haurchefant is the bastard and you are trueborn?
What an incompetent freak of nature! How you are Count Edmont’s son, no one will ever know.
Again? Some day, brother, you will test the limits of my patience.
Son, I must ask that you comport yourself well today. This is no laughing matter. This is no joke. If you cannot carry the respect of our House’s name, then you cannot bear her arms. Do us proud, yes?
Do us proud. Do us proud. Do us proud.
Emmanellain blinks, snow clinging to his lashes, and peers across the windswept bluff. The city rises beyond, its jagged spires spiking through grey clouds, the golden glow of lamps and lanterns and braziers flickering desperately in the foul weather. He did not expect a tempest to arise—it was perfectly decent weather, if a bit overcast when he left—but perhaps he brought it on himself by not checking with a skywatcher before departing.
That’s what Artoirel would say.
Still, he is here now—sweaty from the climb, damp from the sweat, and freezing from the damp. A right proper mix of discomfort. Despite asking the Temple Knights stationed outside the Gates of Judgement for directions, he got hopelessly lost and found himself clambering down instead of up. Determined that he take his brother’s advice and trust his intuition, he was perched precariously halfway down the cliffs before it occurred to him that there was perhaps a slight chance he was going the wrong way.
Haurchefant would find it amusing, were he here to hear the tale. He would laugh, then clap him on the back and say something about the admirability of his determined spirit.
But his brother is not here.
His brother is long gone.
Emmanellain blows out a breath and trudges slowly through the snow, fumbling hopeless with his pocket in search of his handkerchief. His nose is dripping, and as tempting as it is to simply wipe it with his sleeve and be done with it, the shirt is new. The whole thing will have to be washed when he returns, but there is propriety about these things. Then again, no one is around to judge. It will be him and Haurchefant upon this hill, and…
“Mistress Malathar?” he calls, raising a hand to his brow to shield his eyes. “Is that you, old girl?”
The Warrior of Light glances over her shoulder. She is a sight to behold in the snow—a stoic warrior all in black, snowflakes clinging to the plates of her armour in a marriage of black and white. If her hair were longer, it would billow in the wind, like the tempestuous locks of a heroine upon a romance cover. But alas, she keeps it cropped short, and the small points of her ears stick out. So much discussion about those ears, they are now one of Ishgard’s favourite talking points.
Perhaps he understands it. The highborn like discussing him, too.
Her ruby eyes narrow and she looks him up and down. “Emmanellain? What are you doing out here alone?”
“I thought—” He plods through the snow, each step taking him deeper and deeper into the drift. How is he sinking while she is barely up to her ankles in snow? “—ah—well, I thought I would be the first to visit, on behalf of my father and brother. Current events are at the foremost of their minds, and well… I—ah—” He sinks deeper. “—have time to—ah—spare.” He puffs out the last word, mouth twisting as he stares at the surrounding snow. How is it up to his waist? “Could you lend me a hand, old girl?”
Mistress Malathar sighs. Quickly, she shuffles through the snow to the edge of the drift and extends a hand. With a few grunts and pointed curses, she pulls him out and helps him up to solid ground. He hunches over, wheezing, cheeks flushed from either the effort or the embarrassment or both.
“Well met,” Emmanellain puffs at last, bowing as graciously as he can manage. “I fear I may have crushed the flowers, but as my brother would say, it is the thought that counts.”
She follows his gaze downwards, observing the bouquet pressed to his chest. Lilies of the Valley, in an assortment of different colours. Their petals are drooping, their leaves sagging, but they are fresh and hand-picked. A good gesture, he thought.
“They’re lovely,” she says quietly.
Together, they walk in silence to the grave. His shield remains where it was placed when he was buried, resting proudly against the headstone. Snowflakes collect on the rim, dusting the black and red. Clearing his throat, Emmanellain steps forward and lays the flowers upon the grave. Somehow, he envisioned this moment differently. Important? No. Something else.
But now that he is here—cold and damp and shaking in his boots in the middle of a snowstorm—he cannot help but feel…
Empty.
“Do you miss him, too?” he asks after a moment.
Mistress Malathar folds her arms, her gaze lingering on the crack in the shield. “Yes,” she whispers. “Emmanellain…”
“Hm?”
“Why was he buried here and not in the city?”
He turns away, raising a hand to keep out the flickering lights beyond. “We thought… well, my father thought he would want a good view of the city he cherished. He devoted his life to Ishgard. It is only right that he should see her in all her glory.”
“But it’s… lonely up here, is it not?” She pauses. “Shouldn’t he be with his family?”
His throat tightens. That is not a question easily answered. His brother was beloved by all, but it did not change that he was their father’s disgrace. It was only through his formidable will and admirable character that the Count could dispatch his shame. But facts are facts, and Haurchefant remains a bastard.
And a bastard—if not legitimized—does not rest with one’s House. No matter their contributions to the Holy See.
“I wish he were,” he says carefully, the lump now painful in his throat. He bows his head and casts his gaze downwards—the flowers look miserable against the headstone. They’ll be buried in the stone or torn away by the wind by tomorrow morning. “But this is what he would have wanted, no?”
She is silent for a long time. “If you say so.”
He flushes, awkwardly shifting weight from foot to foot. He is often dumbstruck in front of the Warrior of Light. She is an enigma—strong and beautiful, capable and resolute, and clever, too. Some call her harsh and cold, but he can only see her as kind. She simply goes about it in a different way than expected. In his mind, he can craft the most beautiful and poetic words, banter marked by impressive wit and whimsy. But the moment he speaks, he becomes feckless and tongue-tied and he becomes a stuttering fool, tripping over his own words as he scrambles to make sense of himself.
He will never be impressive to her.
Perhaps it is time he stopped trying.
“They all miss him,” Emmanellain murmurs. His heart clenches, the pain that has never quite gone away resurfacing without warning. His knees shake and he sucks in a breath, one hand pressed over his heart. The tears he would shed cling to his cheeks, frozen by the wind. “The knight, not the man. Ishgard needs someone like him, and I do not know if he can ever be replaced. His memory will serve in his stead. I cannot say in good faith that they are in the right for it.”
Mistress Malathar’s expression softens. Gently, she rests a hand on his arm and leans her head against his shoulder, standing with him before the grave as he trembles with silent grief. How long they stay there, he does not know. Time is meaningless in this moment.
“Come on,” she says at last. “I’ll take you home.”
Lali-ho, FFXIV fans! Are you frustrated by the AI comments on your favorite fic? Have you ever wanted an excuse to make a writer really happy? Do you ever think, "Wow, it would be neat if I could do something about both those things at the same time?"
Then you should take a look at Fanart Frenzy! Sign up to get your bingo card before December 21st!
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A bingo event designed to counteract art commission scammers and encourage fic writers by making art for the fics you love in any fandom!
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Sign up via the entry form below. You’ll get a bingo card with prompts guiding you towards fics in any fandom. Pick a fic, make any kind of art you like (drawings, embroidery, playlists, memes, etc.), and share with the fic author to mark off each square.
Can’t draw?
You can make any kind of art you like – crochet, decorated cookies, composing a score, recording a podfic...
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Jan 1-31, 2026
Questions/concerns?
Check out the event FAQ or message the Fanart Frenzy team!
Sign up here by December 21st! More info on the event blog here or on linktree.
