Send me a mood and I will tell you how my character deals with it.
Prompt 1 (Make-up Day): Envoy
Who: Emerik Liubasch, Semir (original NPC)
What: Emerik must lighten his pack.
Where: A rail yard on the outskirts of Martrvje, a port city in occupied Bozja.
When: About two years before the events of the Bozjan Southern Front field operation began. Takes place a few months after this piece [Mature community label, requires login].
Music: "Intro (The Envoy)" and "Outro (What It Means to Be Human)" by Being as an Ocean (both instrumental)
When a soft knock sounded at the door of the railroad car, a faint murmur of concern rippled through the two dozen heads scattered amongst the stacks of crates. Emerik's heart thudded in his chest, fur standing on end as he uncrossed his arms. He felt Semir do the same beside him, their elbows brushing.
The boxcar was still at rest, one freight car among many in a long train waiting to leave the rail yard on the outskirts of the city. Had they been discovered? His fingers itched for the smooth wood of his staff, but it, like nearly everything else he owned, had been left behind. It would have been foolishness, in any case, bringing a weapon — no matter how simple. Emerik tugged at the cuffs on his borrowed jacket, the final piece of a traveling outfit intended to soften his features, to render him polished and nonthreatening.
After an eternity of rapid heartbeats, the door slid open a few ilms, a sliver of just-bluing sky showing around the silhouette of a hrothgar with one ragged ear. Emerik relaxed a fraction. That was their contact — the member of the Resistance that Semir had nodded to in a coffee shop four sennights ago, setting all this in motion. Emerik did not know his name. Gods willing, he would keep it that way.
The partisan pulled the door further open on well-oiled, silent tracks, climbed nimbly up onto the deck, and slid it closed again. The darkness returned.
"Bad news," the soldier said, speaking quietly. His voice sounded young. It had surprised Emerik when they first met, and it still seemed incongruous now. "We were given old information, and the expected gross weight for this car is slated to be a half-tonze less than we had accounted for. We have to reduce weight, or the Garleans will notice the discrepancy the minute we pass through the first checkpoint."
"Will... will someone have to get off the train?" The hesitant voice came from somewhere left of the door — the mother with her two young ones, Emerik thought. The little family had been huddled together when he and Semir had arrived at the rail yard, the children sleeping with their mother's skirts wrapped around their shoulders. Emerik could picture Semir's deep frown when he'd seen the swollen bruises on her face.
The soldier's voice took on an apologetic tone beneath his urgency. "Maybe. But I am hoping that we can reduce baggage weight, instead. Please go through your luggage and remove anything that is not absolutely essential to your survival on the trip, as well as anything that is particularly heavy."
Worried whispers rose in the darkness, and the soldier continued:
"This is not an easy task, I know, and I am sorry that I must ask it of you. You number twenty-four, so we need to eliminate more than forty ponzes of weight per person. Keep your necessary medicine, food and water, your identification papers, and money. Put it in a pillowcase or wrap it in a cloth to carry it. If you have jewelry, keep whatever you can hide on your person, and whatever clothes you can put on, plus a blanket and pillow each. Everything else, including your trunks and cases, please separate it out and set it by the door. Quietly and quickly, please."
"What will happen to our belongings?" That was the voice of an older man with an accent speaking of the wealthier parts of the city. He was accompanied by a young woman Semir figured for his daughter, though Emerik was not so sure.
"I'm afraid they will probably be destroyed. We cannot hide them here, and we have no way to get them to you once you have left, so we will have to dispose of them quickly — most likely in the river."
For a long moment, dead silence reigned. Emerik's thoughts drifted to the contents of his leather suitcase. What clothes he had, he wore — and some that weren't his, besides. He had no jewelry nor medicine, and all his earthly wealth sat in a pouch strapped below his shirt. Everything else had been sold in haste. Semir carried only their sack of shared provisions; there was nothing there to shed.
The suitcase, though.... It held a full dresser drawer's worth of treasure: a tin of long beeswax tapers, their wicks still conjoined; more than a dozen large blocks of herbal soaps, their paper wrappings labeled in his grandmother's handwriting. They sat heavy between his feet — heavier still with their role as the last fragments of his family's traditions.
The soap would sink easily in the river, he thought. Old as they were, the bars would dissolve slowly, and their flecks of rosemary, chamomile, marjoram would be carried away by the current.
The candles would float. Maybe some curious animal would eat them, or maybe some enterprising young scavenger would find them first. After decades hidden away, maybe they would finally have their chance to burn.
Someone flicked on a magitek torch. Cold, blue light washed thinly over the boxcar's high ceiling. The other occupants sprang into startled motion, flinging open trunks and boxes with grim purpose.
At a touch to his elbow, Emerik turned to meet his friend's eyes. Semir wore an expression of gentle concern
"That is your whole purpose in going, is it not?" he said, nodding to the suitcase.
