#submitted form

[finalfantasyxivwritings]

Prompt #10: Foster

About FFXIV Write | Personal Entries | by @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast

—

Foster | verb

1. encourage or promote the development of (something, typically something regarded as good).

2. bring up (a child that is not one's own by birth).

—

She is so little.

So fragile.

So innocent.

Despite himself the Exarch feels the breath catch against his lips as he takes in the sight of the infant in the soldier's arms.

"She was found after the attack on the village," the young woman says, rocking the young Vii in her arms to keep the small thing soothed and tired. "We...found what we think were her... guardians..."

Ruby eyes, though hooded under anonymous darkness, take in the emotion held in the soldier's expression. It's not hard to understand the meaning beneath her words; the trauma that this infant was spared to ever remember if she was but a few Summers older. It's become an unfortunate part to many people's lives, especially for those who live in the communities small and far apart--as much as the Cryatarium's impromptu leader wants to protect everyone, the city's own militia is already as thin and bare bones as it can be without falling apart.

So he nods, silent and understanding so that the young woman doesn't have to try and describe the horrors she was forced to see. He wishes for her mind and soul to find peace despite it, and still for the years to pass swiftly for his final plan to save the First to come to fruition.

But this infant doesn't have all those years in the same way she no longer has a family. It's not something that he can turn a blind eye to, nor does the Exarch have plans to do so.

"Have we anyone willing to care for her?" He asks after a few moments, reaching out his crystalline hand on instinct when the young babe begins to squabble in the soldier's arms. "A family she can join? A parent who may foster?"

A grim look spills over her face as she looks at him, expression something between guilt and sadness. She looks down after a breath, at how the young Vii grabs the Exarch's index finger in one of her soft little hands. The babe coos, waking slowly from her nap but otherwise making little more than a few banking noises.

"There are very few," the woman says after a few moments of watching the infant. "And I don't think they would be willing for a while. The settlement traded a great deal of food with us, I've been told, so there's word of a..."

"...shortage," the Exarch finishes, the word bringing understanding and morbid realization both over the situation. He cannot blame anyone for not wanting an extra mouth to feed when they can hardly provide for their own.

He takes in a breath, watching as the small infant pull his finger into her mouth. He can but vaguely feel her gnawing on it as any kit would, her jaws hardly strong enough to be painful and her mouth lacking teeth.

She was very young, the babe. Very young and very, very alone.

It’s not a unique situation and very far from the last orphan that the Exarch will see—he has grown so familiar with the realm’s light-accuses suffering from the growing sin eater attacks, so terribly aware of all the life they are eating away, more and more with each year.

In a form, it feels almost hopeless.

It would thus be easy to admit such, easy to turn his back and simply accept it as an inevitable until the time is right and a hero would emerge to bring back the darkness. Another orphan in a sea of orphans, another lost life in an ocean of misery.

But no. He cannot bare the thought, he cannot dare to let another life wither away when she’s barely began to draw awareness of the world around her. It’s an instinct deep within the Exarch’s chest that drives him, something he can hardly explain nor control when the words finally leave his lips.

“I will care for her then.”

It surprises the soldier as much as it does himself. She blinks, only then pulling up her gaze to look upon him with no shortage of awe, her words but a babble as she tries to speak.

“Y-you will take-“

“-the baby, yes,” the man finishes and answers the question in the same breath. “I will not ask anyone to take on a burden they are not able to bare—I am no stranger to the raising of young kits.”

“K-kits?”

The stumble of the soldiers words bring a sudden realization to the Exarch’s mind. The young woman is a Hume, unfamiliar with the term and likely for the best else someone have even a single clue of whom lay beneath the cowl.

“An infant,” he corrects softly, gently shepherding the babe into his arms; she coos softly in the movement, long ears gently twitching and hands still trying to keep a firm grip on his crystal hand. The Exarch can’t help but feel a smile on his lips as he watches her.

“We don’t know what she was named,” the soldier murmurs softly, as if an embarrassed afterthought in the realization that the Crystarium’s leader has just agreed to raise the child with no prodding outside of his own morals. “...and she will need one.”

