#vidofnir's wings

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 7: speculate

It’s been another year, and somehow Vidofnir’s Wings are still flying. For now. The refugees and adventurers—often one and the same—are no longer just Ala Mhigan, but Dalmascan and Bozjan and even those his fellow Eorzeans still call “beast tribes.” It’s taken him a while to unlearn that last one himself, but really Amal’jaa aren’t that much scarier than Au Ra. Anyway, he’s too busy to be concerned with anything beyond making sure everyone who steps through his doors can get along long enough to work together.

That doesn’t mean he’s too busy to read the newspapers, though.

All Civilians Warned To Stay Away From Mysterious Towers

Towers May Be Garlean Superweapon, Warns Our Spokesman

Dalamud Returns? Lunar Primal Sighted In La Noscea

He sets the papers down, raking a hand through hair that needs a trim. He and Busari will have to head back out there, that’s obvious enough, but he’s not sure which direction to aim in first. Without asking, he knows Busari will suggest a long swing through Thanalan and up through the Shroud into Coerthas, but even with aetherytes that’s a journey of many weeks and he can’t in good conscience leave their home team holding down the fort for that long. And yet, he’s one of their best fighters, so he equally can’t let Busari and the others go without him.

The front door slams open, the bell at the top jingling in counterpoint. “Evrard! Boss! Boss!”

Q’sevet never calls him boss. Q’sevet barely ever calls him Evrard. He’s on his feet in an instant, practically falling over himself to open the door to his study before the Seeker batters it down. Something’s wrong. There’s another primal attack—or Busari’s hurt—or Grynalet is sick—or Fury, it’s something the matter with Sevet’s family— “What is it?!”

Q’sevet’s slitted pupils are so wide they’re almost round; he’d think it was drugs, but he’s seen that same look on the man’s face when he’s ready for a fight. The end of his tail looks like a brush. “I just got a letter from my uncle,” he blurts out, and Evrard braces himself for impact. Q’sevet has plenty of good things to say about his uncle Q’tenbe, but you don’t become a priest of the Halonic Orthodox Church without learning to read between the lines.

“Is your village in trouble?”

He bites his lip, tail lashing anxiously behind him. “Yes. No. Maybe. I’m not sure. But there’s another one of those towers within sight of Drybone now, and with the Burning Wall and the Amal’jaa so close—he says everyone at home is fine, but in that way where he ain’t actually...” He waves his hands in what Evrard supposes is meant to encompass decades of frustration at double-speak. “Y’know?”

He knows. Usually, it involved Dravanian attacks, pointed comments regarding which parts of Ishgard were worthy of protection, and where precisely a priest who’d taken top marks in all his thaumaturgy classes ought to have been stationed. His ears go back. “Indeed. We can be there within a bell.”

Q’sevet blinks at him. “Wait. ‘We’? I was gonna ask for time off—”

He turns away to fetch his cloak, blood-red with the white dragon emblem of their free company. “Do we fly together or not? I’ll call Busari while you saddle our birds.”

Blink. Blink. And then, in a blur of speed, Q’sevet darts forward to catch him in a rib-crushing one-armed hug before bounding away, calling back over his shoulder, “I’ll catch you out front, boss!”

“Watch the—!”

“Ow!”

“...Table...”

“I’m alright! I’m alright!”

Sighing, he reaches for his armor. At least they have a destination now.

[ffxiv-swarm]

Vidofnir’s Wings Coeurl, Goblet Ward 12 plot 55

Founded by Evrard Briardionne and Busari of the Bayaqud after the successful reclamation of Ala Mhigo from Imperial clutches, this free company has made itself known as a place to go for those seeking food, work, or merely a place to rest your head for the night. Whether you’re an adventurer looking for monsters to slay or a tired refugee looking for a fair wage, you’ll find the men and women of Vidofnir’s Wings ready to point you in the right direction and see you get there safely.

Take advantage of the infirmary (Shinju Toyotama),

the workroom (Portia Brewster),

and the conservatory (Pavo Rabanastre)!

