Workin' on posting more old art, so here's my FFXIV child facing down King Thordan that I also reposted for bluesky's opening. I need to make more single-image illustrations that I can show off easily
Returning to the vexatious door, Oakmoss stood defiantly before it, palms pressed together a fulm in front of her chin. “Φωτιά! Παρευρεθείτε μου.” ‘Fire, attend me!’, in the ancient tongue passed down from her foremothers. Drawing her hands slowly apart, her eyes flew wide, a faint blue sheen hovering above her rose-quartz irises as her fingers wove the ancient sigils from a mass of golden aether. Long claws sculpted the raw potential of creation into glyphs, each geometric formation annotated in the myriad tongues her ancestors had compiled over Eras. Once the last arc was traced with a compass’s precision, she reached into the center of her diagram and plucked a red spark from its center with her thumb and forefinger, drawing her elbow back until the eidolon roared to life. The glyphs folded within its fiery body as it took form, much as a shirtsleeve is made to change which side of the garment is on when its cuff is pulled through its armhole.
It bore a resemblance to an Eorzean eidolon; a clever adjustment on Oakmoss’s mother’s part two centuries past. This aetheric tweak made it easier for her to hide the origin of her art now that one of the Eorzean military organizations had such egi at their command. These so-called summoners were but a watered-down imitation of the first Allagan order that had ultimately led to Meracydia’s downfall. Oakmoss held great disdain for those pretenders; part of which was pure envy. They had acquired their powers from those massive machines that hummed far above the clouds; part of what she considered her birthright despite never being able to make the pilgrimage there herself.
That would all change. She would make sure of it; enforcing her will upon the world around her was a witch’s praxis.
She called her eidolon “Fotiá” since that is what it was; fire, though its kindling was Sophic in nature rather than Ifritic. Sometimes, simplicity served best. It stretched its claws, speaking to her in Old High Allagan, its voice the tired sigh of a forge bellows. ++Caller. I am here. What do you require?++
“++There. To the lower left of the door, water has weathered a crack into stone. You are to go through, and once on the other side, open the door for me.++” Oakmoss didn’t enjoy speaking in what she thought of as the conqueror’s tongue; perhaps a little foolish considering their empire was long in ruins, but a strong preference all the same. It did have its uses, however, and issuing a direct order was a clear example of its utility.
“Ahhhh----” Fotiá sighed its exasperation, a reaction the Veena expected; it did that when asked to do nearly anything. ++But, Caller...water has made this mark in the stone? You know I do not like water’s touch.++
Oakmoss tapped the silver filigree of her summoner’s horn. “Don’t make me use this on tju, Fotiá.” She would; she had, many times. It knew that. “My foremothersz did not szpend all their time fortifying tju againszt elemental interference for tju to act like a szpoilt child.”
++I was not aware that the Caller was in the habit of spoiling any of her children,++ came its droll reply. ++Very well. You know my price.++
“No! I have been working on thisz door for moonsz, foul creature!” Though she railed against it, she knew it was fruitless to do so; the eidolon’s Sophic nature had its disadvantages.
++Balance in all things,++ Fotiá intoned, and Oakmoss was compelled to respond, “++In perfect harmony.++” An old prayer to her Meracydian Goddess, though the litany itself was Allagan. “Fine. But I will complete my szide of the bargain after tju have let me in. Otherwisze, there isz no balance.”
++Very well, Caller.++ The aetheric familiar floated on a trail of embers down to the crack, the definition of limbs and horns lost as it flowed through the stone, steam hissing as it crossed the water that had formed its passage. For a long moment, all was still; Oakmoss closed her eyes and channeled her focus through the horn to see what the eidolon was seeing. To her surprise, the room within looked to be a well-preserved Allagan ruin; yet another mystery. Why hadn’t she been able to open that damned door, then? Who had been able to keep her kind out for so long?
Her thoughts were shattered along with the door itself as the eidolon swelled with power, blasting the gateway outward. If it weren’t for her warded robes...she coughed as dirt and debris settled around her feet. Once she could again open her eyes, she noticed Fotiá already awaiting balance within, its infernal three-by-three grid etched in lines of fire with the dusty air as its canvas. Pulling a chunk of magicked stone from her hair, Oakmoss noticed the gems set within it had not lost their glow; she tucked it away within the deep sleeves of her robe. The mage turned wide eyes on the wall behind her, where still-smoking shards of the door were now ingrained into the bedrock, then slowly turned to face the eidolon.
“Tju...tju...faithlessz fucking waste of aether! Tju could have killed me, and with me, tjourself!” Striding through the still-settling rubble, she seethed with fury and curses in five languages, tempted to force the creature to do her bidding out of pure spite.
Ahhhh---- It sighed again, then tapped one claw against the glowing grid. ++For that outburst, I go first.++ Fotiá drew two lines in the centermost box; an X. It weathered her tirade with the patience of a being that has served the same family for centuries. Like water, her words were to it; just steam. A battle of attrition between fiery wills and fire itself.
Oakmoss sputtered for awhile longer, though her thoughts were already calming as she looked to the structures her eidolon had uncovered. An...assembly line, perhaps? She fell quiet, taking a few steps within, mentally trying to pair up what she saw with what she knew. Suddenly, her steps came to a halt; she was tethered by her oath to Sophic principles.
++Balance in all things,++ Fotiá reminded her.
The Veena turned on her heel, and sulked her way back to her familiar. “++In perfect harmony,++” she replied as compelled, though her tone and expression conveyed only discord. “Tju took the better szymbol out of szpite, too,” she accused it, her golden aether tracing an O in the top left corner.
It was a cat game, as it almost always was between them. Fotiá was delighted, as it almost always was. The fiery board vanished in a shower of embers, and Caller and Called One faced the ruins together.