The Exarch hums to show that he’s heard, then thinks a moment to himself. He once liked to think himself good at naming things—though at one time he was also a high strung and mildly bratty young man, so it could have easily been a biased memory.

Still, the man likes to think it means something when a name finally comes to him.

“Lyna,” the leader whispers, just loud enough for he, the soldier, and likely the infant herself to hear. “You will be named Lyna, and I promise to take care of you.”

Though she but scarcely understood a single word spoken, and likely wouldn’t for several summers more, the young Lyna smiled wide and babbled a few nonsense words that nonetheless made warmth blossom in the Exarch’s soul.

[finalfantasyxivwritings]

Prompt #11: Snuff

About FFXIV Write | Personal Entries | by @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast

—

Snuff | verb

1. extinguish (a candle).

Snuff | noun

1.  the charred part of a candle wick.

—

"You must be very careful in how you complete your techniques--a very delicate balance is required to do them right."

Though the man's words weigh as heavy as stones in a lack, you don't feel it as pressure upon your shoulders. It is mere seriousness that comes from the Red Mage's lips, a respect for his knowledge and skills.

"Even the simplest tools at your disposal can be swayed by errant thoughts, yet at the same time emboldened by them."

Your fingers grip tight to the rapier in your hand, so tight that it almost hurts. It almost seems like the training dummy is laughing at you now, though there's hardly anything to call a face on its featureless form. Though you've long-since put X'rhun's words to practice, there are still so many things that come slowly to you; this is one of them.

"How do I know which is which?" You ask, voice starting to crack from it's calm facade to show the thinning patience beneath--the two of you had been at today's training for many hours.

You grip the weapon tighter still into a white-knuckle grip. Though it's unknown if the Seeker himself sees it, he nevertheless takes a few steps forward and tests a hand on the small of your back.

Somehow, the simple touch does much to calm you and stay the fraying edges of your nerves.

"Most often, it is down to the timing," X'rhun murmurs, fingertips light as he nearly traces them against your back. Even through the layers of clothing you have on, you can still feel them. "Take one of your earliest techniques: verflare. You are always the fire, the wind, and the candlewick."

You purse your lips together and try not to glance back at the man, knowing your face is already got from his close proximity. But it doesn't hide the soft faulted in the words that spill from your lips.

"C-could you show me that one again?"

A moment passes in silence, and then it does again. For a brief time a feeling of fear almost starts to well up inside you, thinking you've crossed a line somewhere or given too much of your tumulous emotions--though unspoken, there is no denying the feelings that burn in your chest for one another, kept separated only by the fact that in this moment he is your teacher and you his student.

But he moves closer to you at last, body pressed against yours as if to mimic it. Soft leather of his gloves touch against the back of your hands at both rapier and crystal.

And when he speaks, it's as a whisper into your ear, soft and sweet and husky.

"Imagine you are a flickering candle," the man starts, tracing his fingertips against your skin. "Fire gives it power and wind gives it fuel. First you must allow your aether to spark-"

There's a soft purr in his chest as he emulates the feeling--its almost as if a soft warmth erupts between where his chest meets against your back. Aether simmers just below the surface of your skin as it meets his in a gentle dance. It's intimate, moreso than he would ever need to be to showcase such a simple technique.

But he does so anyway, and you don't so much as murmur a word to push him away.

"Let it burn the candle bright and hot with fire, fuel it with wind."

It's hard not to notice how his energy gently surges against your own, how your hand tingles between the Crystal and X'rhun's warm palm. Beautiful and sublime.

"Feel it grow stronger within your chest; Foster the flame until you can't stand to feel it any longer, until it burns too bright to even see in your mind's eye."

His lips are on the nape of your neck, tickling against your skin with every word but barely breathed between his soft lips. It's both hard and easy to focus with him standing behind you. Though he makes your mind and body twist with heat, X'rhun also expertly directs your thoughts into the visuals that you need of most--of the candle flickering, burning, surging up into your touch and influence-

Surging up into his touch.

You tremble just as one of X'rhun's arms come around your waist to stabilize you, keep you standing upright as he continues to murmur through the magic coursing yet through your body like a hot silken ribbon over your bare skin.

