We Love Shipping In This House. Reblog If It's Okay For Partners To Ask For A Pre-established Ship With

We love shipping in this house. 😍 Reblog if it's okay for partners to ask for a pre-established ship with your muse(s)!

Doesn't mean you have to accept, but you're totally down to discuss it!

Day 3 - Tempest

"The sails! THE SAILS!"

The Maelstrom occupied ship was a flurry of motion, rain beating down on the deck, wind whipping through the sails, and sailors sprinting from one end of the ship to the other, tying down ropes, pulling at the sails, doing everything they could to get the ship ready for the sudden storm they were forced into. Bryn was at the rear of the ship, standing with the captain on the quarterdeck, a frown on the sixteen year old's face as he watched the Garlean flying machines peel off from their attack runs, the winds too strong for them to continue following the ship. A small mercy for the mess they had just forced them into.

Behind him, he heard the creak of wood, the flap of furling sails, and the sound of wooden oars running out into the water from below deck. He turned back, the wind beating against his face and body, soaking through his already dripping pants and coat, striding across the swaying deck with the ease of a practiced sailor...despite it being his literal first storm. Grabbing the railing beside the young captain piloting the ship, hanging on to the helm wheel as he barked orders to men far his senior, but just as with the trip over, they all listened, just with a new sense of urgency now that a storm was upon them.

Well, most listened.

As the ship lilted to the side, sending a few sailors skidding across the deck until they could grab onto something, halting their progress towards the perilous sea, a wave breaking over the deck and drenching everyone on the lower deck. Including those huddled against and tied to the main mast. They were praying, even a few of the Maelstrom soldiers that Bryn had fought alongside hours earlier, screaming and crying and begging Llymlaen for mercy, to calm the seas, to save their boat. The black haired kid, barely old enough to swing an axe well, scowled, knowing full well that for every man or woman tied to those masts, the ship was down a pair of hands. Which prompted him to turn to the captain and yell over the rain and thunder to him.

"Where do you need me?" The look he got was one of annoyance, at first, before the captain recognized the red of his Maelstrom uniform, and his eyes turned thankful, taking a hand off the helm to point towards the foremast.

"We have to keep the sails up! If they unfurl in this wind, it will rip the mast right out of the deck! Then we are-"

"-dead in the water!" Bryn finished, the fresh faced teen nodding, and adjusting the axe on his back, already eying the sail that was unfurling halfway up the mast, nodding to the captain. "I'll deal with that one!"

"Ye better, if you want to live through this!" Always encouraging to hear, he thought dryly, and wiped the rain from his face as another crack of lightening split the heavens above. Slogging down the steps from the quarterdeck, another wave broke over the main deck, a terrified scream filling the air, and he could do nothing but hold onto the stair rail as he watched an unprepared sailor get swept to sea, his crewmates howling his name in fear as he was swallowed by the waves. His boots suddenly felt like lead, his hand white knuckled on the railing as he stared at the main deck, the few sailors still down there scrambling to tie off, to try and survive, forgoing their duties as he saw the captain start to lash down the helm wheel at center, preparing too for the inevitable.

Bryn had to move.

He had to get his feet moving and move.

His gaze lifted to the foremast, staring at the flapping sail, and took a another step down as fear clawed up in his throat-

Blinding light, a crack, BOOM, and splinters peppered the deck, sailor and Maelstrom alike howling in fear and pain, Bryn recoiling and landing hard on the stairs, blinking the flashing lights out of his eyes as he stared at his target. Or where his target had existed moments before.

Now, a creaking, charred, and slowly falling foremast stood, struck by lightening, ropes whipping in the wind, starting to drag itself out of the deck and towards the sea as the ship tilted dangerously with it.

After the fact, Bryn would swear he didn't remember it, but those who where tied to the main mast did. The remembered watching the burly child - a child! - sprint across the swaying deck, barreling through a crashing wave, unslinging his axe and cutting through a giant kraken tentacle, and with one swing, cleared the foremast like chopping a tree, and saved the ship! Mayhap it happened, mayhap it didn't, or maybe there really was only one embellished fact about the entire thing. But when the ship limped back into the safe harbor of Limsa Lominsa, the captain had personally requested to speak to the Maelstrom officer for the expedition.

