#jace does prose

[moonlit-endeavors]

#12 - Tooth and Nail - Monsters

((Actually based off an old RP with @locke-rinannis))

He had been preparing for this for a long time. 

What they called Blue Magic, he had been working on for a long time. He knew how to execute it, he’d been practicing, following theorems, and he’d gotten it wrong for years, but it was time.

He had found someone to bear witness, and even to help him with his studies. Surprisingly--he too, was masked. The two stared down the Ahriman before them, Jace was likely grinning behind his mask.

He handed his blonde-haired, masked friend a needle. 

“Should I become petrified by the Ahriman, you need only use this.”

The knight looked toward Jace, perhaps confused as to his motives.

“Do not worry, I have all confidence that I will survive. And, though we’ve only just met, you’ve an air about you, yes? Something strong and powerful. You’ll protect me, should anything go amiss. Ah,” he paused. “But it will not, yes?”

The knight shrugged, and nodded, and eventually gave in to the wishes of the eccentric mage. 

Jace snapped his fingers, releasing a bit of magic toward the Ahriman. Just enough to gain the attention of the voidsent. 

Enraged by him, the Ahriman immediately unleashed its magic, freezing Jace in place. Behind the mask, he smirked, even as he muscles tensed, and his body essentially became stone, he knew it was going all according to plan.

The knight swung his blade toward the Ahriman, keeping it at bay while he attempted to get close enough to administer the medicinal golden needle.

One needle touched would-be flesh, Jace began moving nearly immediately. He had seen--and felt--all he needed to see. As he looked the Ahriman in its eye, he unleashed the self-same magic back toward the flying one-eyed creature. It froze in place, falling to the ground.

“The magic will wear off,” He said, staring it down. His voice had a hint of excitement and pure confidence. “Why not strike it down now?”

The knight nodded and dealt the one and only blow he needed to get the job done.

[moonlit-endeavors]

#2: Sway - Summoning

“Big. Bad. Please stop this,” There was a shaking in the Miqo’te’s voice. Tears escaped from beneath his mask and hit the floor.

He had been following a lead, that a large amount of crystals had gone missing and were being stashed somewhere in La Noscea, where none could see. Except, somehow, Jace Hunter. 

Upon confirming the lead, Jace Hunter made his way to Wineport and sighted his would-be targets. A pair of Roegadyn, covered from head-to-toe, but sporting a covered wheelbarrow. No doubt that was his pair.

He followed them deep into the Raincatcher Gully. 

When Jace was but a teenager, now orphaned once again, thanks largely to Dalamud and Bahamut’s wake, he spent much of his time around pickpockets and cutthroats in Limsa Lominsa. He’s seen more criminal and pirate deals than a child of his age should have. It was his curiosity, and his penchant for thievery, that made people notice him. People like Face.

Face was only his moniker. An old pirate turned thief-slash-businessman. Likewise, those under his employ all had monikers. Like Pretty Boy, and Big and Bad. Jace was Fluff. The only Miqo’te of the bunch and only taller than Scout--a Lalafell--by maybe a fulm and a half. 

He’d run with the group at night and study Arcanima by day. It wasn’t long until his double-life caught up to him, and that they’d all catch up to each other. Still, he remembers those days fondly. As some of the happiest of his life, and being surrounded once again by some semblance of a family.

Along the hills of the Gully, there was a shack covered by foliage. Overstretched palm trees kept it in the shadows. The smaller of the Roegadyn moved the bushes aside as the larger wheeled in their haul. Jace waited a few moments before following behind.

The shack was merely a cover for a large system of caves and tunnels, some seemingly natural, others were certainly man made. It was dark, but, luckily Jace was always good at seeing in the dark. Partly because of the Keeper-genetics that dictated such, and partly because of magic.

Face saw in potential in the young Miqo’te. He was small, but sly and nimble. He was smart, but also cunning and quick witted. He probably saw some of himself in the little Miqo’te. He taught him how to use his magic to hone his skill as a thief. 