Emerik directed his gaze across the dim train car and nodded. (The stack of discarded belongings at the door was growing, but only very slowly. "I must ask you to be ruthless," the Resistance soldier said. Panic fluttered at the edges of his too-young voice. "The train departs in just over a quarter bell.")
Ruthless?
Emerik bent to snatch up the suitcase. He could do nothing but rue its loss — but there were lives on the line. What use a people's healing traditions without a people to use them?
But before he could step out from the bulkhead, Semir stopped him, one tawny hand laid lightly on Emerik's dark one. Emerik shot him a questioning glance, and Semir leaned down to speak into his ear.
"It's not going to be enough." Semir gestured toward the pile near the door. Still growing, but nowhere near a half-tonze. "Most of these folk didn't have forty ponzes of sentiment to pack. Even if everyone trims the fat, they're going to have to send some of us away. At least one."
Emerik narrowed his eyes. "What are you saying, Semir."
Semir closed his fingers around the handle of the suitcase. In the light of the Garlean torch, his golden eyes held none of their usual luster. "Let me hold these for you. When you get where you're going, send a letter, yes? I'll get them to you."
"But—"
"I know. I thought we would travel together, too. We—" Semir stopped, swallowed.
(We three as one, the sentence finished in Emerik's mind, his own voice raised in chorus with Semir and Vuk. But they hadn't been three for some moons now.)
Emerik pushed the thought away. Semir was speaking again, so close that his breath stirred the fur-tufts in Emerik's ear.
"I have connections," he insisted, nodding meaningfully to the increasingly-fretful partisan. "There's good I can do here. But you?" Semir tapped one finger against Emerik's forehead. "You have the memories — and the drive to chase down the knowledge needed to resurrect them. And with that blond bastard" — Emerik flinched — "nipping at your hocks? Best not to wait for the next run."
Emerik ducked his head. He could feel his pulse thudding in his throat.
With a snarl, he shoved the suitcase into Semir's arms, then snapped his teeth shut before any other sound could escape. Leaning forward, he thumped his forehead into Semir's solid shoulder.
Emerik felt Semir nose at his mane, and he could guess that he was smiling; when he murmured, "Keep my jacket safe for me," Emerik was certain of it. Then Semir pulled away, threading through the chaos. After a short exchange with the Resistance partisan — who looked rather relieved — he moved toward the sliding door.
"Semir—"
Semir twisted to look at him, still cradling the suitcase to his chest.
Emerik forced himself to meet his friend's eyes, trying not to think about the last time he had looked into Vuk's. "If you don't hear from me within a few moons," he managed, "or if things get bad... use whatever you need, if it will help."
Semir nodded. A blink, and he was slipping out of the boxcar door, climbing out into the twilight.
Emerik bent to pick up the sack of provisions and settled it between his feet. It, too, sat heavy.
With a sigh, Emerik nudged the sack into a corner. He pushed up his sleeves, then went to help hand the surrendered belongings down to those waiting to take them away.
—
At this stage in his life — before he had come to Eorzea — Emerik was prone to falling into black, destructive moods rather than wistful ones, and also tended not to express much of that if he could avoid it. Now that he is out from under the direct weight of the Garlean occupation, however, he's settled into some measure of acceptance and is better able to attend to such feelings as gentle melancholy and yearning.
—
I sorta ran myself out of spoons yesterday and so I really struggled today. The length also got away from me, but I sure did learn a lot in all my diving down research rabbit holes! Got a bunch of Bozja lore and stuff settled and obviously filled in more details of Emerik's backstory. I've also just decided to give myself a fair bit of grace about that daily deadline, because the point is NOT to stress myself out — thus posting this about, mm, three hours late. XD
Is there anything that might make you more shy about talking to someone?
[ here is the prompt in question! ]
[ hmm... things that make me more shy. it really... depends, I guess?
My sense of humor is... something. But I know that not everyone shares it - when I send something I think is funny to another person the initial response is somewhere between "I don't get it" and "okay", I tend to back out of everything I had planned to show. I'm less likely to contribute to things, such as continuously trying to get someone to laugh or have a good day.
I think mostly, I'm afraid of the initial judgement. "That's immature" is likely the first response - and I don't really want people to think that I can't be serious because my humor is that of the "me and the boys at 2am looking for b e a n s" or anything that tends to be incoherent. My humor is randomly generated and I have no say over what I think is funny 😂. But that's just it, is that people tend to think a bit lower of me if it doesn't land.
I mean, also just. Any negative interaction makes me clam up and not want to respond to anything. Which, y'know, sucks when you want constructive criticism on something or just want a friendly debate (my brain does the "debate = argument" loop). ]
[ thank you so much for the ask! @ever-searching! now if only my brain could realize that "negative for one interaction does not mean the person hates you and never wants you to talk again" lol ]
Fact for fact: The colour of Storm's aether is umber. It can mainly be seen if someone takes a peek at his grimoire while he is casting (as the symbols and letters light up with a faint umber glow) - and given that he very rarely uses magic to begin with, no one else probably knows.