"He saved the ship, you know." Shaky fingers were packing a pipe, and even shaker tried to strike a match, until the Maelstrom officer struck it for him, and lit the Captain's pipe. "Thanks." He took a deep drag from his pipe, and slowly blew it out, gaze flicking to the young man as he stood at attention a short way away with the remainder of his squad. "That young man...he's brave."

"Or foolish," the officer rumbled out, crossing his arms. The captain jerked his gaze back, glaring at the Maelstrom officer, and slowly shook his head.

"Do you know what the difference between foolishness and bravery is?" He tapped his pipe out, cleaning the half smoked tobacco and looking the officer in the eye. "Fear. Him? He was brave." And he turned, yelling at the repair crew already combing over his ship to "hurry up and get her sea worthy! We've got Garlean ships to raid!"

Your OC has their fortune read and the portents are distinctly ominous… (for Bryn)

Bryn sat there, across from the oracle, his expression stony as the old crone gave him a concerned look, her fingers tapping the cards that she had just read, a fortune of pain, suffering, and death. For a long moment, he sat there, staring at the cards, before he rose swiftly. She was startled by his quick movement, and he raised a hand as she too almost rose, and he motioned for her to stay seated, meeting her gaze with a cold stare.

"My life has already had its fill of misfortune," he growled out. "I was forced from my home, as a refugee, and thrown into the world as a child." His hands balled into fists against the table he leaned on, voice hard and calm. "But even as I faced impossible odds, even as I should have died, I pushed on. I survived. I lived."

He pointed to the Reaper card, to Death, and shook his head. "I am far too used to Death. Both in my life, and around me. Death and I are an old friend, yet he has not yet claimed me. And he won't." His finger shifted, to the Ten Swords, and he snorted. "Suffering? Really? Do you think a man who walks with Death has not had suffering in his life? No, suffering is a blanket, a friend, a constant state. You are telling me nothing new." Finally, his finger slid to the Tower, and he lifted his silver eyes slowly to hers. "I was there, the day Dalamud fell from the sky. The day I lost so many friends. That was the end of the man I was, the collapse of the world I knew."

He turned, away from the table, and looked over his shoulder, his eyes holding the fortune reader's gaze one last time. "Had your fortune proven good, I would have gladly accepted it. It would have been a nice change of pace. But this...this fortune, it means nothing to me. Because the truth is, and what you will never tell your customers, is we make our own fortunes."

And with that, he stepped from the tent, striding back into the crowds and festivities, refusing to let the fortune affect his mood as he blended into the crowd as he went to make his own fate.

FFXIV Writing Challenge 2024 Directory

Directory for the FFXIV Writing Challenge for 2024!

Day 1: Steer

Day 2: Horizon

Day 3: Tempest

Day 4: Reticent

Day 5: Stamp

Day 6: Halcyon

Day 7: Morsel

Day 8: Day of Rest

Day 9: Lend an Ear

Day 10: Stable

Day 11: Surrogate

Day 12: Quarry

Day 13: Butte

Day 14: Telling

Day 15: Day of Rest

Day 16: Third-rate

Day 17: Sally

Day 18: Hackneyed

Day 19: Taken

Day 20: Duel

Day 21: Shade

Day 22: Day of Rest

Day 23: On Cloud Nine

Day 24: Bar

Day 25: Perpetuity

Day 26: Zip

Day 27: Memory

Day 28: Deleterious

Day 29: Day of Rest

Day 30: Two Heads are Better Than One

Day 4 - Reticent

It was one of those warm, easy nights where the Maelstrom company could relax, circle around the fires, drink ale, and sing sea shanties. A moment of peace, so hard to find, but for that moment, everyone could relax, and Brynhorn Fiske could relax.

He remembered these days, where he circled with the new members of the Maelstrom, swapped stories, told tall tales, joked about each other or their families, and built that camaraderie that kept a myriad of different walks in life together. But now, he was no longer part of that.

It was his choice, five years ago, to resign from the Maelstrom as a Storm Sergeant, Second Class, taking his menial pension and throwing his lot with the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. He had his reasons…reasons he hadn't told anyone besides those closest to him, but even then, he couldn't keep away from his old haunts. The Scions worked with all the grand companies, and recognizing Bryn’s connection to the Maelstrom, they often asked him to liaison with the red coated soldiers. Which was why he was among old friends right now.

He heard raucous laughter, and he glanced up, noting a pair of younger privates stumbling towards him, ale in hand, grinning like fools as they plopped down next to him, the ex-sergeant shifting his rifle to make room for the one on his right, silver eyes flicking between the two.