“Even for something as trivial as pick-pocketing,” He would tell Jace. “Your skills will shine brighter than any coin you lift.”

Jace rounded a corner and came to a halt as he witnessed a room filled nearly to the brim, with water-aspected crystals. The Roegadyn fell to their knees and began chanting.

“A summoning?” Jace exclaimed immediately, loud enough to interrupt the duo.

The tow turned to face him, uncovering their faces and staring at him. Their eyes seemed empty. They were without any expression, yet seemed very interested in Jace.

“Big...Bad? Is that you? My friends, what are you doing here?”

The woman--Bad--was motionless for a moment before her hips began to swing, as if she danced to some beat that only she could hear. Likewise, the man--Big--began moving his body as well. They hummed a tune and the crystals began to shine. The aether flowing into their bodies.

“Big. Bad. Stop! Yes? Stop this! You cannot--”

His cries could not stop them. The more they danced, the more the crystals shined.

Before long, the crystals dissolved. The aether pulsed. His ears rang, and tears poured out from beneath his mask.

“Big. Bad. Please stop this. You cannot do this!” 

It was almost like he began to hear the music they were hearing. His mind was clouded. He fell to his knees, still begging for them to stop. For the music to stop. 

And stop it did.

When he’d awoken, after passing out from the pain most likely, the two were gone. 

Yet he could feel their aether in the air. As if they were still standing right in front of them.

“They couldn’t take it,” He whispered. “I knew they couldn’t.”

Jace was always so happy to know them. Face and Big and Bad. Scout and Pretty Boy. He’d known so much loss. Traded so many families for other families. 

“I guess I’m not done losing brothers and sisters.”

[moonlit-endeavors]

Homeland

I was a model citizen. 

When we decided to leave. Well, when my parents decided to leave, I was but a toddler. I can hardly remember what our home looked like, back in Gyr Abania. Father was a warrior, fierce and powerful--or so mother told me. Mother said that he left because of us. 

“He had a family to think of, Jax,” She would say. 

We were luckier than most, I think. To be a conscripted soldier’s family. From what I understand, the others may not have been so lucky. So long as my father pledged his allegiance and his service, we would be citizens. 

The only thing I’ve ever known was Garlemald. My father served and, when I would come of age, so too would I.

We were renamed and made part of Garlean society, given a nice fancy title to reflect that. 

Yet, I was still looked at differently.

It did not stop me, however. Mother wanted to become a merchant. She wove beautiful gowns and loved for people to buy her wares. I promised, after school, that I would do what it took to help her see her dream come true. As a child and through to my teen years, I made the top of my class. I was a model student, on his way to becoming a model citizen. Yet, still, I was made to feel the fool.

When it came time to join the army, I began as a foot soldier. I was praised for my tenacity, and compared to my father. When a sword was placed in my hand, I knew exactly what to do. I followed orders. I struck down each enemy. I did what was asked of me, knowing that mother was back at home, safe, selling her wares. I volunteered for each battle. Whenever the researchers needed a subject, I volunteered. Whenever a pilot was needed for magitek, or airships, I proved myself.

Yet the word “savage” still surrounded me.

I was one of the first of the so-called Hypertuned. The experiment ended in success, sort of. And failure. Which was good enough for the researchers. But I still heard the whispers. That I was lucky to be alive. That I was still but a savage. 

We had not seen father in many years. When I asked, they’d said he was doing work in Gyr Abania. I was to be stationed in the Far East. For many years, things were lacking. Boring. Quiet. The Domans were already conquered, and it was our job to keep them in line. I hated it. I didn’t like seeing families separated, people killed for little and less. But what could I do but hope to see my own parents again?

It wasn’t too long until the whispers of revolution began, and the Domans wanted their castle back.

I prepared for battle. Just like a good solider. Like a model citizen would. I was strong and reliable and would not falter. And one day, I would see mother and father again.