"Let it loose from your hand, let the fire surge into your enemy with all that you've fueled it with wind and your aether; snuff out the candle and let the fire flow through your body-"

It happens in a heartbeat. The crackling magic fills the air around the length of your rapier and comes to life in a sudden flash of heat and power. It comes to a blazing life before casting out from your body and it's attuned weapons, like a bolt that hits the training dummy with so much force of fire and magic that it flies back several yalms and settles in a burnt, smoldering shape that you can but stare at.

And in the moments after the attack, X'rhun merely chuckles with his warm breath tickling against your skin.

"Just like that," he says, lips pressed so close to your nape that it's practically a kiss. "That's exactly how you do it, warrior mine--your fire is beautiful."

[finalfantasyxivwritings]

Prompt #4: Shifting Blame

About FFXIV Write | Personal Entries | by @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast

---

Shifting (the) Blame

The act of exchanging accusations and blame, as between two or more parties, during a dispute or some undesirable event.

---

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

From one to the other in an ever-constant battle of words and reasons and excuses, the two of them bickered and hawed and argued to no end. It was almost cute at first, if you were being honest--until it seemed to be the only. Damn. Thing. You. Heard.

And what was topic of the argument? The singular point of contention that neither Urianger nor Thancred could seem to come to terms with one another about? The soul reason that your sanity was but a frazzled bit of twine that threatened to come apart?

Vegetables.

More precisely, they argued over who was to blame for the fact that Ryne absolutely hated eating them. Popotos were fine, as was the occasional carrot and the rare but well-cooked zucchini, but there was little else that she seemed to eat with much zest or exuberance, and apparently this was an issue that Urianger thought to bring up to Thancred, since he was well-accepted as the young woman's guardian.

When it came to traditional parenting however, Urianger seemed to fill in where Thancred lacked. So indeed their initial bickering was rather cute, something to gently tease about like a married couple they so acted like.

But gods above.

"Thy did not account for her nutritional needs while upon on the road," Urianger might say. "Thus her pallette craves only meat and sweets--did thy not consider a growing girl to need more than that?"

"We were on the run!" Thancred would argue back. "Half the time anything organic was trying to kill us anyway. It's not as if I could document it all to keep track."

"Did thee not ever stop at a settlement which grew such as things?"

"Not all of us could live in Il Mheg where we're literally surrounded by fancy gardens and pixies hell-bent on imprisoning us."

This would often be when Urianger would either walk away or press harder on the subject, though Thancred often had a reasonable argument.

"Maybe it's because she ate too much that she's just sick of the taste or something?" The look in the man's eyes would always be a little pointed, if only because Urianger ever played the more worrisome hen between the two of them, sometimes to an almost smothering degree.

Most times Thancred would just shrug his shoulders and sigh.

"Aren't kid's supposed to be picky eaters anyway? I didn't eat a lot of vegetables when I was young and look how I turned out."

"I find myself confused if that's supposed to be an assurance or a terrifuing a word of caution for young Ryne's situation."

"Oh fuck off Uri."

If it wasn't for the fact that the two of them always seemed to be smiling genuinely by the end of their bickering, you would have murdered them by now.

Goddamn idiots.

[finalfantasyxivwritings]

Prompt #6: First Steps

About FFXIV Write | Personal Entries | by @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast

—

First Steps | noun

1. the first of a series of actions

—

It's quiet when you return. Horribly, dreadfully quiet. For a few moments even your brain starts to turn over each and every dreadful thought of possibility that it can even though you know they aren't true--he Exarch had kept a careful watch on things on the other side of the veil, and despite the fact that things had not gone entirely to plan in the First, he says you had little to worry about in your journey home.

You still cling to the soft memory of his face as he told you, his lips pulled wide in a bittersweet smile and his eyes almost glowing with a yearning to join you on the other side of his aether-affused mirror.

Not yet. Maybe one day.

But in the here and now you step into the Rising Stones, your eyes filled with worry as your body is filled equally with exhaustion and readiness. It's only been a few moons, and yet so much could have happened--with nobody to aid your friends and allies in the various states of Eorzea, so easily could so many things have gone utterly wrong.