Most people assume Ehn’s personal aether signature is either green or yellow (much like Rascal). It’s actually an eerie shade of light blue. Much like Storm, you can really only see it if you manage to peek at his grimoire while he’s still charging a cast, or if you use spectrolium on anything he’s crafted.
“A levitation spell? Please.. I’m not a wizard.” ”…Yuh nuh a wizard? …. .. Wah yuh be, den?““I am a conjurer.”“Ain’t dat a wizard?” “It’s another way of saying wi-”
Fact for fact: Lumien always writes in cursive, but his handwriting is still quite easy to read.
[ I have chosen three to answer for! So no snazzy screenshots for this one lol ]
Maximiloix has some seriously messed up handwriting - it’s usually neatly packed, written small, and near impossible for anyone else to read. Everything is usually written in an aetherial ink, so he can read it... but sometimes he can’t even read his own handwriting.
Lothaire’s handwriting leaves something to be desired, but at least it’s legible. Occasionally. Mostly. He writes in a mixture of print and cursive, and the size varies depending on what he’s writing on. If he’s writing, say, one of his thesis papers, the handwriting is small to fit as much as he can on one page. If he’s grading his students’ work, the writing is fairly big, to both take up empty space and more legible for them to read.
Danny doesn’t know how to write in cursive. He barely knows how to read it. His handwriting can be akin to a child’s, and is usually written diagonally - down towards the right. If you want him to stay within lines, you’re better off finding someone else to write for him. It’s mostly legible, but if he writes too fast, it becomes incoherent.
( Thank you for the fact, @ever-searching! Finding fonts for handwriting is fun sometimes lol )
Fact for fact: Merces prefers showers over baths and tends to use lukewarm or even cool water unless the weather is cold.
Danyell, conversely, has a strong preference for baths - the hotter the better. Still, a shower is better than nothing - though he’d rather never bathe in cold water again, if he can help it.
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Fact for Fact asks are always welcome! Tell me a fact about your character and I will respond with a semi-related fact about one of mine
Chunky Monkey: a names, addresses, nicknames, etc. headcanon. (for Scrap or any character of your voice)
Scrap is pretty good about calling people by what they tell him to. Full names, nicknames, a title or honorific, he’s got a good memory for it all. Typically you only have to correct him once or twice for it to stick if he initially got it wrong.
He’s also the only one who gets away with calling Band “Miss Banadei” on a regular basis.
🌸 - since the meme has flower as its icon, how about Flower/Zhah'ra listing three things he likes about either Cain or Merces? (Any other combination is fine too, of course)
Send 🌸 for three things my muse likes about yours.
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Merces Ninthstar
🌳 “The first impression I had of Merces was -- well. Impressive competence, really. But without any arrogance at all -- unusual for a swordsman, at least in my experience. Needless to say, I’m glad he happened along when he did, or Cain and I would have been in very deep trouble, trying to tangle with a morbol. I feel safer with him around, just in general.”
🥦 “He’s pretty straightforward, and courteous in the bargain, which I appreciate. I wouldn’t go so far as to say ‘what you see is what you get,’ though. And, really,” Zhah’ra adds with a smile, “I don’t understand why anyone would say he has no sense of humor as though that’s a bad thing. It’s not like he’s sour. Just serious.”
🍃 Zhah’ra tilts his head, sifting through his thoughts for a third. “He is... adaptable?”
It’s not quite the word he’s looking for, so he tries again. “He seems willing to do whatever is needed - again, with none of the pride you sometimes see among people who have honed a particular set of skills. He seems equally as content chopping tomatoes or hauling scrap wood as he is being on guard duty.”
A frown flits across Zhah’ra’s face, tugging his ears down for a moment. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard him express an opinion about anything he’s been asked to do, come to think of it. Perhaps he’s just tight-lipped about it. No one can accuse him of complaining, at least...”
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Cain Locke
🍕 “It’s been so good to see him come further into his own as a mage and an adventurer - and to have others recognize it, too.” Zhah’ra smiles. “It’s been a long road. He’s headed for his ambitions, and I’m happy to see it.”
☔ “I...” Zhah’ra’s voice catches just a little. “I appreciate how unflappable he is. It’s hard to describe. It’s not apathy, and it’s not always cynicism. But he’s handled some... some difficult things with me without... I don’t know.” Zhah’ra chews on his lip for a moment. “Without... being disturbed, or shocked. I don’t--” Zhah’ra looks down at his hands, fingers tangling in the ends of his sleeves. “--I didn’t have to comfort him about it. I... sorry,” he says thickly, dashing his arm across his eyes. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t -- excuse me.”
He turns away for a brief moment, hands pressed into his eyes until he can turn back around and smile without wobbling.
🍐 Zhah’ra shrugs a little, his expression growing fond. “I love how he still -- still! -- gets this look of surprise on his face whenever I headbutt his arm or bump my shoulder into his. I know he’s always been chary of any kind of touch, so I’m... careful. But sometimes he returns the gesture, and...” A chuckle. “I bet I get that same look on my face, too.”