“Hey, you're the Silver Wolf, aren't ya?” Bryn’s eyes flicked to the one on the left, poking the fire with a stick, as he nodded, his left hand shifting to lift the patch on his green coat. The Silver Wolf emblem winked in the fire light, and he grunted in affirmative, the light playing across his bearded face.

“You're legendary!” The soldier on his right chimed in, a Miqo'te, jostling his shoulder as he took a drink. He let out a pleased sigh at the taste, and then sloshed the tankard about. “Scouting for the front lines, pushing back the Garleans.”

“Why'd you retire?”

He froze, his gaze darting to the Lalafel on his left, his question not one he really wanted to discuss. Ever since that day…

“Dalamud,” he growled out, and both soldiers fell silent. It was a half truth, but Bryn was far too reticent to reveal more. To reveal the real reason he had left. It wasn't just the horror of watching Bahamut fall, killing friends, wiping out his squad. It wasn't just the burning and the fire as it seared his skin.

It was what came after, in the moment before death.

When his old moniker became far, far too real.

He closed his eyes, suppressing the memory, the way he had felt the fire no longer just on his skin, in his veins, drawing something up inside him, dragging it to the surface in a last ditch effort, to fight for life. Changing him, forcing him into something he didn't recognize. White fur singed black, but his eyes…she had said they were the same the first time she'd seen them.

He wasn't sure he believed her.

Bryn’s deep breath startled the two beside him, poking the fire again as he glanced at the Lalafel. “Forget about me. Tell me, your favorite exploit?” Both were all too happy to jump at that question, regaling the Silver Wolf with story after story of their young lives, and slowly bringing a smile to his face.

And for the night, Bryn felt like he was a part of the Maelstrom again. Young, free, and with purpose. Secrets forgotten.

And it felt good.

Day 7 - Morsel

[Trigger Warning for blood, abuse, and thoughts of death]

Garlean Soldier based on Silvaire Vana'diel

Bryn hated nights like these.

Sometimes, in his life, it was better to be out of his house, in the dark with only the night sky as company, trying to sleep on the ground rather then facing the drunken wrath of his father. He felt bad, sometimes, for leaving his mother to deal with it alone, but at twelve, even he knew to put his own well being ahead of an adult. Even if that adult was his mother.

He rolled, grunted, rising up on his arm, and punching a root under his hip, sighing and rolling onto his back to stare up at the scraggly branches of the tree above him, and the moon cradled in it. He wished that he had better clothes, something thicker than the scraggily cloth he had on his back, and the too long pants that itched. But that was about as likely as a full belly when he fell asleep.

It sucked. His life sucked. His dad sucked. His mom too. Catering to the Garlean invaders, the ones who grabbed and took whatever they wanted. Whenever they wanted. No better than animals.

He hated it.

Sitting up, he grabbed a fistful of dirt, and threw it angrily, his silver eyes glaring as he watched it scatter, and dust over black boots.

Boots that had not been there a moment before. That he had not heard.

He leapt up, fear striking deep, dragging up from those boots, over armored legs, armored chest, gloves hands, and white furred shoulders. Garlean.

Shit.

His mom would smack him for that language, over his left ear. Weird thing to think of as his gaze dipped down to the chest plate, to the Garlean insignia on one side. It was only natural to trace the detail and curves of the armor far too intricate to be a common soldier, and the helmet.

It was like two sets of mouths grinning at him as the man chuckled mirthlessly.

“What do we have here?” The voice was callus, cold, the shiver of dread down his spine far too real. He had just thrown dirt on a Garlean soldier. Some had died for less.

Was he going to die?

Some, the thought would have frozen them. Others, it would have had them turning tail, running. For Bryn, it made him scowl. Made him meet those empty eyes that adorned the mask, and scowl. Bravery, perhaps, or foolishness. But he did not back down, he did not look away, he did not freeze.

Apparently, the wrong thing to do, or really, what he knew was the wrong thing to do. Don't look them in the eyes, don't confront them, ignore them. Well, he was breaking all of those rules. And that just seemed to make the man more interested.

There was this sound, of near animalistic interest, and the Garlean took a step, and another, slow and steady, circling Bryn as he shuffled to keep facing him. “Defiance. Here I thought the regulars had bled all of that out of this town. Yet here I find…some fun.”