But they haven't seemed to. Mor Dhona is as bustling as ever, and you hadn't heard of any new Garlean push on the battlefield you had once fought upon. You hadn't heard much of anything in fact, and little still on any changes between the empire and the rest of the country since your leaving--and that is likely what sets you most on edge.

But you trust the Exarch, and you trust your instincts. When everything is said and done you are simply happy to be in the Source again. To be home.

Your first steps into the Rising Stones are with this tentative joy gently humming in your thoughts. The soft curiosity for whom you might find. One gentle footfall after another, taking you ever deeper past the doors and down the hallway entrance.

As you finally come to the forefront of the room, the breath goes still in your chest.

But that's when you see her.

The last person to see when you left, and so the first person to see on your return--rather poetic, in a form.

It takes Tataru a few moments to finally turn towards you when she takes note of the sound of your footsteps. She blinks once, her eyes widening and her jaw dropping at the sight. As if she has seen the dead rise.

And, considering all that's happen to you, maybe that's a little accurate.

"Hello Tataru," you finally say, tears bubbling in your eyes and a feeling of relief in your very aether. "I'm back--and I have good news about our friends."

You have never felt so happy to be home.

[finalfantasyxivwritings]

Prompt #9: Hesitate

About FFXIV Write | Personal Entries | by @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast

—

Hesitate | verb

1. pause before saying or doing something, especially through uncertainty.  2.  be reluctant to do something.

—

In the sweet regard of many things, he had never once expected for things to turn out as they did. He never expected to get captured by the ancient Ascian known as Emet-Selch, and less so expected that you would be the one to save him and do away with the evil that had been curled up within the First for years beyond his own understanding.

There was a lot that the Exarch had not expected to come to pass, his own survival being the most prominent of it all.

So when the dust clears both proverbial and literal, he finds himself wanting for words to say. When he looks out towards the heavenly vision of the sunrise, of an actual sunrise far above the lands of Norvrandt, he knows not how to speak when such things would be meaningless in the face of such grand feats. The hero of light, the hero of darkness.

He couldn't be prouder of you in it all.

Silence isn't something he can depend on for very long, especially when the pain of his wounds start to etch deep within his thoughts. So he takes a small step towards you and your group of Scions and friends alike. Then another small step. Another.

Cautious and reluctant.

When your eyes finally catch upon his own, the Exarch feels a new rush of heat in his cheeks and a bashfulness to his thoughts. Suddenly all the words and feelings and things of before come raging back, all from a period where he truly thought he would finish this journey dead and alone in the empty void between worlds--but no less happy in playing his role out to the end.

But there he is and there you are, watching him with but the softest quirk to your lips that welcome him as you always have. Not even 300 years can mute such a wondrous memory like that of the warmth of your happiness--the beauty of your very existence.

"Oh, where to begin...?" The Exarch finally says, catching the attention of the rest of the group as he averts his gaze awkwardly and twists his hands together.

He is ready for your ire and anger for all the things he had done and said to you in your journey until now. He expects a broken trust and a lost friendship among a plethora of other things to begin to fix what he had dragged you through, least of which putting your life on the line without allowing you the grace to make that choice with full knowledge of the consequences.

What the Exarch doesn't expect, however, is his name.

His name on your lips.

"It's good to see you awake, G'raha Tia."

It makes him freeze. It makes his breath still. From one end to the other of his thoughts, mind and soul, he can but barely recognize the name as his own. So many years of being called something else has nearly left it sounding foreign--but hearing it in your voice and with your smile and your energy...it brings him to tears.

They well up hot and wet in G'raha's eyes as he simply allows himself to take it all in. So many years spent planning for his own demise and many more spent missing you like a lost lover--it proves far too much for him to handle with any semblance of a straight expression. He hopes that you don't think ill of him for it, wiping away the messy wet tears with the back of his hand as his mind tries desperately to get ahold of his emotions again.

