A'gust Tia

Aesthetics & Chronicles of A'gust Tia | PFP by Yuxingart| Miqo'te- Seeker | Alchemist | FF14- Mateus, Crystal

[truth-and-sun]

"I knew him to be a Seeker by the way his eyes drank the sun's light, and I knew him to be a fragile soul by the way he balked under the sky. Nothing would prepare me, though, for the day he proved my negligent assumption wrong. When the glass ceiling would lay in shatters at my feet."

[Huh? What? Can't hear you because I'm foaming at the mouth over this art of A'gust done by the lovely YuxingArt and gifted by @asherlin . Look at him. Look at him and know joy as I now know joy.]

[mitakasasa]

He who is named Nald'thal shall preside over the subterrane. His duty: to make gleam the riches hidden in the darkest depths─and in men themselves.

[truth-and-sun]

MiqoMarch Day 2 - Sprout

"A-and what would...Wha-what would happen if m-my math was wrong?"

[truth-and-sun]

MiqoMarch Day 1 - Selfie

“They call it a ‘selfie’. Isn’t that just clever, Calcifer?” 

[serai-querel]

More Or Less

[ Photo by Zany Jadraque on Unsplash ]

Serai fell to her knees in the wet sand, swaying once before tumbling to her back, and laid still save for the rise and fall of her chest and the twitching of her tail. She finally opened her mismatched eyes with a start when the surf washed up and over her feet.

“I’m never gonna beat you, am I?” She levered herself up on her shoulders, turning to peer at the figure a few yalms down the beach with a mix of amusement and chagrin. “What was that last move, anyway? You haven’t taught me that one yet.”

Serai’s opponent was only slightly more composed, seated rather than collapsed on the sands as she caught her breath. “Oh, that.” The elezen’s reply held a carefully cultivated note of nonchalance, “That’s Resolution.”

“You mean it’s not called Verboom?”

Their laughter was drowned out as the surf washed in again, and Serai scrambled backward, crablike, to find a crosslegged seat on drier sand.

“No, no, it isn’t, but maybe it should be. You seemed ready for it, though.” Blue eyes gleamed mirth from under white locks of hair. “Besides, there was a chance I might have lost to you otherwise. But,” she raised one finger to make a forestalling point, “I still have a few tricks left to teach you.”

Serai put her sword and focus on her lap, delicately cleaning sand from each. “Do you have time to teach me that one before we’re done?” An impish smile as she offered a sidelong glance. “Verboom?”

“Oh-ho! You haven’t been humbled enough for one day, have you?” The elezen rose from her sandy seat and met Serai’s grin with an eager smile of her own, sword extended and focus floating above her other hand. “En garde, and watch more closely this time!”

A graceful roll brought Serai to her feet, her impish grin turning fierce as she saluted her opponent and assumed a ready stance.

Tending their nets down the beach about a quarter-malm, a group of Arkasadoan fishermen mostly ignored the distant boom and flash of aether. They’d gotten used to the pair’s practice duels. More or less.

* * *

They stopped at the Great Work after the lesson was finally done. Serai to pick up a small bundle of hard-to-find alchemical reagents, the other to gather a larger package of medicines and supplies. Both politely declined the offer of a hippo cart ride to Radz-at-Han. Instead, the unhurried walk to the city was filled with their usual small talk: discussion of technique or weaponry, applications of the art both practical and theoretical, recounting past fights. But little and less of other matters.

By unspoken agreement, they sidestepped the personal. After all, it wasn’t a reach to guess who one was, and they each had their own concerns. This was an escape, a place and time to focus on parry and riposte, balestra and flèche, the balance of aethers and aggression. A good fight, after all, had a way of clearing the mind. Most of the time.

More or less.

“You don’t usually press to learn new techniques so quickly.” The elezen’s voice filled a natural lull in the conversation. They’d just passed the Giantsgall Grounds to step upon the bridge to Radz-at-Han, the city looming before them. “Is everything alright?”

“Mmm? Oh yeah.” Serai adjusted the strap of her bag across her shoulder. “I wanted to tell you it might be a while before I can make it out here again.” She gave her “teacher” an apologetic smile, “We’re going to be in Kugane for a time, and the aetheryte fees have really been adding up.”

“Kugane? Whatever takes you the Far East?”

“We’re looking for someone who’s been missing a while, and we heard that’s the last place she was.” A fair explanation, detailed enough without crossing that nebulous unspoken line. “Besides, I haven’t been home in almost a year.” The xaela offered a wry smile. “Family, right? You know.”