Other FC rooms not part of the free company space, but almost all of them are open if you wanna have a look around!

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 10: avail

Vidofnir’s Wings, in the person of one Evrard Briardionne and his disgruntled assistants, have been parked under an awning in Pearl Lane for the better part of a day handing out pamphlets along with heavy, filling flatbreads stuffed with vegetables and unnamed meats. (Evrard is still proud of the pamphlets. Poor or no, refugees or no, these people have legal rights and chances for gainful employment, and he’ll see that they know that.) He’d offered to help with the food, but they all knew it was halfhearted; he’s much better with paperwork, and so while Q’kerahn and Harumi dole out hot meals and advice, he is on a too-low folding chair wrangling reams of ink and parchment. Ealdgyth needs to know what her landlord’s handed her, J’verin wants a better eye to go over his employment contract at a local brothel, Nanase doesn’t understand the process of rental agreements in Ul’dah…

The awning isn’t enough. In between clients for the moment, he closes his eyes in hopes that it will stem the rising ache making its way through his skull. He’s grateful to be sitting down, but it’s so godsdamned hot. He sweated through his thin shirt bells ago, and constant sips of watered fruit juice only help so much. He doesn’t even have the energy to cast anything to cool down. And, in addition to everything else, his back is killing him. Why did I agree to this…? This isn’t what I wanted.

He can be petty here, in the privacy of his own mind. He’d formed his free company with the idea of...well. Something more spectacular than this. He’d set out to become an adventurer, by the Fury. If he’s going to slowly melt into the Ul’dahn sun, he could at least be doing something more exciting and less mind-numbing than translating legal jargon.

It’s important. He knows that. From the smallest stones are castles raised, so saith the Enchiridion. He certainly shouldn’t complain; he knows intimately just how much worse his life could be.

But he scratches miserably under his hat and wishes nonetheless that he was anywhere else.

“Hey, boss, we’re running low on the meat—“

“Add more greens, then!” It comes out sharper than he intended, and he feels worse immediately. Fury, grant me patience, for we all suffer.

His ears prick up at the sound of a commotion, and he’s half out of his chair by the time he registers what it even is. There, a terrified young woman sprinting away—there, a pair of sneering louts strolling after her and laughing, as though they know she can’t run far.

“Watch the stall, please.” He barely recognizes his own voice with so much steel in it.

“Help!”

Rage surges like a tide at the fear in her voice —that anyone would so dare to lay hands on another, that nobody else moves in her defense.

He’s already running. In his mind, a dragon’s shadow falls over them.

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 3: adytum

Holy, holy, holy.

Blessed art thou, spear-rattling Halone, who crushes the dragon underfoot. Blessed—

The cathedral had so many windows. So many windows, and yet it was always so blasted dark. Evrard knelt in the first pew, his forehead resting on his clasped hands, and breathed out. His breath hung in front of him, a chilling pale mist. Would no one ever stoke the boilers below?

Holy—

High, high above him, the bells began tolling the hour. Each note reverberated through him, striking in time with his heartbeat. He inhaled slowly, tasting dust and stone in his throat. Though the All Saint’s mass had concluded but moments ago, the sheer cold had laid to rest any lingering smells that might have indicated a congregation once sat here, filling the nave to the rafters.

Halone, have mercy on me, for I have—

(Red banners, a silver-white dragon, golden stone walls, blue-black scales)

—sinned—

(A Dravanian, all limbs and tail, perched precariously on his roof to straighten the weathervane. The way she’d flapped so frantically to maintain her balance that she’d inscribed a full somersault in the air and knocked it off completely.)

“Hmph!” He couldn’t suppress his amused huff; it sounded too loud in the empty chamber, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel embarrassed. Halone, Fury of the northern gales, I confess in thy sight that my only sin this past month gone has been to laugh rather too much at a very helpful dragon.

The bells were still ringing, but he no longer felt crushed by the weight.

(He was halfway home—the aethernet was best taken in stages, or he got frightfully dizzy—before it occurred to him that he ought to have confessed properly to a fellow priest. Remembering old Father Baptistaux’s sour glare, he decided it was best left for the next holiday.)