It was while I was stationed in the East that I received word. Mother passed. They told me it was from a sickness. I didn’t believe a word of it. Somewhere in Gyr Abania, my father likely received word as well. His wife was dead. 

As I reported to the Castle, prepared with every fiber of my being to fight against those who sought reclamation. In my soul, however, something felt wrong. Watching the Domans fight back against the Garleans, watching the beauty of the castle crumble. The Garleans ruined this place. 

I thought of all the stories mother and father about Gyr Abania, and Eorzea. I wondered what the Garleans were doing there. How much they were ruining it. 

I didn’t want to do this anymore. I did not want to be a model citizen, a model soldier. I didn’t want to fight people who wanted to be free. People who would be called savages. Savages, like me. 

I knew nothing of the Domans, of the East, of my homeland. I’ve only known Garlemald. And it was killing me. I remember what I did next. 

I jumped.

I let the river carry me from the Castle. Assuredly suicide. I was captured by the Domans.

Captive, again. But they allowed me to live. For a while, I worked as an informant while some of their forces moved back to Eorzea. The whispers of revolution turned into a roar.

It wasn’t long until the Garlean’s responded. After both Doman and Ala Mhigan resistance forces took back their lands, it was only a matter of time. I wanted to join my true countrymen. Ala Mhigo was calling her son back.

[moonlit-endeavors]

#3 - Muster - Teacher

“I can barely keep his aether stable,” A young miqo’te said, his hand placed over a wharf rat that was struggling to breathe. 

Towering over the miqo’te was a roegadyn. He was old. His features wrinkled and weathered. His hair was full, yet showed signs of age. He took a sharp exhale, waving a hand to cast some of his own magicks. The rat suddenly took a turn for the better.

“I do not understand you, child.” The roegadyn spoke. “An understanding and grasp of aether, a gift for summoning, and even a penchant for destruction, but none for the healing arts? It is as if you were created, not born, yes?”

The miqo’te’s ears dropped low. He looked sullen and beaten.

“I am trying, you know? I really am!” 

“I’m not sure you are, child. I’ve little else to teach you other than this, yes? How am I to further your studies--no, how are you supposed to help anyone with your skills as they are now?”

Suddenly the miqo’te seemed enraged. 

“You sound like mother,” He spoke sharply and rose from his knees. “You sound just like her! I try and I try, but it’s no good! I cannot heal. I do not know why I did not ask for this!”

The roegadyn takes a slight step back. 

“I am trying!” The miqo’te exclaimed once again. “I think I have made progress! And I wish to hear the same from you!”

The roegadyn was silent. Scowling. And perhaps, thinking. 

“No,” The roegadyn says, flatly. “If you are to become what I think you can become then you will need more training. You are not even close, yes?”

“Oh, I see,” The miqo’te starts, backing away from the roegadyn. “This is all about you and what you want, is it? Just like mother. Mother wanted me to become a conjurer. To heal. I can’t do that, I could never do that for her. And I can’t do it for you, either.”

“Wait, Ja--” The roegadyn starts to reach for the miqo’te. 

A swing of the small miqo’te’s hand produces a bit of magic, enough to deter the roegadyn, and perhaps even frighten him. He holds at his hand, and his eyes widen, he looks down at the miqo’te as if he were a monster. 

“I don’t need your help anymore,” The miqo’te mutters as he trembles with anger. Balled up fists are the only thing keeping him controlled. After a moment of silence, and a few tears, the miqo’te storms off, out of the La Noscean cabin.

The roegadyn is silent and only sighs.

The miqo’te decided to stay alone for a few hours. He watched the sea sway and trees buckle slightly from the might of the winds. He recalled the lectures and the yelling and all the sharp exhales. And how annoyed he was with the roegadyn. How he always put him down, only to try and build him up again. How he ended almost every sentence with, “yes?”

“Well,” The miqo’te said. “I guess he is not all bad.” 