Her companion rolled her eyes and shook her head, a thin braid of hair swaying with the motion. “Oh, Twelve above, do I know the travails of family.” She looked ahead, blue eyes settling on the far side of the bridge. “I suppose it all works out, though. My friend,” the word was strangely emphasized, “is back to their usual exploits. And they were supposed to be enjoying a simple life. I may be busy for a time myself.”

Serai frowned, a particular foreign expression for the usually bright au ra. “I guess it's my turn. Everything’s alright?”

“Nothing they can’t handle with a little care.” The utmost confidence in her tone. “It never is.” A few more paces, and they stepped off the bridge and across the city’s threshold. “You’ll be careful in Kugane, won’t you? I’d miss our lessons, even as intermittent as they are.”

“Me, too.” Serai’s steps slowed to a halt. “I’m gonna take the airship back, save a few gil,” She gestured towards a set of stairs leading west. “Nhaama watch over you. And your friend too.”

“Twelve’s blessings. Oh, and Serai?”

She stopped, one foot already on a step.

“Watch your quinte. You leave it open too often on flèche.” The young elezen smiled, “not that I’d know anything about being aggressive on the attack, of course.”

Serai’s laughter echoed off brightly-painted city walls. “I will!” And then she was gone, steps taken two at a time as she climbed the stairway towards the airship landing.

* * *

I ought to introduce her to the others sometime, Alisaie mused as she made her way towards the aetheryte. The package of medicines was small enough to teleport with her and would be put to good use by the Garlean refugees. Reason enough to come to Thavnair from time to time, she told herself, to refresh the supplies used at Broken Glass and Tertium. It was almost an indulgence to spend time teaching Red Magic to the curious au ra she’d met at the training dummies just outside Yedlihmad. Something outside the other work that never seemed to end.

Not everything has to be about saving the star, she told herself. You’re allowed a little friendship for yourself.

More or less.

[ilacion-deactivated20240301]

Black Cat sitting in a box at an old bookstore in Mexico City (2016)

[serai-querel]

Your honor, I love them a normal amount.

A'gust Tia (@truth-and-sun) and Serai Querel

[aetherochemistry-deactivated202]

RP Memes: Music edition!

Send a symbol and I’ll show you…

♬ - A battle theme for my muse

♭  - A sad song that I associate with my muse

😀 - A happy or upbeat song that I associate with my muse

🤑 - A song that embodies my muse’s jealousy

😡  - A song that embodies my muse’s aggression/angst

🔥 - A song that embodies my muse’s lust or passion   

💓 - A song that embodies the muse’s love for another

♪  - A song that my muse would dance to

♮ - A song that I use for BGM during RP

🎼 - An instrumental song (with no lyrics) that I associate with my muse

♩ - A song with lyrics that I associate with my muse

🎵 - A song that reminds me of my muse’s backstory

🎚️ - A cultural piece that suits my muse

🎤- A song that my muse would sing

📯 - A song featuring instruments that my muse would play

🎶 - A song that gets the mun into the muse’s headspace

🥁 -  A song with percussion that I associate with my muse

🎻 - A song featuring classical stringed instruments that I associate with my muse

🎸 - A song featuring guitars that I associate with my muse

🔀 - A song that is outside of the mun’s usual taste, but still associated with the muse

💀 - A song that would be played to portray my muse’s death or passing

💿 - A random song from my playlist, and an explanation of how my it could relate to my muse 

👪 - A song that embodies my muse’s relationship (with another muse of the asker’s choice!)

💕- A song that reminds me of my muse’s relationship with their partner

❣️ - A song my muse would dedicate to their loved ones

🖤 - A song that my muse would dedicate to someone they hate or dislike

🎊 - A song that I could see my muse celebrating or partying to

🎃 - A holiday-themed song that suits my muse

[auggieparkhurst]

[nipuni]

Nald’Thal ⚖

A speedpaint video of this will be available at my Patreon on may 1st! 

[poptarttheremix]

A catboy has emerged from the weighted blanket and does not know when or where he is. 

