found a way to start the drama of the story in ch 3 wahoo:
a few moments after she sat down, samba sat down with a handful of beers—four in all, as though he somehow sensed that cobs would be coming. he asked her about her stop back home and cobs ignores the question, cutting to the chase and asking him if he had any jobs lined up before the end of the summer that she could tag along on to get some extra cash. samba thinks for a long moment; and cobs remarks (internally) that samba owns his own business doing odd jobs down in town—mainly hauling jobs. if you needed brick moved, stone quarried, or messages delivered, armstrong & co’s was always the place you called.
samba thinks for a long moment and then he slowly says that he recently got an offer for a job that he wasn’t sure if he was going to take, which is from the town sheriff. cobs thinks its odd for samba to show hesitance about a job and asks him to give her the deets. while ruty and pecky are getting further wasted, the two lean closer to each other to talk more quietly:
samba reveals a harrowing story: apparently there’s an old abandoned prison up in the north part of the island that no one ever went to. it wasn’t ever a prison that was instated by the island people themselves, but the island itself used to be a giant prison ward for the mainland before it was abandoned and people demolished the old buildings and the folk started settling in during "prohibition." cobs knew about the alcohol settling but never knew about the sordid prison history because no one ever bothered to go up to the north part of the island it was all swamp even before the island sinking and samba lets out a shaky laugh and says neither did he until the sheriff started talking to him today. anyway though, the prison wasn’t touched during the initial takedown due to a legend surrounding the ward: long ago when chains still hung around the necks of deeper folk, in a small town, one of the fair—a woman—caught hold one day of a small deeper (black) child, and maimed the boy and cannibalized his flesh in some apparent madness. this horrifying incident brought the two halves of the town together making it one of the first free cities on the mainland to outlaw “chaining” (slavery), and the fair woman was sentenced to a life sentence of 400 years. the woman apparently requested to be sealed inside of her cell with a coffin and never let out and this request was surprisingly granted and the woman was locked in. eventually the prison was abandoned and the mainland forgot about the island and its history, but apparently some folks from the mainland’s authority contacted the sheriff a few weeks ago and asked after the old prison to have it dug up and ensured that the woman had truly died for their records. the sheriff sent two of her newer boys up there—18 year old angler samuels and 26 year old maddox brew and neither man had turned up since.
by this point though, ruty and pecky rejoined the conversation—wasted but apparently listening in once the details of the story got darker. ruty whistles and asks if either of them believe that shit and argues that the two men probably just got stranded out there cuz of the current and the sheriff was too chicken to go up there and get them her damn self. cobs remarks that the sheriff, a woman named beatrice haliwell, was hardly a woman to shirk responsibility so something weird must be going on, especially if its been weeks since the men left. samba remarks all the more reason not to take his ass up there—even if she was offering a reward of $300 dollars—
THREE HUNDRED? that would solve all of cobs’s problems immediately. never mind the fact that a little “retrieval” of a couple of lost boys shouldn’t net that much cash she’s raring to take the job even though samba rightfully has some concerns.
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
Prompt: A kiss so desperate that the two wind around each other, refusing to let go until they are finished.
It's been a month - no, it's been longer than a month. Willie knows it's dumb but he missed the small things he took for granted in their relationship. He missed the little flirts and the looks and the warmth that rolled off Alex in waves. "Come on," Willie muttered as he paced the length of the airport. His arms were wrapped around his chest, he was doing the thumb thing that Alex tried to get him to stop doing. "Alex you were supposed to be home -" Willie's self indulgent rant was cut off when he saw a flash of blue eyes and yellow hair and then... and then he was floating.
The second he could taste Alex's strawberry chapstick on his lips Willie melted. He paused for only half a second but then his brain kicked on and - boyfriend. Willie giggled and wrapped Alex up in his arms, blissfully ignoring the airport goers. Alex's arms snaked around Willie and he continued to kiss him desperately, needily. It's an I missed you, I love you, you're a dumbass kiss rolled into one and Willie's heart overflowed with his love wrapped up in his arms. "Hi," Alex said, his eyes sparkling a brilliant diamond blue when Willie's brain finally caught up to him. Willie just looked at Alex, a wide smile curled on his lips. "Willie?" He asked, eyebrows furrowing. Willie just blinked and held Alex close to him, kissing the drummer all over his face.
hi so its been awhile but i wrote something after forever. it's just a summary of ch 1 of cult of the pale moon messiah. yahhhh.
chapter 1: the sinking
cobs is returning home from another grueling shift on the docks. deep, stinking, swampy mud has already reached up to the calf of her smock/rainboots as she's just spent all day hauling one of the fishing boats out that had gone aground. everyone knew the island was sinking. every day that you put off leaving was a further creeping chance that you'd never leave at all.
