#pakchamkae

[sezja]

@pakchamkae asked: '31. gentle stroking of cheeks' because i am SOFT.

Kiss Prompts (still accepting!)

The Garlean wind howls outside their shared tent. The sound alone is enough to make Guydelot shiver, though the walls of the tent are as thick as can reasonably be managed, insulated against the cold - still, it's not nearly as warm as the ceruleum-heated cabins set aside to house the injured and the tempered, where Guydelot has been spending his days.

He dresses quickly for bed: where at home he sleeps wholly stripped to the skin, here he yields to common sense and wears woolen bedclothes. Feels itchy and unnatural, it does; how's a man meant to sleep like this? Still, he reckons it's probably better than losing a toe or two to frostbite.

"It's enough to make a man miss Ishgard," he mutters, curling his still-freezing toes deep into his bedroll. "Practically temperate by comparison."

Sanson shakes his head, smiling over his journal. He, of course, seems unbothered by the cold - as much here as he had in Ishgard, come to think of it. At the time, Guydelot recalls, he'd made some offhanded remark about Sanson being too frigid...

Now he suspects the man is simply too warm to feel it.

"You know," the bard says, inching closer. "You could do the charitable thing here and warm me up."

"We're on duty," Sanson points out, but Guydelot's learned to hear when he's smiling without smiling. "Perhaps another blanket?"

Guydelot plucks the journal out of Sanson's hands, squirming briefly out of his bedding to straddle Sanson's lap. "Duty starts at dawn," he quips, trailing gentle fingertips down either side of Sanson's startled face. "We've got all the hours betwixt here and there to do as we like."

He lowers his face to Sanson's, claiming a triumphant kiss. The real triumph is half a heartbeat later, when the other man kisses him back, duty be damned. Guydelot cradles Sanson's face in his hands, tracing the curves of his cheeks with his thumbs. He is warm, warm and sweet, and Guydelot could drink him in...

And then hands as cold as ice slip up the back of his shirt, and he yelps, breaking the kiss.

"You-"

Sanson laughs, pushing Guydelot off his lap. "Behave yourself," he instructs, never mind that his own face is flushed. "Come, we can share blankets, but-"

"Aye, I know," Guydelot grumbles, retreating back to the warm shelter of his bedroll, welcoming the warmth of Sanson in his arms, cold hands and all. "You can't blame a man for trying."

[sezja]

@pakchamkae your TAGS they wrecked me

[sezja]

26. - protection again for bard boys

One Word Writing Prompts (still accepting) @lesenbyan, also sent by @pakchamkae

"You ought to let Hopeful take a look at that."

Sanson reflexively touches the bandage at his shoulder again, then shakes his head and returns to his journal, doubtless writing up a summary of the day's events for his later report. The day's been a disaster, but nothing short of being knocked senseless will prevent Sanson from keeping notes. "The others require her attention first. This is nothing-"

"Nothing my left foot." Guydelot scowls, setting his bow aside, unable to focus on tending it - not when his nerves are still on edge, not when half the unit is wounded, not when Sanson himself is wounded: the gouge he'd taken across the shoulder is only one of several injuries. The unit's healer, Hopeful Dawn, will be up all night tending to the others, at this rate. Guydelot rises, pacing. It's not like him to pace, but he can't sit still.

Sanson sighs. "Settle down."

How? "How'd they even get the best of us, eh? We should've had 'em."

"They outnumbered us. Substantially."

"Bah, numbers." Guydelot waves a dismissive hand. "We've faced worse odds, you and me."

Sanson nods. "With Eve, who counts for at least three."

"Mayhap ten on a good day," Guydelot concedes. "Fine, but we're the better team, the lot of us - we should've been able to take whatever they threw at us, but now Okhi's got a busted arm, Lariat's got, what, a concussion? Liautroix's got bullets in him-"

"Annie's unharmed."

"Annie's- well, sure, Annie's fine, and Hopeful, Twelve be thanked, but you're not." He sits back down, heavy, seething. "You're not." He rubs his face, smearing sweat and grime. "I'm supposed to watch your back, Chief."

He didn't mean to say it out loud; he regrets it the instant he hears Sanson's quill stop. "Is that what this is about?" Guydelot hates the gentleness in Sanson's voice; hates how it makes his eyes sting and his throat tighten. He doesn't want to talk about it. He doesn't want to think about it.

But it's a bard's duty, isn't it? To aid one's companions? And from the very beginning, even when he didn't even like Sanson the Stiff, Guydelot's been watching his back, protecting him the way any bard worth his salt ought to. And barring the odd kidnapping now and then, he's been godsdamned good at it, too. It's not as though Sanson's never been wounded in battle with Guydelot at his back, no, but they've never failed before, and this...