[truth-and-sun]

Synthesizing Emotion

Showing Emotion: A’gust Tia

Rules: Please repost, don’t reblog! Bold what applies/appeals to your muse, italicize what sometimes applies/is situational. Tag if you do this, I’d love to see it! 💖

ANGER: jaw clenching, hands balling into fists, teeth grinding, yelling, going nonverbal, stuttering speech, rushed speech, slow concise speech, rambling, quiet, arms crossing, shaking head, tearing up, animated, expressionless, projects, internalizes, vents, withdraws, passive aggressive, direct, physical outbursts, verbal outbursts, foot stompies

JOY: easy smiles, fighting back grins, suppressed laughter, loud laughter, giggles, chuckling, smirks, whole body laughs, covers mouth when laughing/giggling, throws head back when laughing, slaps leg, touches people around them when laughing, looks down when laughing, looks for eye contact when laughing, sparkling eyes, bubbly happiness, quiet subtle happiness, obnoxious happiness, wants to spread joy, quietly savors joy

SADNESS: crying, bottling it up, seeks distractions, wallows, meditates and processes, avoidance, seeks out comfort, withdraws, talks it out, internalizes it, sad smiles, depression naps, uses alcohol, uses drugs, seeks out sources of joy, fidgets with sentimental item, sits in silence, broods, gets moody, wants someone to share the misery, tries to hide negative emotions, nurtures others to make themselves feel better

EMBARRASSMENT/SHAME: blushing, looking away, rubbing at back of head, covering face, laughing nervously, laughs it off, overthinks, lets it go, self deprecating humor, deflects, gets irritated, smiles, withdraws, crossing arms over stomach, crossing arms over chest, hands in pockets, shoulders sinking, shrugs, falling into silence until comfortable again, talking a lot to compensate

GUILT: avoiding eye contact, shoulders sinking low, head hanging down, crying, chest aches, lashes out, internalizes, apologizes, deflects, communicates, withdraws, grand gestures for forgiveness, accepts fault easily, punishes themselves, martyrdom, victim complex, guilt complex, healthy conscience, internalizes even after forgiveness, seeking redemption, moves on easily, denial, lack of guilt/conscience, sorry they got caught more than caused harm, can’t handle knowing they hurt others

FEAR/ANXIETY: trembling, crying, sarcasm/sass to cope, rambles, goes silent, gets angry, fidgeting, clenching jaw, picking at nails, chewing at lip, pulling at clothes, adjusting jewelry/clothing, swallowing thickly, eyes widening, over-reacts, under-reacts, calm, logical, panic, irrational, overthinks, carefully analyses, talks to themselves, breathing exercises, flight, fight, freeze, withdraw, fawn

Thank you for the tag: @serai-querel​ !

TAG! You’re it: @fabulousquel @atviera @dagasii @longveil (Do it again :3) @foxglovethings @scholarlostintime @sharlayan-starweaver @zeehva (for any of your muses!) @renardsnoir​ (Pick a muse!)

[truth-and-sun]

Master or Prey

A man carries only what is necessary in his pockets, and what he deems necessary speaks volumes about his character. Pockets lined with lint and malcontent may house the itchy palms of a thief. Those trimmed in gold and stitched with silver duplicity cradle the unscathed hands of a noble. Leaves plucked from an autumnal wind go in the pockets of romantics, and losing Cactpot tickets go in those of cynics. Optimists carry trinkets to mark each memory.  Nihilists have cigarettes to count down the days.

And inside the pockets of a Miqo'te named A’gust Tia were: a few pieces of taffy, a faded photo, and a stone that burned cold.

The stone was smooth like glass. Unblemished by nick or scratch save for the thumb-size indentation in its center. An insatiable chill permeated from its heart; a single rhythmic hum that hinted at a heartbeat set  deep in the obsidian marbling. It breathed alongside A’gust. Silent and steady as the Miqo’te’s thumb drew worrying circles into the indentation. He wondered if those around him knew of the soul stone in his pocket.

The hair on the back of Auggie’s neck tingled as he wove through the Gilded City’s streets. A weight upon his shoulders followed him around every corner and bend. It made him breathe deeper, listen closer, and see clearer. He paused his idle wandering, foot traffic flowing past him like a steam, and focused. Slowly, he peered over his shoulder. Expecting to meet the gaze of a person, creature, or even a shadow, he was left with nothing. Nothing but a lingering knowing. The city had eyes for him and the dark secrets hidden in his pockets.

A’gust swallowed hard, adjusted the scythe strapped to his back, and dipped his head low as he skulked past the throng of pedestrians and into an alleyway. It was darker there. Quieter. Away from the cacophonous roar of a city newly awakened for the long night. He pressed himself against the wall, fumbling with the strap buckle. He unslung the scythe with unfound grace. Leaned it against the sandstone wall. And backed away with upheld palms. It glowered at him, lantern light dancing along its crescent blade.