His mind and heart are racing when he finally looks at you again. There are so many words to be said, so many things to be felt. They all press against the back of G'raha's lips like a waterfall against a damn that all he can do is pause and look at you in avid wonder for a few moments.

" 'Tis..." He begins softly, finding his voice and confidence with every syllable. " 'Tis good to be awake!"

Tears spill once more, though this time he doesn't wipe them away.

G'raha Tia is too busy smiling to care.

[finalfantasyxivwritings]

Prompt #1: Voracious

About FFXIV Write | Personal Entries | by @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast 

---

Voracious | adjective

1. wanting or devouring great quantities of food. 2. having a very eager approach to an activity.

---

Everything grows so quiet when the sun sets behind the Crystarium's walls. Though the first couple weeks had nightfall as something akin to celebration, the evenings that followed slowly settled back into what you would so often see across the world of the Source--the rise of the moon begetting the time of sleep and fireside relaxation within the comforting walls of one's home. It's nice to see the people in such a way, a normal way, so happy to find peace in the darkness they had prayed for across so many decades of time.

You only wished you can say the same; the insomnia is one you've dealt with for a long time before stepping foot into the broken-and-healing realm. It clings to you much like the shadows of your namesake, leaving you wandering the near-empty hallways of the Crystarium than anything else worthwhile of your time. Though the nightly walks often kept you near the Pendants, it seems that tonight has led you a touch farther--to the library.

Though the expansive room always seems quiet, the fall of night has seemed to leave it nearly ethereal. Your eyes can see marry a single soul on the first level and barely a single book out of place. Though you should have turned on your heel and left--perhaps to at least try and get some sleep--your legs move you forward instead, towards and up the stairs.

The higher you ascend, the more focused you become of a sound that starts to but gently caress the air. A flick, a brush, a shuffle of light footsteps; someone else is in the library with you, though you've long had a hunch for who it might be even at this hour of the evening.

Upon reaching the top of the steps you find the young man half-hunched over a book, face buried so deep within it's pages that it's hard to see anything more than the cascade of hair that ripples over his shoulders, much the same way that the robe he wears does in kind.

"...Moren?" His name comes softly to your lips, as amused as it is concerned.

He must be particularly stuck inside the book held within his hands. When he hears the sound of your voice the young man jumps, letting out a soft cry while whirling around to face you, the book itself suddenly clutched tight against his chest. When his eyes finally rest upon you, however, he visibly relaxes and lets out a sigh.

"Goodness," he says softly. "You scared the light right out of me."

A smile of apology gently pulls at your lips. "Sorry about that," you say. "But what are you doing up here so late?"

You step closer to him, trying curiously to get an eye of the book's title in his arms. Moren himself looks flushed for a moment, his face red and his eyes averting from you as much as his torso does, leaving it hard to catch more than a few letters printed upon the tome.

"I was just reading," he says, firmly but with no bite. "I...couldn't sleep. What better way to spend useless time than by making it useful then?"

"What were you reading?"

The question, pointed as it is, is difficult for Moren to avoid. He eventually must decide that the secrecy isn't worth it and finally lowers his arms to let you see the full cover of the book: 'Tales before the Light and other Wondrous Things'

You may not know much of the First, but you can point out a fairy tale book when you see one, which leaves your eyes peering up at his flushed face with further amusement. Moren doesn't quite meet your gaze, but he does try to explain himself with a little bit of stuttering.

"Th-there's so much to learn about the night sky, I just...wanted to be one of those to know as much as I can."

He sighs and tugs the book back against his chest, almost oblivious to you as you step closer to him.

"A lot of the books in this library are older than The Flood, so I'm hoping to know what our forefathers thought and believed when they looked up to see it," he continues, completely unaware as you get closer still. "I want to learn as much as I can--...even if it's through some....rather childish fairy tales..."

When you finally lay a hand upon his shoulder, Moren's soft eyes flick to you in something that balances between surprise and wonder. Though you can only guess at the thoughts running through his kind, it's hard not to notice that he looks at you with a vague sort of awe, as one might have looking upon a vast storm or a wonder of nature--its equally not hard to see how his blush deepens a little.

