A bundle of Ivalice ficlets. In order - Loffrey, Germonique, Finnigan/Jeanne, Grissom, Germonique, Loffrey/Vormav. I didn't write for how long it told me to at all.
(write for) 15 minutes * unreliable or confused character *
When your mask has become your face - when your face, I
mean, deprived of light has some way atrophied - when the
mask is removed will we be bloody, or will our pale effigies
If I take it off, will I die or be free - both? The mask
perhaps is the shadow on my face, perhaps it is - it is -
maybe indifference, to be sure, or quiet-speaking, maybe...
that is... I am so lost and alone...
Blood... perhaps the mask is off already. I have been...
flayed through I am pierced through only once. Maybe
He thinks I am dead or maskless, so pale I am that dark-
kept shoot... bloodless and wan... the portal is broken and
with it my strength; my head drops. I am unmasked and dying,
that I know. Do I think like a lunatic or only more clearly
I smell blood - mine or others' or Ivalice's - I feel -
panic - or comfort - or confusion - maybe pain,
melancholy... Because I can smell the incense, a Church-
musk, that always came with him. On my clothes... as likely
on my skin, like bleeding.
I think of Hell as darkness or fire or ice or turbulence...
I think of Hell as anything for it does not matter... only
that I am unmasked, that too is Hell, I go there - it's dark
- even Ralseph - I am not afraid any more
it is where i belong is it not
(write for) 10 minutes * journal entry * know you better
...to wit, a spy of sorts - disseminating information
across a network of underground sympathisers and empire
antagonists. Rather than a child of the Gods it would be
safer to call 'Saint Ajora' a kind of well-intentioned
Doubtless he knew what his underlings were doing with that
information though he studiously kept his own hands clean. I
am all too aware of how it works - deniable assets - gold
leaving trails - a dangerous business.
Of course they trusted the small man in a holy man's robes.
And now they idolise it. I can only hope this book isn't
suppressed before it's too late.
Mayhap I must become a martyr to unmake a martyr.
(You know I knew you better than anyone. We were the only
ones who could bear to see each other how we truly were...
and yet you still remained. You may as well have knotted
that noose yourself. Now look what I have wrought... I
1000+ words * male character * last request
It's a sunny day and it reminds him of escape. The breeze
is cool, the sun hot, all around the glass languishes, but
peacefully. Summer, his favourite season, a time of joyous
excess and coming open. He turns his face to the wind and
feels it blow through his hair.
Today is not a day he wanted to happen. Either today he or
she will feed the earth with their blood or, to save
themselves, they must become the monsters they swore they
would not. He can hear them coming, faintly. More he can
smell them on the breeze like an animal: their sweat, their
trepidation, the blood from her bandaged cut. A man and a
woman. She smells familiar, in a way. He knows her but can't
identify her from smell alone.
Her green hood even in the heat tips him off, visible over
yellow grass. They seem tired, not quite afraid. Proud.
These are monsters that are fearsome, they must think,
monsters that can be beaten. Monsters that killed her
brother and stole his sister.
A monster he became for her... and would do so again. Hell
"They're coming, bird," he says quietly, though she's
already looking. They'll take a while and, sure, they could
run again. Take off like hind and hart, keep running. Chased
across Ivalice - but what life is that? Maybe they fear
pursuit or maybe they are simply too proud of tired, too
battered and hurt and too unwilling to risk separation. They
fall together, one way or another. Without a word he takes
her hand, presses her knuckles to his lips with a smile.
Despite the power in her stone her hand is on her blade. He
wonders if she'll prove Hume until the last, or not. He
doubts he can. Not if she's hurt.
When they crest the hill, he can see how tired they are -
the blonde-haired young man, younger than him, and the woman
their age with her father's grim strength but none of the
He bows because, well, they are worthy adversaries. Ma
taught him well; he'd rather die a gentleman.
They fight too fast to follow - clash - sword - parry - man
on man and woman on woman but - he is no warrior, though the
daemon is - he is no warrior and the spear pierces his chest
with an alien feeling. Body-rending... the ultimate. He
understands that he is dead, that is is the daemon that
holds him, that threatens to remake him, fight back, fight
But she - she bloodied and torn, her armour - she is still
beautiful, and on her knees still Hume, and when she looks
at him he only smiles and ignoring the blood on his mouth he
drabble (100 words) * mystery * blinded by the light
The workings of the world are a mystery to me, as they are
to all Humes. The Father did not see fit in the making of
the world to grant us omniscience - because we must
discover, struggle, and feel the light of understanding for
ourselves. It is a privilege and a reward, not a right. it
is the outcome of a man's years of struggling on this plane.
This is what I have been told all my life, I have preached
for years, I have read in countless books and heard from
numberless mouths. It is a truth that is without name and it
should be part of me: the Father knows.
It's what I said to the undead horde. These cultists and
shambling wrecks I despise and - I admit - fear. I fear
Without questioning, I served you, Father. But blinded by
the light, I have fallen into the Dark.
(write for) 25 minutes * unreliable or confused character *
As above, so below. As begun, so ended. Fire is the spark
of life but a jealous master... stolen from the Gods it was
and so it envies us. It is the quickest route back to the
cycle of souls. One spark among thousands as the body burns
I - am - confused. I am not sure what I expected to feel.
Father repented, and the mercy for such is a throttling...
not to feel the cleansing flames on the treacherous body.
Do I still hear her scream? Or do they burn only in my
memory? Was it only in my dreams that I wipe their ash from
the lines of my face - in my wishes that I feel guilt, or
sadness - or pride, or loathing? I feel nothing. Looking in
the fire I saw with great clarity and only with my eyes.
Red, orange, white, brown, blood, the way her hair fell in
her face, the kindling mercifully dry, the blue sky, a kite
swooping past. I could have seen the lines of the wind
itself if I chose to... I swear I could.
I bury in ash everything they held dear. They call me
'Judas', but I am Germonique.
(write for) 10 minutes * conflict * devotion
Devotion - it is a word like love, but not quite. Purer,
maybe, than love. But better - stronger - weaker? Does one
Perhaps not. Devotion could be said to be like need. A need
to need, or be needed. A need to do anything for someone,
perhaps to prove you are alive.
You - you know you are a damned fool. That you are knocking
your head against circumstance and wondering why you bruise
- walking into the den of the lion, knowing he is hungry,
knowing that one cannot live while the other survives.
But you do it, perhaps, because you are cold. You do it
because you are sick inside and you crave the claws. You do
it because being ripped apart is what you desire but your
pride and your cowardice would not let you do so.
Maybe you are devoted because you wish to end with purpose.
Or, you think, as you watch the way he moves, perhaps you
are devoted because you love him the only way a broken man