A’gust didn’t blame a soul for casting him auspicious glances. The scythe he carried was a dangerous beauty. It stood a full fulm taller than him. Crafted from dark steel and etched with arcane runes, it was a weapon made for a man cut from a different fabric. A man that danced with danger and spoke from his chest. Not he who hid in shadows and spoke in whispers. Yet the woman from Pearl Lane saw it as a perfect match for him. The woman Bato Cheto recommended he see; the one who would help him manage his predicament. She had sized him up with no small degree of amusement when he stepped through her door. A laugh already starting at the curl of her lips as he sputtered through his story. He said he didn’t wish for power or vengeance. Just to simply manage. And to that she scoffed. Told him that he had such a weak, little heart.

Then, she gave him a stone and the scythe.

“I can’t do this…” A’gust whispered.

A slow, steady match burned beneath his ribs, sending his heart into a gallop. Each palpitation he felt from his skull all the way down to his finger tips. The tick of a clock made different. He stole a fox-quick glance down the alley’s length. Only him and his shadow. Yet he knew he was far from being alone. His gaze lifted to the scythe. And the scythe looked back at him with his own eyes reflected along the blade. There was a deep-rooted hunger in them. He shied away, ears pinned back and tail curled around his waist.

“I can’t do this.”

The shadow sewn to his feet stirred. And a chill danced down Auggie’s spine. Like tendrils of smoke, deriding laughter crept from the crevices of his mind. The dark thread caressed his thoughts and came to linger at the very foreground. It brought a grimace to Auggie’s lips.

“Go ahead,” he grumbled, casting his shadow a rueful glare, “Laugh all you like.” He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and slid down the wall’s length. Either knee was drawn to his chest as his gaze drifted to the stream of people that passed by the alley’s entrance. “Makes no difference to me.”

The laughter ceased.

And the shadowed thread flitted across his thoughts- as if to occupy a new part of his mind. Its whisper was soft and lyrical in his ear.

“Hey… I’m hungry.”  

A’gust hummed as he fished a taffy from his pocket. “I know you are,” - he took his time unwrapping the candy - “But give me a little more time.” He chewed thoughtfully. Honey sweet with a touch of salt. A disquiet smile touched his lips. At least this could stay the same.  

“It’s been forever. I’m tired of waiting.”

“Here.” A’gust offered a candy down to his shadow, forcing his smile to reach his eyes. Yet the shade said nothing as the gathering quiet grew dense and thick. Worry gnawed at his stomach. “They’re sweets,” he tried, “Surely you’ll like them.”

Not a whisper emerged from the dark.

“Calcifer…” The name was more breath than word as it escaped from Auggie’s chest. Did he sound as tired as he felt? “Please. This is all I have-”

It was quick and without warning. His throat closed around a breathless gasp as his chest tightened and his vision blurred. A sickly sweet pain started at the back of his head and began to spread. Like a thousand punctures from a poison-dipped needle and with each jab, he felt a piece of his essence bleed out onto the cobblestone. He hid his face in palms and gritted his teeth. Even the black behind his eyes burned an angry red.  

The voice clawed its way to the foreground of chaos. Low and guttural it growled in his ear. “You’re a LIAR.”

Oh, Gods. He was many, many things. A terrible brother, a haphazard alchemist,  a coward- That was it. A coward.  An impuissant little man petrified by his own shadow. So afraid of everything that he felt safer doing nothing.   Truly a pathetic specimen…But he was no liar.

And perhaps the voice knew as much. For just as its devious needle skewered the thought, plucking it bloody and raw from his mind, a sudden quiet ensued. The warm kind that eased the tension from A’gust’s jaw and opened his lungs for air. He choked out a gasp. Then another. And continued to until they felt less like sobs and more like breaths. With aching slowness, the pain started to ebb.

A’gust wasn’t sure how long he sat there. To his surprise, he didn’t really care. His heart only possessed enough room for gratitude now that something else existed beyond that intrusive pain. He expelled a single, humorless laugh as he picked his head up. He blinked his eyes into focus, settling on the Gaelicat before him. It kept its back to him, feet still submerged in the pools of his shadow, with its gaze transfixed beyond the alleyway. The voidsent remained quiet as A’gust’s own gaze followed to the stream of pedestrians.

Nothing needed to be said.

A’gust simply knew. Felt the hunger twisting in his own stomach. He understood. Saliva pooled behind his tongue. He saw. Glimpses of aether coalesced in each being. Unblemished. Plump. Radiant in the arid sun. A whole banquet of fruit ripe for the taking…  

He swallowed hard.

“You’re afraid.”

A’gust tore his gaze from the street. Stared long and hard at the back of the Gaelicat’s head. The voidsent’s eyes never wavered from their mark.

“I can taste it… Your fear.”  

A’gust drew in a quivering breath, “You’re right.”