He began to remember the meal times. The times they’d walk the shops in Limsa Lominsa. See shows in Ul’dah. And visit his old home in Gridania. 

“He’s trying, I suppose,” The miqo’te lifted himself from the ground. “I’m trying too.”

As he made his way back toward the cabin, there was a smell in the air that gave him pause.

“Smoke?” He said looking around. “Fire!” Yelled someone nearby, running in the direction of the cabin.

“No,” He said, quietly, before beginning to run. “No, no, no!”

 As nearby neighbors and workers attempted to douse the fire, the small miqo’te could barely control himself. He jumped straight in. A clamor behind him called out.

“Don’t be a fool! What is he doing? He’ll get himself killed!”

He didn’t care. Not at this point. His body was moving on its own, and he’d located what he needed to find.

The roegadyn was slumped over. Perhaps already dead.

The small miqo’te rushed to his side, placing a hand over him and channeling his aether.

“I’m trying,” The miqo’te said, his hand shaking. Tears pooled in his eyes. 

“I’m trying, yes?”

[moonlit-endeavors]

#14 - Part - Her Hair

“Jaxon,” She said, holding bunches of her hair and smiling. “Would you mind?”

Jaxon smiled and nodded. His mother sat in a low chair, allowing her hair to drape back. He picked up a brush and comb, detangling and parting her hair into sections before he began to braid strands together for her.

“Mother,” He began. “Why do you like your hair this way? Many of the women here do not wear their hair this way.”

His mother smiled, seemingly content with having her son braid away.

“Because, Jaxon, this is the way I have always worn it. We may be living as Garleans now--as much as we can, anyroad. But we are still who we are. Who we must be. This keeps me grounded, it reminds me of where I come from. Not where I am.”

Jaxon’s eyes looked down toward the floor. He didn’t quite understand, and he merely resolved to consider that he may not ever. His mother caught his look in the mirror. She gave a light sigh and smiled as she looked at him in the mirror.

“Jaxon, someday we will go back to the homeland,” She said. “Someday we will show you everything we talk about, your father and I. We will show you all the things that inspire us, and have inspired us,”

Jaxon smiles.

“Of course, mother. I look forward to it,”

He went back to braiding. Silently, but smiling with every strand he twisted.

[moonlit-endeavors]

#10 - Avail - Jaxon

Growing up in the Capital, his father always told him to be a model citizen. They weren’t Garlean. Not by a long shot, but it was an honor. An honor to be given a chance at a better life.

At least that is what his father told him.

He was always perfect. As perfect as he could be. Helping out wherever he could, however he could. Whether it was in school, or even on his way home. He had to. He had to be perfect.

No, he had to be better than perfect. For everything the Garleans had, he had to work twice or three times as hard for. Top of his class, an athlete, a model soldier, a great engineer and even researcher. He did it all, because he had to.

At least that is what his father told him.

He worked tirelessly, and never complained.

But he wanted to so bad. 

Mother and father always reminisced about the good old days. About the food, and the culture and the people they left behind. That they could not return to. He wanted to be there, with friends he didn’t have, and family he’d never met. A land he didn’t know. He wanted to know it all.

The truth of it all was, no matter how hard he worked, they shunned him. They told him he was worthless. They pushed him around. He wasn’t one of them and he knew that, but he wasn’t Ala Mhigan, either. At least he didn’t think he was.

It wasn’t until later in life that he’d realized it. How much his work, his research, his blood, sweat and tears had been used to continue to oppress the people he didn’t know, but wanted to be a part of. And how little he was thanked. For every single swing of his sword, twist of a wrench. For every time he put quill to parchment. For every life he saved for the Glory of Garlemald, he was merely a pawn.

The Doman Castle was being stormed by resistance. He received word that there seemed to be uprisings in the East, and back home, in Ala Mhigo.

He recalled every single thankless deed. Every time he was abused for merely existing. Every time he was a model citizen, only to be reminded that he was never one of them. 

