Day 1 - Steer

Day 1 - Steer

“Come on.”

Featherflame squawked in protest, her red feathers ruffling as she shook her body, and attempted for the umpteenth time to unseat her rider, a rather frustrated and worn out Brynhorn Fiske. The large soldier squeezed his knees tight, hanging on, holding on to her by sheer will and strength, almost falling off the side. He growled with frustration, pulling on the reins as Featherflame jerked her head to the side in the opposite direction, feisty as fire as she squawked again and crouched.

The next second, the pair of powerful legs launched upward, sent Bryn flying up out of the saddle, and had him roaring with surprise as he sailed through air, and landed hard on his side. The wind exploded from his lungs, leaving him wheezing and groaning on the ground, eyes wide as he rolled onto his back, hands clenching at the grass and dirt under him as he let out a pitiful wheeze, and finally managed to get his breath back with a gasping inhale. Slowly rolling onto his side, he pushed up, looking up at the Chocobo as she shook her head, bit hard at the bit in her beak, and shook her head about, sending the reigns whipping back and forth. Annoyed, displeased, upset. Understandable, considering Featherflame was once a wild and free Chocobo not too long ago.

Bryn slowly rose up, pressing up into a plank, pulling his legs up under him, and standing, brushing off his coat as he turned to face the Chocobo. She was still preoccupied, biting the bit harder, actually holding still to chomp over and over on it, but it didn't budge. At least not until Bryn approached with raised hands, motioning for her to calm just like the riding instructor had suggested.

Featherflame stopped, head cocking, staring at the approaching Hyur as he lifted a hand, and gently brushed her beak. For a moment, she relaxed, calmed under his touch, that unspoken bond between the two evident, and the reason why he was so adamant about training her himself.

They had met on the burning fields of the Carteneau Flats, right after Dalamud had fallen.

Right after Bryn thought he lost everything.

And Featherflame had nothing more to lose.

Bryn reached up, touching the scar over his left eye, the one his mount had given him in a fit of panic when they chanced upon each other in the burning fields. He couldn't blame her, she was trying to survive. But it did remind him of how he had gotten her to trust him the first time.

And that he had ridden her without all the fancy bobs and whistles.

Carefully, he removed the bit, and Featherflame clacked her beak, eyeing him with curious intelligence as he shifted the bridle, the reins, and kept them around her beak and head. It left her mouth free, free to move, but also offered him the control and use of the reins. A moment later, he stepped to the side, slinging his leg up and over, onto Featherflame, onto the saddle, and positioning himself comfortably. He sat there, let the Chocobo cluck and click, a sharp fweeee, and then he picked up the reins.

A gentle tug, like the tap on her neck when he had hung half off her barely conscious, and she responded, starting out in a slow trot to the left, just as he had guided. Tug to the right, and she responded again, calm and steady. And he chuckled.

“So it was the bit, hm?” He patted her long neck, and she ruffled her red feathers, in reply.

He spent a long time just riding her around, getting her accustomed to him, and as he lead her back into the stables, he patted her neck and looked into her red eyes, his silver ones gleaming. “Well what do you know, just takes a gentle hand to steer.” And Featherflame let out a sharp fweeee in agreement.

I have just become aware that Tumblr will actually show you how many seconds ago a post was made.

I think I'm too fast on the like button.

Day 2 - Horizon

There was something so perfect about feeling the sun rise on his face that made Kaleh'a Quickdraw swear sometimes he was born into the wrong Miqo'te clan.

His eyes were closed, face upturned, facing east, sitting high in a sturdy oak tree on a branch and waiting for the warmth to hit him without having to see it. It was one of his favorite things to do, despite growing up and still following the Keeper of the Moon faith and customs. Sure, he loved the moon, Menphina, a strong believer in the Lover, but the sun…

He could feel it now, tickling his blonde hair, kissing the white tips, and he swore, swore it was like the kiss of the moon. Warm, kind, the dawn of a new day, a fresh start, filled with the scent of the forest all around him. He could smell the leaves and the wood under him, the dirt of the forest floor far below, and the creeping warmth now hitting his forehead. His lips twitched, upwards in a smile, feeling and seeing as the backs of his eyelids lit up, the sun finally reaching them, turning them orange, and he could see his own spiderwebbing veins through them.

The sun crept higher, and the warmth on his face continues to grow, until his face was fully lit, and a breeze blew through his hair, across his face, from right to left. North.

Slowly, he turned his face, facing the direction of the wind, his right cheek warm as the sun kept rising, and his ear flicked as he opened his turquoise blue eyes and stared out into the morning. He slowly grinned, spotting something, and his blonde tail flicked as the lion’s tip curled up, and then flicked out. Right as he let go of the branch, dropped backwards, and fell.

His hands grabbed the branch beneath him, swinging down, branch to branch, booted feet thudding firmly, squarely on the branches, near the trunk, catching the next branch with his hands and then dropping, over and over, practiced and smooth. His tail was a little radar, and balance, feeling the branches, the trunk, keeping him from tipping over and plummeting the 50 or so fulm to the ground. It only took him a few more seconds to drop the rest of the way, landing squarely on him feet, and startling the morning watch of his small traveling party, the Wood Wailer guard looking up from behind his mask and scowling.

“When did you…” the guard started, and then stopped, shrugging, shifting his spear on his shoulder, and then muttering something about stupid Miqo'te Keepers.