He rested a palm flat against his chest. It was soft. Like the wings of a hummingbird, it fluttered and swayed. Dripping with sweet nectar gathered from summer days past. “I am afraid…” The familiar erratic beat of his heart whispered into the palm of his hand. Fed him little bits of truth and sun.

“I’ve always been afraid…” A tired, disquiet smile crossed A’gust’s lips. All of his warmth leached from his chest as he withdrew his hand. “So, it doesn’t really matter in the end.” He held his hand out to the voidsent. Unfurled his fingers to reveal a pool of aether nestled in his palm. “Now does it?”

And though it was no bigger than a piece of taffy, flickering with the light of dying flame, it drew the voidsent’s gaze all the same. For a long moment, the Gaelicat stared with eyes gone dark and round.

“Go ahead,” A’gust urged, “Take it.”

The Gaelicat’s paws twitched at its sides. It stole a glance over its shoulder, then to his palm, and back again. Then, it dared a step closer. “You’re different,” - its true voice was much smaller when spoken aloud- “Than any of my old masters…”

A’gust forced warmth into his breath of laughter. “Well… I would like you to think of me less as a master…” He blinked and found it suddenly hard to open his eyes. “And more…As a friend.”

He watched with half-lidded eyes as the Gaelicat cupped his hands in its paws. It flicked an ear, gaze dancing to the floor. “I could devour all of your essence,” it muttered, “Doesn’t that scare you? Aren’t you afraid?”

“I… Told you…” A’gust’s head lolled onto his shoulder. “Always afraid. But this…” - he raised his palm to Gaelicat’s lips, spending no small degree of effort- “Is all…I have.”

The Gaelicat went silent. A petulant pout drew across its lips as its ears went flat against its head. It shoved Auggie’s hand away - “Liar.”- and padded over to where a piece of taffy lay abandoned. With care, it unwrapped the candy. Ate it whole. And dove into his shadow, disappearing in the ripples of darkness without another word.

It wasn’t until the sky bled maroon that A’gust finally rose to his feet. The evening market settled many bell tolls prior, leaving behind a street cleaned by morning mist. His aether found a home back within his fragile heart, feeding him enough courage to lift the scythe from its resting place. He flexed his fingers along the leather padding. It somehow felt softer. More inviting. Accepting beneath the first rays of sun. And what a surprise it was to find himself smiling at his reflection cast along its blade.

Perhaps it, too, could become a constant companion.

[foxglovethings]

Onward!

“I have to cut you loose.”

Saucy sat in an antique chair, upholstered in deep green, that squeaked whenever he moved. The desk before him was also an antique, passed down through generations of shrewd lalafellin women who ran the Poma family business, and though it had been refinished several times over it still retained the markings of old Belah’dia. A testament to the line’s longevity.

The office around them was sandstone draped in thick tapestry, dark red and green and blue; the open glass windows carrying the scent of sweet jasmine to mask the funk of sweat that settled into the foundation of the city long ago. Popoma on the other side of the desk wore the same flowers in her hair, sweetly braided into a cord that circled her fair hair.

“It’s not that I dislike you, obviously.” Ice-blue eyes drank in his form without shame. “Have I not taken good care of you for the whole of our friendship? I taught you how to act and how to speak and how to spend your money. That coat was a gift from me once upon a time, if my memory serves me well.”

It always did. The millicorn yellow jacket had seen its fair share of weather now, with its frayed hems and patches on the elbows, but it was thick and smart and fit him expertly; perfect for a new captain of an old airship. Even the red cravat pinned to the collar of his shirt found its way around his neck here in the sprawling Poma estate. Saucy bowed his head with demure humility.

“And yet I find myself tired of all this! You really have no idea how costly it was for me to get the Porta Ciela here and out of the hands of those horrible Yellowjackets. A Lominsan registered vessel, can you imagine? You really couldn’t. I told you to dock her in the Goblet and you didn’t listen, and now it’s cost me more gil than you undoubtedly see in a decade. No, don’t say anything: I don’t need to know how much coin passes through your hands out of sight. In fact, it would upset me to hear it.” Popoma hopped down from her chair and rounded the side of the desk, motioning for her miqo’te companion to join her. They left the office through solid bronze doors, guarded on either side by a pair of Roegdayn who did not look at them. The sandstone walkway beyond was open on one side to an inner garden, lush with hanging vines that dripped with fat grapes and a fountain in the center, each cardinal direction carved into the likeness of a siren spitting water into the pool below. Colourful little birds like jewels flit from one flower to the next, humming over the distant din of the city.