after awhile her home comes into view: a little shack at the damn near other end of the island. the island isn't big but big enough and cobs's feet already hurt from digging into the rocks at the bottom of the shallows for purchase. when she was a little girl and the island was much greener and the land wasn't oozing in sickness, this shack was one part of her family's commune: the guest house. once pristine and now in a dilapidated state. they weren't rich but they lived well while her father was still alive; the house and its grounds the marking of his and her grandfather's tenure at the small island court house where they were able to even keep a few well paid workers to keep the place going. they had cattle and goats, crops, and flowers--but all of that was gone now. the only crops they had were in the planter at the front of the house on top of the slouching porch. when cobs reaches the planters, nothing had even sprouted yet. the soil was too damn moist. nothing grows anymore.
when she pushes open the saloon doors of the home, she finds her mother, osceola, laid up watching tv. she demands cobs get her the remote and cobs grimaces when the command comes with the nickname "bina". cobs says shallowly under her breath that she asked her mother not to call her that, though its said mostly to herself--yet somehow osceola was able to hear it. her mother then proceeds to throw a bowl of lukewarm sugar grits at her and cobs barely manages to dodge the bowl. osceola rages that jacobina is her name, after her damn daddy, and she'll call her that if she damn well wanted to as her mother. cobs bites back a scathing remark, regarding what kind of mother osceola is laid up as she is, and osceola snarks that she'd call cobs a bitch if she wasn't her own daughter. this is followed by her saying that "a real bitch is your brother's good for nothing wife" which starts her on a rant about her brother's wife asha (vanasia).
osceola tells cobs that asha lost the damn baby and she'll never have a grandchild now since this isn't the first one the woman's lost--she must be cursed! cobs grimly thinks that if it wasn't from the foul food or air, it was probably from the way her brother (jacob iii) beats her which caused the loss. instead of saying this aloud, cobs asks how osceola came to learn of this and her mother tells her that jacob told her just this morning before he went into town... or what was left of it. cobs nods, and says she'll bring some food over for asha since she got new rations from the aground ship from the mainland, and this sends osceola into another rager that "bitches who can't breed don't deserve shit!" cobs tries not to think about her own situation and disappears into the kitchen closing the door behind her and drowning out osceola's shrill cries.
she takes a chicken from the icebox out that she'd left there thawing the night before and she grimaces feeling the temperature of the box; almost too warm. still good. but almost. she starts to wash it, beginning to cook. she puts her hair up (box braids) as she does, revealing the cobra tattoo that circles her left ear and falls into deep contemplation about the conversation that she had earlier today with her close friend samba. he'd once again offered to take her to the mainland with him when he finally moves at the end of summer, and once again she'd refused it. she didn't want his pity. she'd pay her own way there; besides, now she had a real estate agent--emersyn wellspeak--who was going to help get her set up with a new place after she finished her down payment. samba had frowned and warned her that city folk are nice, but worry if they're too nice and she'd chided him for worrying too much about her. that was actually why she was planning on "taking food" over to asha and jacob's--asha had been nice enough to let cobs use her phone. though she did want to check on her. it was vile that a pretty, well spoken woman like her was basically a house slave to her brother's jealous whims--while he was out on the town with whatever floozy caught his eye. there was even a rumor she'd heard today that he'd been spotted a few days ago with a white woman. and there were no white women on the island. light colored, like asha. but not white.
cobs tried to keep her nose out of her brother's business, but she suspected if her mom caught wind of this she'd send her out to reel him in anyway. that was always the lot of being the elder sister wasn't it?
cobs sighed and shoved the cobbled meal into the oven. only 30 minutes and she'd be on more solid ground, and on the phone with her ticket out of here.
So this is a BIT overdue, but I was finally inspired to collect all of posts that have actual writing in them (as opposed to just factual/OOC responses) into a tag: #ren writing
The third time the dagger blade turned out wrong, Rhenbraen spat out a string of expletives as they tore their goggles off their face and threw them to the ground. They could hear the crackle as the strap pulled free of their hair.
Behind the receiptionist's desk, Randwulf jumped. "Llymlaen's breath, Helbsyn, who pissed in YOUR porridge?"
"Swive off, you nosy bastard." They swiped the goggles off the ground and yanked them back into place. No cracks, thank the Builder.
"If you keep stompin' around like that you're gonna hurt yourself," Randwulf warned. "Or someone else, fer that matter. Get yourself together, mate."
"Somethin' th' matter, Helbsyn?"
That was Brithael. The soles of Rhenbraen's boots squeaked on the stone underfoot as they executed a stiff turn, keeping their face even by pure force of will. "No sir."