[ffxiv-swarm]

Vidofnir’s Wings, Coeurl’s Goblet ward 12 plot 55. Founded by Evrard Briardionne, a former Halonic priest, it serves as a headquarters for his free company: a loosely associated band of adventurers and general do-gooders.

Also features an enclosed porch:

A meeting room (and dining room once you clear the table off):

And a lovely outdoor seating area in the front yard:

During Moonfire Faire, we have a great view of the fireworks!

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 20: hamper

Running a free company came with a near-endless list of chores, especially since Vidofnir’s Wings remained rather small in comparison to the amount of people they helped. Most of these were bearable—tedious, yes, especially since they were now down their tallest member, but bearable. (Evrard had taken a rather vindictive pleasure in donating all of Busari’s things to Ul’dahn charities. Q’sevet had offered to hold a bonfire, but he’d wanted them to be useful one last time.) They hired cooks, Q’kerahn kept the ledgers, and everyone pitched in to clean. When things needed to be repaired—well, Evrard knew people. They managed.

But once a week, there came the single day all of them dreaded.

Laundry.

The hamper felt like it weighed as much as he did, and he was already sweating through his thin cotton shirt as he hauled it outside. The worst part? This wasn’t even the only one. There were six more that needed to be sorted and flung into steaming tubs. Thank the Fury for magic, at least, because that way he didn’t have to spend bells building up the fires. (He’d tried to use magic for the washing as well. It worked fine on normal clothes, but anything enchanted tended to react...badly. And when you ran an adventuring company, most of your clothing was enchanted. At least it spared them from having to scrub smallclothes.)

Haruka was already sorting lights from darks, and didn’t even bother looking up as she informed him, “There are laundromats for this, you know.”

He upended the basket on one of the low trestle tables, wheezing out a breath as he did so. His back gave a warning twinge. “And do we have laundromat gil?”

“Nope,” Q’kerahn grumbled, trudging over to unload it.

Haruka groaned.

Evrard didn’t follow suit, but he rather wanted to. Rubbing his back and wishing fervently that he’d mastered the art of levitating containers in a steady manner (his previous attempts having wound up...well, he was still missing some socks), he made his way back inside to where there was shade. Slowly. Q’sevet passed him, loaded down with his own hamper and muttering curses under his breath.

He exhaled. Five more to go, then.

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 13: confluence

Vidofnir’s Wings open wide, and if they do not span the world, still they enfold all they can in a warm embrace. That’s the creed Evrard has worked under ever since opening the doors of his free company, and it’s one that has served him well. He has members from every city-state of Eorzea, and more besides; the Nagae sisters hail from far-flung Kugane, Enkhtuya from the Azim Steppes, Firmien from his own Ishgard. The adventurers and refugees he helps, those who don’t choose to sign on for a more permanent position, are from even further afield—Ala Mhigo, Ghimlyt, Dalmasca.

But that still doesn’t make it less of a shock when one Vespasian bas Scipio, he of the formerly broken leg and surly demeanor, stumps up to him and snaps, “Heard your free company is hiring.” He says it like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

Evrard blinks at him. He’s been winding bandages for half a bell while he waits for his mana reserves to recharge far enough to allow him to heal again—there are always more injuries than healers, since Garleans can’t manipulate their own aether and nearly all the surviving refugees are purebloods—and he wasn’t expecting anyone to start conversation, never mind Vespasian. Camp Broken Glass is too cold to encourage any idle chatter unless you’re huddled by the stove.

But the man clearly wants a reply, so he nods. “We are.”

“You take Garleans?”

Alan, once pyr Venditor, is his best friend. “Of course we do,” he huffs, ears flicking no matter that they’re constrained by his hat.

Vespasian folds his arms, frowning. “And if I said I wanted t’ sign up?”

Evrard looks him up and down. He’s still gaunt—all the refugees are—and he tends to list to one side when he stands. Aside from that, though, he bears the marks of having once been strong even for a Garlean. “...I’d question why,” he says dryly. “Sir, you do know we are located in Ul’dah, correct? Thanalan? It’s very hot there.”