He made his decision then.

“No more.”

[moonlit-endeavors]

#8 - Clamor - Moshan

“My name is Moshan,” The voice didn’t speak much. Or often. But when it did, it was loud.

Kamasis grabbed at his neck, trying with all the might he could muster to pull the necklace from his body. But it was to no avail. Whatever it was the kept the piece of Allagan jewelry bound to him, it was not coming off any time soon. To think he would be shackled by a lost civilization. Or at least, one of the many who lived among them.

“My name is Moshan,” The voice spoke again. “What a pity that this is the body that was delivered unto me. So savage, so uncouth.”

“Why do you speak to Kamasis, and from where do you speak?” The Hrothgar roared, loud enough for only the sleeping machines and captured scalekin to hear. 

“I am in your mind. No--our very souls are now dancing. I am weak, but I will take this body for my own. Some day, you will not have a chance.”

“Release me! Immediately!” Kamasis roared yet again, angrily shouting toward the ceiling of the research facility.

“No, I do not think I will. At this very moment, you need me. You are, somehow, within Azys Lla. And you have little hope to escape. No--I take that back. We, have little hope to escape. Your mind is aflutter with thoughts of your airship, but that will not be enough. You need me.”

Kamasis did not roar again. Instead, his thoughts and Moshan’s words swirled in his mind. His mind was loud enough.

“What should Kamasis do?” He asked, speaking softly.

“We will take your airship as far as we can, but it will begin to fail. When it does, you shall leave the rest to me.” 

Kamasis grit his teeth, his fangs dug into his lower lip.

He began listening to the loud, demanding voice in his head, following his direction. The man called Moshan. The spirit. Just who was he?

“Probably another researcher extraordinaire, just like the rest of them,” Kamasis said aloud answering his own question.

“I heard that.” Moshan replied. 

Kamasis fired up the airship and took off immediately.

It was likely some time before time passed and he awoke in the Dravanian Hinterlands.

“You’re welcome.”

[moonlit-endeavors]

#4 - Clinch - Training

Who would have thought that this place would teach him to fight?

Kamasis has long been a student of martial arts. Even back in the homeland, he’d love to watch sparring matches and battles and watch as guards and soldiers would gear up to repel Garleans. Their defeat only furthered that interest.

Day in and day out, when he was not doing some for of academic study--which he found to be boring and laborious--he would practice martial arts with an expert.

He would spend a week with an axe, another with the sword. His teacher even taught him some Doman sword arts.

“Sam-oo-rai?” He always struggled with language.

His teacher was a gentle man. A Hyur who seemed to know much about different fighting styles. A traveled, older man who seemed to simply wish to impart the knowledge onto someone else. He had many students before he’d taken on Kamasis, but none were perhaps as quick to pick up the basics. Likewise, none were as eager to make the style their own.

However, there is one form of fighting, that while Kamasis has an understanding of, he struggles grasp.

On a hot summer evening, as the sun was just setting, dyeing everything in its path a deep orange, Kamasis and his teacher were found trading punches and kicks in a training hall. Kamasis, still rather slow with his movements, found it difficult to keep up with his teacher. He spent most of his time on his heels, attempting to keep his teacher’s hands from reaching his face.

It was only when his teacher paused that Kamasis felt he could retaliate. Go on the offensive. However, just before he could make a move, he felt his teacher grab a fistful of his clothing and tug. His leg pivoted, and swept knocking Kamasis off balance. His other hand supported the cloth-filled-fist and near-effortlessly, lifted Kamasis off the ground and overhead. For the final, swift movement, he brought Kamasis down--rather hard--onto his back. 

Kamasis gasped as air left his body, as if he was trying to quickly reclaim it. He stared up at the ceiling, wide-eyed--but happy, and smiling.

His teacher chuckled and appeared inverted in Kamasis’ field of vision.

“I learned that in Ala Mhigo.”