The situation wasn’t their fault; not really. A madman fueled by revenge wasted the lives of his crew, destroyed his ship, and ultimately lost himself at a shot at taking them down. He failed, but only just. And where the Porta Ciela saw victory, it also saw the loss of confidence from gilded hands, retreating back into their deep pockets, unable or unwilling to share.

Saucy let out a deep sigh. “I’m sorry to have disappointed you, Pompom. I never meant to have caused you any trouble.”

The lalafell reached up to pat his hip with fond familiarity, even smiling as the fluff end of his tail gently tapped her back. “I know, F’shra.” She turned to survey her garden, hands clasped behind her back. Every nail, he noticed, was painted the same cerulean colour of her hair. “But think of it this way: My purse has been to you like a flower, dripping with nectar with its blooms open, waiting for a little bird like you to come and drink. And now it is growing dark, the petals are closing in on themselves, and you, fat with drink and covered in pollen, must find another place to fill your belly. Besides, I hear miqo’te always land on their feet.”

“Aye.” Saucy smiled at that. “That we do.”

She left him in the early evening to meet someone far more important, wrapped in a kaftan of blood red embroidered in gold and green. He could hear the soft jingle of her electrum anklets echoing down the hall before she disappeared behind another heavy door, trailed by pleasant jasmine and the lingering thoughts of an airship captain on the verge of a new adventure.

Saucy stretched, more than a little aware of the eyes of her roegadyn guards now fixated solely upon him. “At ease, lads.” He doffed his leather cap. “You won’t get trouble from me.”

Dry desert air whipped at the tail of his jacket, carrying a thin layer of red dust across the cobblestones of Ul’dah’s city streets. The city was alive with a different sort now; respectable merchants emptying their stalls and piling up carts, locking things away as the bar lights flickered on and dancing girls came like moths to flit around them.

The airship docks were quiet now, though the ferry to Gold Saucer ran through the night, and only the footsteps of a single miqo’te could be heard, and the soft pap of a solid gold paperweight tossed between his hands, lifted from the estate of his former patron.

A new adventure indeed.

[truth-and-sun]

Secrets Wrote in Crimson

The sky was a widow’s sky, bedarkened and empty, dressed in an ebon gown whose hem trailed along the fringes of eternity. A vastness that swathed him in momentary quiet broken only by the drill of his heart; a hummingbird cupped in the hands of a god.  Shadows writhed at his feet and churned in the mist. Shades dulled by the ambiguity of time manifested in them. Their long, slender fingers caressing the crevices of his soul as they whispered in nearly forgotten voices. Bittersweet and soft. They spoke of fear. And they spoke of hate. He closed his eyes. Allowed the great gouts of hurt poured from their amphora to settle at the bottom of the glass. Then, armed with the faintest of smiles, he extended a hand out to the darkness.

“What are you,” -his voice flickered, straining to be heard- “Afraid of?”

The silence which answered him coaxed his eyes open. The whispers and the shadows stilled. Somewhere in the near distance were footsteps falling over the darkness like the hush of rain. A strange light flickered in the veil; someone had pricked the black, releasing a slow trickle of crimson warmth. The shadows receded from his feet as the light grew and a figure took shape. He drew in a sharp breath - the flame in his chest leapt from its wick.

She was a picture of the past. Hair cascading over her shoulders like a river of fire, fathomless eyes piercing the shadows, and a smile that hinted at the secrets stashed in her pockets; she was exactly as he remembered. His sister stood before him, shades clawing at the halo of warmth cast by the candle in her hand. Beckoned by fire. Tempered by smoke. She held the candle in one hand, and in the opposite, a book- either’s fingers stained with crimson down to the knuckle. Her gaze drifted with unhurried ease until it met his.

“The rain is speaking quietly…” she whispered, lips curled in a disquiet smile, “You can sleep, now, Little Brother.”

Then, she blew out the candle. And the dark was silent and empty once more.    

The crackle of parchment against his cheek. Patter of rain against the window pane. Then quiet- but a strange quiet, a different quality of quiet.