He hates the way Sanson's looking at him. "No," he says, then sighs. "Yes? I don't wanna talk about it."

"Come here."

"I really don't wanna talk about it."

"We won't talk about it, then. But come here."

Muttering under his breath, Guydelot steers his restless feet toward Sanson, settling down on the ground beside him reluctantly; once he's ensnared, there'll be no escape from any unpleasantly tedious, awkward conversation about... about guilt, about duty, about whatever it is that's twisting a knife in Guydelot's back right now.

But Sanson reaches over and pulls him down, resting Guydelot's head in his lap.

"I ain't that distraught, Chief." But he doesn't sit back up, choosing instead to settle in, pillowing his cheek against Sanson's thigh. Sanson tries to avoid anything too overtly romantic when they're on duty, and as a concession to Sanson's authority, Guydelot's always carefully circumspect - but they'd have a hard time justifying this as a commanding officer comforting one of his men in an entirely appropriate manner. Said a little too much about how clearly Sanson saw through him, really, but there was no fighting that; Guydelot can't close that door now that it's open.

Sanson strokes his hair, slow and soothing. "We protect each other, you know."

"I did say I don't wanna talk about-"

"What matters is we're all alive, and can carry on again tomorrow."

"We're talking about it anyway, huh."

"You shouldn't try to carry it yourself-"

"You're one to talk." Guydelot kisses Sanson's thigh, delighted by the way the muscle tenses. "You'd carry the world on your back if I let you do it, Sanson."

"Stop that. I'm trying-"

"To have a serious conversation?" Another kiss. "You should know better by now."

"I should." He sighs, rubbing the back of Guydelot's neck. "I really should. But do stop that; we're on duty."

"Spoilsport."

[sezja]

And for the one word writing prompts: 49 for bard boys :3

One Word Writing Prompts (still accepting) @pakchamkae

49. — shake

Winter comes early to the Shroud, so sudden that many of the trees still cling to their leaves - leaves now encased in a thin sheet of ice, casting a glittering canopy over the forest. Every now and then, a leaf snaps free, shattering in the grass far below, height rendering it heavy as a stone: it's treacherous, though of course the Black Shroud is treacherous at the best of times. Sanson eyes the branches overhead warily, occasionally glancing at Guydelot's bare head.

He knows he'll never persuade the man to wear an Adder uniform, but he wishes he could have convinced Guydelot to wear the hat. Though he doubts a falling leaf, no matter how heavily weighted with ice it may be, will do any significant damage to a head as hard as the obstinate bard's, still he'd prefer not to chance it.

"So." Guydelot saunters through the crackling grass, his voice unnaturally loud in the winter silence. "One neglected Imperial cache, is it?" He glances behind them, where the rest of the unit straggles in their wake. "So they sent a whole unit?"

"The scouts who spotted it couldn't tell if there any guards. The additional manpower may be necessary."

"Sure. Or it was a slow day and they needed their favorite errand-runners to go fetch."

Sanson sighs, his breath a white puff in the frosty air - but there's affection in it, born of years of Guydelot protesting every mission, every assignment, every task as an errand, a chore, a waste of time and energy. One shuddered to think what the man might consider a proper mission. Facing down primals with the Warrior of Light, perhaps? Or would that, too, be little more than a tedious chore?

Honestly.

They walk in silence now: they're approaching the target, and if there are Imperial guards in the area, the best they can hope for is a quiet approach. Difficult, with the frozen grass crunching underfoot, but the falling snow may dampen the sound somewhat - with luck.

And their luck holds - the thicket the scouts identified is empty, save for the trail markers left behind to mark where the cache was found. Sanson looks around in apprehensive caution, half-expecting magitek armors to come storming out of the trees... but no, the area is clear, the air silent. He orders the others to stand guard around the cache just in case...

"Wait, what's... Sanson!"

A landmine, left to catch the unwary. The cache is a trap. Of course it's a trap.

The landmine's detonation is delayed - fortunate, as it likely saves Sanson's life and limbs - and Sanson lunges away in time to roll free of the explosion. Muffled by the snow, still it's a concussive blast: it leaves his ears ringing, it rattles the earth, it shakes the trees-

Shakes the trees.

Sanson doesn't quite know how he manages to get back to his feet quickly enough, but he hurls himself at Guydelot, yanking the elezen man down and shielding his unprotected head. A thousand shards of glass fall from the trees and crash around them, ringing in the winter stillness. Sanson's still trembling from adrenaline. Or maybe the cold. Or perhaps nerves. Or-

"Hells," Guydelot mutters, still muffled under Sanson's arms. "Bloody aldgoat-swiving, shite-eating Garlean-" He cuts himself off, wrapping his arms around Sanson's waist for a moment. "Still in one piece, Chief?"