"Learning is not something to be embarrassed of," you assure him. "I actually quite like when you read me some of those stories--but I think that is all best done after you've gotten some sleep, alright?"

Moren looks at you for a few moments, his lips pressed but his eyes speaking plenty for them. It's rather endearing.

So you laugh.

"I can walk you to your room if you like, and I'lll answer any question you have about the night sky--deal?"

Something flashes across the man's eyes at the promise of such knowledge, it's a look he can't hope to hide. But he nods enthusiastically, his lips tugging into a soft, eager smile before the two of you start to make your way down the stairs and into the gentle night.

[finalfantasyxivwritings]

Prompt #3: Lost

About FFXIV Write | Personal Entries | by @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast

---

Lost | adjective

1. unable to find one's way; not knowing one's whereabouts. 2. denoting something that has been taken away or cannot be recovered.

Featuring @samilenjawantal

Note: Though you don't need to read it, this is written in the same continuity as this fic with the reader and Samilen!

---

It’s hard not to feel turned around within the thick forest of the Black Shroud. It seems that no matter how familiar you feel you are with the various regions and endless blanket of trees and underbrush, you never quite catch the subtle details needed to have an idea of where you are at any given time. 

In short, getting lost is one of your better skills--if anyone could even call it that. Though hardly purposed you do seem to have a knack for finding yourself in confusing places you can barely guide yourself out of, often requiring no shortage of time, sanity or the aid of others to get you out. 

Thank the gods for Samilen.

You’re not quiet sure yet how long the man has lived within Gridania (it’s a detail you haven’t felt comfortable enough yet to breach), but it’s obvious that the Keeper knows it more than enough to navigate the thick forest with hardly the help of a map. 

While there are many times that he seems nearly to forget that you’re accompanying him on his many botany tasks across the Black Shroud, there’s never been an instance where the two you you had been separated, or at least not in a manner that Samilen hadn’t distinctly told you to stay put for some reason or another--he’s proven to be quite the worrier for most things he thinks you can’t handle, though he did caution correctly about not letting you handle what turned out to be a mildly poisonous flower some suns back.

So suffice to say when you finally do find yourself turned around and utterly alone in the narrow space between several old, thick trees, it comes as quite the shock. You had just seen the Miqo’te a few minutes before--the two of you were following a well-traveled path in the eastern region before your botanical quarry required a little straying, and that had been your undong. In a brief moment of curiosity you had taken your eyes off of his back, just for a singular moment, and suddenly he wasn't there anymore.

The natural noises of the forest seem to covered up any directional indication of where he might be. Left alone and growing fearful, all you can do is stand still and let your mind run with worry--did he wander off without you? What happens if he doesn't find you?

A few minutes past with a similar lack of directional awareness and the fearful thoughts only grow more thick with panic. It seeps into your bones and mind like a cold rain. For a moment the thought crosses that perhaps you could turn around and try to find your way back towards the path, since you might be able to reach town from there and merely wait for Samilen to return--

But even the way back is confusing. The Black Shroud is too mazelike for such simple things, too twisted with greenery and half-forgotten paths that cross over one another; you fear getting even more lost if you try to meander your way back, thereby making it all the harder for your partner to find you. So in turn you're left to stand and hope and wait, trying not to think about how all the little details of the peaceful environment start to feel a tad less peaceful and a little more leering.

At least it's not dark yet--thats the only thing you fear more than getting lost within the ephemeral thickets of the Black Shroud; it didn't get it's name for nothing, you figure, as the blanket of nightfall leaves the forest almost impossible to navigate. Perhaps it's why Samilen so often chooses to take you with him on excursions that are best done during the light of the day--not for his own benefit, but simply to make sure you don't lose your way or find yourself in such a precarious situation.

You're able to find a comfortable spot to sit at least. The exposed, flat part of a tree root proves to be such a spot, leaving you to wait and listen to the soft noises of the forest (of which there are plenty). You've been a partner to the Keeper botanist for several weeks, and he had kept well to the promise of paying you for your aid though you sometimes wondered what manner of aid he pays you for--you're hardly trained in the same field and scarcely know any of the plants in the region. Sometimes you play the part of translator for clients who can't understand his handspeak, and that's fairly worthwhile a duty, but other times...