A’gust opened his eyes just a sliver, still clinging to a dream that was already starting to fade. The details, diluted and dull, drained away like water. The memory was all but gone when he tried to scoop it up in his palms. Reluctantly, he peeled his cheek from the desk and blinked into the gloom of dust and waning light. The floor of his meager space was made into a minefield of discarded notes and empty mugs still rimmed with coffee.  Books ranging in study -from Aetheric Theory to Horticulture, Astrology to Bio-organic Decomposition, and everything in between- lay in a sprawling heap at his feet. And what space wasn’t occupied by a still-born brew abandoned on its burner was filled by fresh parchment yet to be christened with more cluttered thoughts. With a tired sigh, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

The night had been a long one. Or, so he assumed. He wasn’t quite sure how long he slept. It somehow felt like both an instant and an eternity. Carefully, A’gust rose from his chair and made his way to the window. Fingers stained with alchemical residue curled into dense, velveteen fabric. Lingered as he listened to the flutter of his heart. Slow. Wavering. Touch uneasy. The why to it escaped him; he was never a fan of storms, so he figured the rain was to blame. A quick flick of the wrists and he cast the curtains aside, ushering it a thin channel of grey light. He winced at the sudden onslaught, pupils drawn into thin slits. Morning, after all.

Sharlayan woke just as the rain eased into a gentle mist, droves of scholars passing under A’gust’s window as they made for the Studium. Idle chattered carried on the wind like gossamer thread and hid beneath a distant growl of thunder. He watched them pass -weighed down with their school books and heavy cloaks- with a wistful smile. While they toiled away in their lecture halls, he’d be here. Free to sift through documents and tomes at his leisure. Such was the benefit of being an alchemist of independent study. Though, for every onze of reward came an equal measure of hardship.

A’gust turned from the window and cast his gaze about the room. Much of the night had been spent chasing threads to their fruitless ends. Misguided tangents and off-topic fixations. He flitted from topic to topic only to find himself running around in circles. A torrent of chaos kicked up by his own thoughts and curiosities. And when all was said and done, he ended up searching the same place he started from- the black paged volumes of his father’s research. A’gust pursed his lip as he found the stack of books still waiting for him on the desk’s corner. Their pages darker than the room’s shadows.

“A penchant for theatrics,” was what he said to Serai when she asked about the ominous color. Not a lie. Not entirely.

The chair groaned with protest and age as he deflated into it. A fresh piece of parchment was drawn from the stack, placed next to the inkwell. Then he stole another glance at the black books. And once again felt his heart quiver inside his chest. In truth, the black pages were due to their alchemical composition. The parchment enchanted twice over, leaving behind a glossy film that only a certain aetherically infused ink could penetrate. An ink invisible to the naked eye lest paired with a blend of sulfuric powder, bomb-ash, and a pinch of lime. Such precautions made A’gust wonder why Father felt a need to guard these secrets.

From the desk drawer, he procured a straw-string pouch. A translucent powder glimmered without the aid of light from inside when he worked it open. Only a pinch was needed. 

The first volume he knew intimately well, the initial read possessed of optimistic vigor that devoured the breadth in a matter of hours. Thus his reflection cast along the dark pages when dusted with powder came as little surprise to him. Father was man before his time; an ingenuitive mind unabashed to break a few rules for the greater good. His research began with an idea; it began with a seed of hope.

A’gust fished a matchbook out of his vest pocket. Struck a single stick. Watched tender flame lick at the air before setting it to the page’s edge. Crimson letters crept from its dark depths. Eddied by the warm brush of fire, words of a now dead man followed after the match’s head: 

 “While she is dead, her memory will live on in my research. Nary a soul will suffer in the same way again. She was of the few plagued by a distinct lack in aetheric density, and for that her corporeal form grew more fragile with the years. If I had known sooner; been gifted more time, perhaps I might’ve devised this theory before she met her end. Nonetheless, I will press forward. See that her love for life and for people extends to the furthest reaches of this star.

On this day, I begin my proposal of the Amphora Theory. Consider a body the glass and aether the wine. A glass can only hold a definitive volume. No more lest we overfill- that being aether sickness. Some of us are blessed with deep steins for glasses: their aether  strong, their reservoir  undiminshable. Others are less fortunate. Theirs is but a flute. Sips of aether taken. So easily depleted. Easily drained.  If the corporeal form, the spirit, and the mind are as interconnected as Sharlayan scholars predict then would it not be plausible to bolster one’s physical form with an influx of aether?

Just as a flute would shatter from a flood wine, so would a vessel with aether. Aether in high concentrations greater than vessel capacity causes profound mutations. The likes of which warp and twist the body into unrecongnizable aberrations. Let it not be the amount of aether that is the problem, but the vessel which contains it. Thus sets the stage for the Amphora Theory, and with it I plan to concoct a tincture that pushes the corporeal  form in catalysis of aetheric consumption. By doing so, it allows the imbiber to consumer greater quantities of aether and in their gluttonous state begin pushing the boundaries of their vessel.