Bryn did not consider this fun, the way his heart was hammering, the way he could hear blood rushing in his ears. He was on the balls of his feet, his breath slow and easy, and still staring at those empty eyes as he kept turning. There was a moment, where that black booted foot was coming down on a root, could throw him off balance, and Bryn launched himself at the black armored man, determined to knock him over, to throw him off balance and escape. It was a foolproof plan! It hardly mattered that he was half the size and weight and-

The crack of the gloved hand across his cheek and head sent his brain rattling, ears ringing, dirt in his mouth as he tried to figure out why he was on the ground, when he had gotten there. There was laughter, above him, around him, he couldn't pinpoint where from, pushing up on an elbow as he spit out the dirt in his mouth, and shakily looked up, eyes swimming as he stared at man in black armor, and realized it was him laughing.

“Oh, you are interesting. What are you, a decade old? And yet with such fire. I wonder how long that fire will burn until it's snuffed out.”

The black haired tween rose to his knees, then to his feet, wobbling, as something wet and warm dripped down the side of his face. He could hardly think straight, and he heard that voice again, calling out tauntingly, “Go ahead, come at me again. Land a hit, and I'll even let you go.”

Freedom. A way out. He was stumbling forward, fist raised, swinging blindly at that black armored chest, and missing. He had sidestepped the child flailing at him, and laughed. The boot that connected with his stomach was not a laughing matter.

It hurt, it hurt so bad, unable to breath, on the ground again, curled up, coughing, blood on his lips, his tongue, his own blood as he wheezed. Why? Why him? Wasn't his life already bad enough? Slowly, slowly, his arms uncurled, his hands clenched at the ground, and he shakily rose onto all fours, coughing. He couldn't even stop from getting pushed over, the tip of the boot in his side nudging him, rolling him to his back, leaving him staring up at the moon, dragging in breath after breath as he felt like his lungs were on fire.

There was nothing he could do as the soldier leaned down.

Nothing he could do as he reached up, and removed his helmet.

Amber, honey, sharp eyes, little flecks of green. His eyes, and those long black locks, pale face. He was handsome, deadly so, even as he stared down at Bryn without a single hint of remorse, reaching down to the young boy, and slapping his cheek lightly. “Come on now, you have more fight in you. Don't you?” All Bryn could manage was a wheeze, and the man above him sighed in disappointment, shaking his head. “How sad. I guess that's all the fire you have. Well, you're hardly worth the meal, little morsel, but it would be a waste otherwise.”

He barely heard the glove come off, didn't even register the hand on his burning chest, but he did feel the two wicked claws pierce the flesh of his chest, cut through his shirt, and drag down his body.

He couldn't scream, there wasn't enough air in his lungs. All he could do was writhe under those piercing claws, jerk and shake, beg in his mind for someone to save him.

Who? Your dad? Your mom? You have nobody.

Those dark whispers, edging in at the corner of his mind, threatening to drag him under. Telling him to just give up as the man leaned down, his face twisted in a sneer of pleasure at the pain he wrought.

Who would even miss you?

No, not like this. Not to a Garlean.

Didn't you want to die?

Not like this!

Then fight!

That voice, rippling with power, filling his mind, strength bursting through his bones, his body, his arms, his fist launching up, and slamming into the open mouth of the soldier over him, and smacking it closed with a solid pop.

The claws in his chest froze, and a look of pure shock danced over the Garlean’s face, staring down at the panting boy that had just socked him. There was silence, for what felt like minutes, but was only seconds, before he started laughing, this time for real. True mirth.

Bryn felt those claws pull away, saw the glove pulled back onto a still bloody hand, and sucked in his breath as the honey eyed man leaned down. “Grow strong, little morsel. I swear, I won't lay another finger on you until you’ve mastered that power within you. You will taste all the sweeter once you do.”

Bryn didn't remember him leaving, or blacking out, but he awoke with the sun beating down on him, high in the sky, and his mouth dry. A hand shakily lifted to his chest, traced down the two healed scars, drew breath into his no longer burning lungs, and would have thought the whole thing was a dream.

Except his shirt was torn, in the same path as his new scars. Scars that felt and looked months old, not hours.

His arm flopped back out onto the ground, and he lay there under that tree, slowly replaying that night, mulling over it, and remembering what today was.

“My name day,” he croaked out. He was thirteen. He likely turned thirteen sometime during that torturous night. And now he knew for certain one thing, and one thing only.

He had to get out of Ala Mhigo.