"Me?" Sanson finds he can't quite let go yet. "I told you to wear a hat."

The bard snorts, lifting his head and sneaking a quick kiss to the underside of Sanson's chin. "Typical. You nearly get yourself blasted to bits, and I'm the one as gets a lecture?"

[sezja]

For the top 3 fandom ask meme: 3 most interesting plot developments for FFXIV!

Ooh, okay, let's see. I'll try to stick to MSQ things because if I start talking about job quests, we'll be here all week.

1. The infamous bloody banquet! I'd say it's one of the better-written parts of ARR/2.x, because while the Braves' and Ilberd's betrayal, the Sultana's "murder," etc. all feels like it comes out of nowhere and is a complete blindside, on a replay, the foreshadowing is all there. It was the big shakeup the story needed, and unlike the massacre at the Waking Sands, the plot grinds to a halt in a good way. The WoL and their two surviving companions don't know where to go or what to do, and going to Ishgard is a desperate shot in the dark. It's where Alphinaud stops being one of my least-favorite little shits in fiction to being genuinely one of my favorite characters in the entire game. It was a great plot point, and one that nicely set the stage for the much better writing in Heavensward.

2. ...Okay, I know I said I'd stick to MSQ, but it's MSQ-adjacent: Nero tol Scaeva coming back to be our frenemy for several raid series. He's unrepentant, he's full of himself, and he's magnificent. I love him. I want to punch him. I love watching his interactions with Cid and the rest of the Ironworks. I love that Jessie hired him just to fuck with Cid. Bless this game.

3. Finally forming a peace treaty with the beast tribes. Curing tempering was something I always felt SE wouldn't ever actually incorporate into the game, but then they did - and on the heels of that, the only inevitable conclusion was that we had to see the Alliance form a peace treaty with the beast tribes, once they were freed from the influence of the primals. The scene with Merlwyb and the kobolds in the Navel was exactly what they needed to do, considering Limsa Lominsa's history of disregarding treaties and agreements with the kobolds as soon as those agreements became inconvenient: she had to put her life in their hands and let them decide for themselves to trust her word or not. Going forward, I really hope we see more of the other tribes in the main story, engaging in shaping Eorzea with us. The beast tribes have always been one of my favorite parts of the game, so this was big for me.

[sezja]

Y'all give me life

[sezja]

I requested Sanson journal prompts! (Still accepting)

@pakchamkae: Reflecting on the first time he heard Jehantel play a song \o/

Note that this does make some brief references to my headcanons for Sanson's family.

I have at last allowed curiosity to override my sense of propriety, and surrendered to the temptation to seek out the man they call the Godsbow: so named for his allegedly preternatural skill with a bow. However, it was not his archery which drew my attention, but his reputation as a bard. The art has all but faded from Gridania and the Twelveswood in recent decades, as the more intangible art of song lost its lustre in favor of more obviously practical battlefield skills: archery, the lance, conjury - leaving song instead in the hands of minstrels, songstresses, and other performers.

I was surprised to find Jehantel a reflective, humble sort. Once he recognized that I was no aspiring archer seeking to train at his feet, he became eager to discuss the history and arts of the bard, doubtless seeing in me a kindred spirit... or at least a willing ear, where so many have been uninterested in the more musical aspects of his career.

He says he has found an apprentice, and hopes that through her work, the bard's arts may once more flourish in Eorzea.

He claims some familiarity with my father from his days with the Gods' Quiver, though of course they served in different units. Indeed, it was hearing my father's name which seemed to convince Jehantel of the sincerity of my interest in song: he was grieved to learn of my father's retirement, though pleased to know he has found joy elsewhere - and pleased to learn that his son followed him in service to the Twelveswood, and to Eorzea.

It took very little persuasion to convince Jehantel to sing for me, though I'd have done a good deal more shameless wheedling for the pleasure: so fine and pure a voice I've never heard. It seemed, for a moment, as though the sun shone more brightly through trees that were, abruptly, a more vibrant shade of green. The birds were silent as though to listen, and even the wind through the leaves felt as though it danced.

I lack the words to do it justice. Memory will have to suffice.

But I am filled with a new purpose: If one song from a bard's harp may have so profound an impact on me, what then might be possible with a unit of bards? If the strength of a bard may be woven into harmony with other bards, what new songs might emerge? A dream, perhaps, with no bards left in active service... but I know the thought will stay with me, regardless, and I cannot set it aside entirely. Perhaps Jehantel's apprentice may stir others to follow in her footsteps.