My initial draft starts with two key reagents found in the aetheric rich region of the Shroud: Tinolqa Mistletoe and the life essence found in crow’s blood. The color it renders will be my inspiration for its name - this concoction I shall call Crimson…”

Then the match went out and the page gone cold. The crimson letters seeped back into the black parchment, hidden once more.

A’gust licked his chapped lips. The Amphora Theory was everything he wished to learn and more. It had sparked hope in his chest that he may, too, find a way to reverse the damage wrought by the Final Days. Though, he learned that such good came at a distinct price. One which laid in shadows.

He flipped through the dark volume until he found a dog-eared page. There the book and its theories shifted in focus. Once more, he dusted the page and lit another match: 

“Mhach was an ancient city of magic that existed during the Fifth Astral Era. These magi utilized the void to power their sorcery, using voidsent to bolster their militia. While these advances were made for one reason and one reason only -destruction of grand proportions- I believe there to be potential in their reasoning. A connection between their methodology and the aetheric manipulations cultivated by Allagan Empire.

My theory is this: should an imbiber receive a sudden influx of aspected aether, then their vessel will shift in polarity from Umbral to Astral. There the vessel will begin to morph and change, expanding by minimal degrees to accommodate this shift. And the very aspect which might invoke such reactions would come from the malignant essence of voidsent. I speak in miniscule terms- mere milionzes of voidsent blood administered over years. The exact ratio may take time to master; however my current results have been more than inspiring.

For the last several months I’ve been administering micro-doses to rodents. They’ve taken kindly to them and I’ve yet to see any lasting side effects save for a bit of aggression.  Perhaps a counter balance is required to temper their growing rage…”

The match’s life flickered out. Again, the page went cold. Though his blood seemed to grow colder as he flipped to the last few pages. It was here that Auggie met a roadblock. He read those concluding pages more times than any other. Their words lingering in his mind like sunspots: 

“With this newest draft of Crimson, I will begin my first test of a living mortal. And I have been fortunate enough to be given the perfect subject…”

And to that, Auggie set the books aside and dove into every other form of study he could get his hands on. To truly understand the star and its structures- that was the reason he gave for this long, arduous tangent for which spanned for now weeks. That was the reason he spoke out loud when asked. The one he gave to himself even when it was only him and his shadow in the room. But it was not the one his trembling heart whispered. No. For it spoke nothing but truth, just as it always had done time and time again.

Just as it did now. Slamming itself against the cages of his ribs as he stared at the volumes with bated breath.

“What are you…” -his voice strained to be heard in the dusty room- “Afraid of?”

The silence which answered him coaxed the second book into his hand. His eyes reflected along the glossy, black pages teemed with uncertainty. The price to pay was his ignorance; his denial that Father would ever experiment with taboo arts.

His hand trembled as he withdrew another match.

He could continue to see his adopted father as a radiant man. A figure which burned bright in the night- the proverbial candle that guided him through much of his life.

It took three strikes before the match caught.

Yet there was much he didn’t know about the man with the deep shadow and the fathomless eyes. The man whose crippled form merited hushed, urgent whispers in the streets. Whose potions and remedies were both praised and scorned in every city state.

A sudden tremor made him lose grip of the match. It tumbled to the floor, extinguished of its flame. He muttered a curse under his breath and reached for another.

No. Auggie knew the man who poured him a cup of tea every evening. Who stilled the thrum of his heart when it threatened to steal his breath and break through his chest. The man who taught him to hold the threads of creation and weave concoctions born from his own imagination. An eccentric man who told stories of ancient civilizations; taught him the constellations; praised him and loved him and looked upon him with pride when he called him son. He knew much about Father. But he knew so very, very little about the man named Parkhurst. The author of the Amphora Theory. The creator of Crimson. The man who insisted he remain in the dark and quiet.

The match finally caught, its warm halo spreading across the black pages as tender flame beckoned shadows.

He was tired of being left in the dark.

He brought the fire to the page’s edge and watched as crimson scrawl seeped from the depths: 

“Crimson Trial #205 - This will be the first test upon a sentient being. A Miqo’te to be specific.  They have no knowledge of what we are about to conduct; I will humor no risk of a placebo effect. Only thirty ponzes, the subject will be administered only half doses twice a day. We will see how Crimson effects their malformed heart over the span of the next decade. Today I begin the case study of A’gust Tia.”

[tiktoks-for-dead-pope]

[last-level-in-druid]

[video description: person on camera inhales on the party blower, not making any noise and simulating taking a drag off a cigarette. Then exhales as someone off-camera blows into their own party blower, making the sound. Person on camera loses their shit and everyone laughs. End description]

[sacred-dwellings]