Well, he pays you for your companionship regardless, and he does pay you quite well. Perhaps it's a situation you're never quite ready or allowed to understand; it's not like you particularly loath the man's company either--he's proven to be a wonderful friend and employer both, even if he so often leaves you wondering quite where you fit, as protective of you as he often is in your standing as an immigrant to Eorzea's lands.

There's a sudden snap of a branch. It's loud and sharp, pulling you out of your thoughts as if ice water had been dumped over your head. Breath catches over your lips as you find yourself upon your feet, body tense and mind rolling over thoughts of panic and dread for what attentions you might have accidentally caught from the inner-city thicket of the forest.

Sprites and bugs are the least you need to worry about. Though unfamiliar with the geography of the East Shroud, you are quite understanding of the creatures that prowl within. Hogs and weevils may be of the many that would give chase, but there is also the constant concern of running into a poacher so especially far from the closest large settlement.

In fact, when you pick out the sound of footsteps, that's the first conclusion your mind clutches to. You've heard about the poachers--aggressive felons who try to hunt the protected game of the forest without a single care to the laws that Gridania and the Twin Adders strictly impose. From how Samilen and others have spoken of them, you're certain that one would sooner use you as a hostage than simply leave you be.

You have little more than a small hatchet that Samilen gave you as a weapon, but you weild it as one all the same; the wooden handle is held so tight against your palms that it almost hurts. The footsteps grow closer and more obviously hyuroid; two feet, pushing through the underbrush in what seems to be a hurry. Fast, faster, closer with every thump of your heart against your chest.

The breath goes cold in your chest when the form finally breaks through the underbrush. A Miqo'te, short, with snow-white hair and dark skin and-

"S-Samilen?"

The name falls from your lips with no shortage of relief in the sound. It's little more than a sigh than else, an echo of the emotion that tangles and kills off each worry and inkling of panic that had settled deep in your thoughts just a few minutes before.

Samilen looks how you feel, and that surprises you more than his appearence relieves you--he looks as equally panicked, golden eyes drawing upon you in a heartbeat and his footsteps hurrying close to you.

'I thought I lost you,' he signs with small, slightly quickened motions. 'Are you alright?'

Though it's now there anymore, you're almost certain in catching the faint imprint of what had been worry pinching between his brows. You know it mostly because the emotion is still in his eyes, shining bright with gold and concern in a way you know he can't hide, and likely doesn't realize he's wearing so clearly. Always the earnest man in word, work and emotion.

"I'm okay," you assure him as much as yourself. "Just lost sight of you is all--you know how easy it is for me to get turned around in some part of the forest."

Though the words are more of a cut to your lacking directional awareness and less so to his attention, Samilen looks worried all the same.

'I promise you'll start to get familiar with it,' he signs again, gentler, his hands spending more time on the words and his ears gently flicking almost with all the same emotional queue as his tail behind him. 'Keep closer to me so you don't get lost again, okay?'

It's obviously something that worries him. You've never really stopped to ask why he stresses so much about the risk, almost to the point of excess, but something tells you that it's an issue far deeper than you merely getting lost. Something that might take a while to understand.

There's a lot to Samilen that you're yet to understand anyway.

You agree to his silent request with a nod.

"I promise I will."

He waits a moment. His eyes flick down to your hips, then back up to your eyes again--its the sortoff look when he was pondering on something. After the Keeper lets out a sigh and seems to come to a decision on his thoughts, he finally extends a hand out to you.

To take in yours.

He doesn't need to form the words with his hands for the message to be clear. Though it catches you by surprise, it doesn't stop your hand from reaching for his in kind. Your fingers intertwine and palms press warm against one another.

Samilen's cheeks look a little darker and his eyes softly avert from yours, but it's so quick that it's hard to catch before he's moving into the thicket, but this time with you gently in tow behind him.

Even in the days after, even when you finally learn some parts of the forest, even when you feel comfortable in its gentle maze of trees and foliage, he still likes to hold your hand.

To keep you from getting lost, of course.

No other reason.