Musesofawolf - Muses Of A Wolf

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.

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 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.

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.

FFXivWrite2024 - Be Kind to Yourselves!

We WROTE anyway! That's the point. WE DID IT. WE'RE DOING IT. WE WILL KEEP DOING IT!

I've loved what I've been reading so far personally. Not a single one have I read and been like wow they forgot a period, or man that was brutal to read.

Praise yourselves the way you want to hear others praise you! (Shoutout to my therapist.) "But that's bragging!" SO BRAG A LITTLE! You did a thing!

It's okay not to like things too. Just make sure you're not holding yourself to any standard other than "an effort was made, go me."

I'll try to remember that too, ay? Cause spoiler alert, one of those tags was mine. Guilty! On a positive note- I did love this tag I saw this morning:

Yes, yes you are.