"Don't seem like nothin' to me, la-, uh, laddie." The guildmaster picked up the blade and turned it this way and that. "What d'you s'pose went awry here, Helbsyn?"
"I don't know." Rhenbraen tried not to flinch as the ruined blade landed on the table with a metallic thud. It even sounded wrong.
Brithael scratched his head through his filthy bandana, squinting. "Well, ye quenched it right. I saw you do it."
"Yessir. It ain't that."
"Try again, let me watch you." Brithael offered Rhenbraen a smile and gestured toward the forge. "An' make sure th' fire crystals ain't gettin' low."
They grabbed a bar of stock and jumped at the near-audible ZAP, almost losing their grip. Gritting their teeth, they tried again, chafing under Brithael's too-friendly scrutiny. They could feel the eyes of the rest of their forgemates on them, too, and it made the hair on their arms prickle.
Their movements were seamless, near-automatic as they moved through the steps in turn. The same process they'd done a dozen dozen times by now, the smith's tools an easy fit in their hands.
All they had to do was concentrate. Follow the flow.
But with each strike of their hammer, the thought echoed: best off in the hands of a friend.
The blades were small in comparison to most - intended to be lightning-quick, but strong enough to parry a much larger weapon. If the mixture was wrong, or if the temper was off... if any of a dozen things were not done correctly, the blade could lose its edge -- or shatter.
The thought made Rhenbraen's stomach lurch.
Rhenbraen pushed down the fluttering feeling, felt it transform into determination. It zipped along their spine, buzzed in their hands. They seized the metal with their tongs, and it sang with each hammer blow...
And then the notes went sour. Again.
Brithael whistled, inspecting the blade. "Helbsyn," he said. "Anybody ever tell you that you're a bloody lightning rod?"
------
I am taking a great deal of poetic license with the metallurgical principles at play here, since the point was to write, not to spend several hours researching. And besides, levin-aspected aether is not exactly the same as electricity....
He'd come back to his room in the guild barracks, fleeing the full streets, the collective ache of the city under the veneer of desperate celebration. We're alive, the fireworks proclaimed. We're alive, and so are you.
Each shot of liquor had burned down his throat, vapor stinging in his nose. The alcohol sat in his stomach and left him feeling queasy and wrong-footed. Loose, but like someone had ripped his shirt open, buttons flying, and now he was desperately clutching it closed against prying eyes.
Exposed.
He heard the tell-tale click of wooden heels on stone, and he flinched.
A warm, long-fingered hand settled on his shoulder and gently squeezed. The pressure pinched his collarbone where it stood out too sharp against his skin.
"Zedyr... what are you doing?" Maayan asked. Her voice was soft, but he could almost feel her piercing eyes rake over him -- the sweat in his uncombed hair, the way he sat hunched over the table, the still-open bottle.
Instead of answering, he scrubbed his face down against his sleeve and groaned. The motion made the floor pitch and roll under his feet.
From between his crossed arms, he could see her sit on the chair next to him, long legs crossed. She had mud on her shoes. For some reason, this was hilarious.
His hapless chuckle got tangled up with a sob on the way out.
"You are a mess," Maayan said mildly.
"Don't I know it."
Her nails clinked against the glass, and she picked it up and sniffed it, then set it back down. The stopper squeaked as it was pushed back into place. "I thought you hated alcohol?"
"...I do."
"Is it helping?"
"No." He let out a long sigh, wrinkling his nose at the smell on his breath. If drinking was drowning a memory, then he was a beach littered with washed-up corpses.
Maayan hummed. There was sympathy in it -- subtle, but he knew her well enough by now to hear it.
"Don't," he choked. "Please." Fabric rustled, and he saw her hand withdraw, fold with the other in her lap.
"Do you want me to leave?"
He thought about it for a long moment -- as well as he could think, with his head starting to spin.
"No," he said, quiet. His own voice sounded small in his ears.
"Good," came the brisk reply, "because I have a business proposal for you."
Bless her.
Zedyr pushed himself upright, catching himself on the table as he swayed in his chair. "Alright, I'm listenin'."
Maayan smiled to herself, pleased, then stood and poured a cup of water, pushing it in front of him. He drank obediently, and she outlined her plan - and the move to Limsa Lominsa.
It caught him off guard, swelling in his chest
like an updraft,
like a struck match, hissing.
Before he could register the fear,
before his hands had a chance to shake,
he was moving, teeth grit.
Too close for the bow; too close for anything but a blazing stare,
for his full height drawn up: towering for once, a grey spire,
spindly but immovable.
"You will not."
You will not touch him.
You will not harm him.
You will regret having tried.
There was terror there, screaming
in the back of his head, heart pounding
against the doors of his throat,
but, beneath it, around it: the silence of deep snowfall, soft and deadly,
cold stone cradling the hearthfire.