Vespasian spits on the floor. “After what I’ve been through, I never want to see snow again.”

He can’t blame him for that. Even so, he sighs as he reaches into his breast pocket for a pencil and notebook. “Have a seat, then.”

The man blinks at him. “Eh?”

“You said you wanted to sign up, didn’t you? Did you imagine there wouldn’t be an interview?”

Maybe he’s more small-minded than he likes to think he is, because he doesn’t feel very bad for feeling a twinge of amusement at the way Vespasian splutters. But...honestly. After all they’ve done for the people of Garlemald, does offering a well-paying job with plenty of prospects for advancement really seem so far-fetched?

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 29: debonair

He’s not a stylish person. Such is both vanity and pride, and no man could ever accuse him of either sin. If his clothes are decently modest and suitable for the weather, he has all he could ever need. What matter is it that his elbows are patched, his hems darned, his seams resewn in thread that doesn’t quite match? The robes of a priest are not meant to be covered in gold and jewels (though he is given a set of those anyway, for the high holy days, and by the Fury they chafe his soul.)

(His people starve. His people starve, and the Church gives him cloth of gold?)

Even when he sets aside his robes for the doublets and hose of an adventurer, they’re not meant to be flashy. He’s not meant to be flashy. He’s still a priest of Halone, is he not? His goddess requires action, not meaningless symbols of wealth. He wears grays and blacks and dark, serviceable blues, colors that hold up well to wear and don’t show stains easily. Busari is a red-winged blackbird next to his own sober sparrow, and that suits him fine. He does not long for fame nor fortune.

(But the others pass him by, in their shining plate or crackling aetherwoven robes threaded in silver, in their slashed leathers and their jangling mail, and he wonders. If he dressed like them, would others look at him the same way? Like someone to be respected as more than the embodiment of their faith?)

The free company is his idea, but it is his friends who help him put it into practice. They help him find a house, print fliers, keep the ledger for more than just his own skin-and-bones corpus. They help him grow strong. Busari is the one who wades into battle under their red-and-white standard most often, spreading the word of their purpose. Their mission. Halone’s mercy, Evrard adores him.

But when the people Busari have gathered come to the doors of Vidofnir’s Wings, it’s Evrard they ask for. And that leads him to his current plight.

“It’s...silk.”

Ekhtuya is of the Qestir and does not speak out loud—she has sign language or her trusty slate for that—but she points emphatically at the coat she and Haruka have bullied Evrard into and he knows what she means. Coming only to his hips in the front, it flares out into an extravagant arrangement of tails and half-capes and ruffles in the back. The sleeves are festooned with silver diamonds and trimmed with lace, the middle portion of the coat itself stiffened with whalebone and tied in the back like a lady’s stays for a better fit. There is a cravat. And yes, it is made not just of silk (red, in this case) but aetherwoven silk, so conductive to magic that his own aether almost makes him giddy. He forces that feeling down. He’s trying to be annoyed, damn her, even if he’s never worn anything this fine.

Haruka folds her arms and says bluntly, “What is it you’re always telling Master Vesper? ‘No one will hire you if you look like old laundry’?”

His ears droop. “That’s—I—” She’s right, of course. He does say that, and Alan never listens, and it’s infuriating. But Alan isn’t a priest, isn’t sworn to—

(Poverty? No. He never took those vows.)

Against his will, his gaze is drawn to himself in the mirror. He almost doesn’t recognize the man staring back at him. Tall and slim, with sleek white hair and crimson eyes and the slate-gray skin that marks him indelibly as a Duskwight, speckled with more dark freckles than he remembers. The coat is precisely three shades lighter than his eyes, a red so vivid it looks like fresh blood. There’s a loop at one hip where he could easily attach his sword. It makes him look dangerous.

It makes him look powerful. Like...like someone who can protect those he’s sworn to aid, instead of someone who shivers uselessly in the cold and castigates himself for not doing less.

He takes the coat.