Kaleh'a decided the morning was too beautiful to warrant a response to that.

“Well,” he said instead, picking up his bow and arrow from beside his already rolled pack, “I know where we are going today!”

“Oh, really?” The Wailer said sarcastically, and the blonde Miqo'te rolled his eyes.

“Yes yes, I saw something interesting. Smoke, small and concentrated. Looks like a single campfire. Likely your poachers.” And he pointed, through the trees and woods and shrubbery of the Black Shroud, north. “So, we go that way!”

And despite all his grumbling, the Wailer roused their three other companions, and everyone readied with their new direction in mind. Together, the small band struck off towards the horizon, towards adventure, with an overly chipper Kaleh'a in the lead.

Day 11 - Surrogate

“You want me to do what?”

Bryn’s face was a mask of displeasure, his silver eyes dull and hiding whatever emotion boiled behind them, his arms crossed over his chest as Y’shtola held up his old Maelstrom uniform, casting her careful eye over it as she raised an eyebrow at him.

“I - no, we want you to go stand in as an honorary Sergeant with the Maelstrom for a week or two.” Her voice was calm, matter of fact, collected and with little room for argument, but it didn't stop Bryn from growling softly in frustration.

“No.”

She dropped her arms with a sigh, giving him a scornful look as his old uniform pooled on the floor at her feet, now crossing her own arms as she stared up at him. “Brynhorn Fiske, you knew that this would be a potential ask when you agreed to join the Scions. Why are you so against this?”

“You know why,” he shot back, his silver gaze flaring, and dying down, his face twisting into…trepidation. “I'm not ready.” His voice was soft, distant, and Y’shtola's posture shifted, away from that of a scholarly teacher scolding an unruly student, to that of an understanding friend and confidant.

“Ah, you worry about…” she trailed off, not wanting to voice it, the curse or blessing that plagued the large Hyur, her eyes softening as she brushed back a lock of her white hair. “I get that, truly, but Bryn…we need information about where we stand with the Grand Companies. We are a budding group, and without Louisoix’s connections…”

There was a twinge there, that both of them felt, that empty feeling of the person who had stood so close to Louisoix before the fall of Dalamud, that neither could remember now. That emptiness haunted them both, and left Bryn’s hand curling into a fist. “I get it,” he growled out again, his gaze turning to meet hers finally. “But you yourself said -”

“- that your control is tenuous, yes, but it is control.” She gave him a knowing smile, and gestured to him. “Even right now, when you're mad at me, you aren't in danger of shifting.”

“Because I would never hurt you.” Words, so easily spoken, without thinking, even knowing it would hurt and soothe. He saw her shudder, and turn away, and nod to the corner of the room, anywhere but at him.

“I know you won't,” she said quietly, “but…please, not right now. Not with -”

“I didn't mean -”

“I know you didn't.” She turned back, met his gaze, and smiled softly, but it never reached those beautiful teal eyes. “I wouldn't be asking if I didn't think you could do it.” The subtle shift away from that broken bond, and Bryn could only nod, and this time, he turned away, to hide the pain in his eyes as he gritted his teeth.

“Fine.” It was all he could muster, and he heard her bend and pick up his uniform, holding it out.

“You'll make a fine surrogate for the Scions, Bryn. I know you will.” He couldn't meet her gaze fully as he took his uniform, and felt like he was drowning as he held the red fabric in his hands once more, the scar of Dalamud’s fall still fresh in his mind as he turned his back on her, and steeled himself for actually having to put it back on.

Brynhorn Fiske, refugee, marauder, scout.

Art by the amazing @the-leyline-directory !!

Meet Brynhorn (Bryn) Fiske, an Ala Mhigo refugee who fled his home at 15 to avoid conscription into the Garlean army. He joined and trained as a Marauder in Limsa Lominsa, eventually joining the Maelstrom to help fight back against the encroaching empire and hopefully, one day, free his homeland.

He was on the battlefield the day Dalamud fell from the sky, and witnessed the horror Bahamut wrought on both armies. He barely survived himself, and was arguably a changed man after that horror. He also found himself burdened with a secret, a secret that left him no choice but to leave those he considered friends and lovers, resigning from the Maelstrom, leaving the newly forming Scions, and striking out on his own, to find himself, and how to control the beast inside.

Still, he had close ties with both the Maelstrom and other grand companies, often serving as an off and on scout for them, particularly in the snowy regions between Garlemald and Eorzea. That time is what made him hate the snow, despite his effectiveness in it. At the start of ARR, he is 30 years old, has served in the Maelstrom, and was personally given his rifle and now chosen weapon by Cid Garlond.

Fun facts:

Bryn's rifle is old Allagan tech, designed to draw aether from the user to form a condensed, aether bullet to fire. It was never mass produced since it took too long to form the bullet in a fire fight, but it is more accurate that the Garlean's gunpowder and metal based projectiles, making it the perfect choice for a scout.

When Dalamud fell, Bryn found out he had a bit of a hidden...power within him. Or at least he likes to try and frame it that way in his mind. It makes it rather hard on nights with full moons for him.

Show me your Blorbos!

Hey guys. I'm sick as a dog and don't have the energy to do much rn. Please make my day brighter by sharing pics of your blorbos, whether they're ocs or from a game/show/whatever! And maybe a little bit about them & why you love them? 🥺