Day 4 - Reticent

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.

Ask List of Hypothetical OC Situations.

Your OC has their fortune read and the portents are distinctly ominous...

Your OC slips over on icy ground in front of a crowd - it doesn't hurt much, but it's very public.

Your OC unexpectedly wins a prize in a competition or quiz.

Your OC has a nightmare or bad dream and wakes up others by calling out involuntarily.

Your OC orders food in an inn or restaurant and it arrives cold and (to be honest) not what they actually ordered...

Your OC discovers that an acquaintance - who they view positively, but have no romantic feelings towards - has a massive crush on them.

Your OC must buy (or otherwise obtain) a new and decidedly fancy outfit for a high society event.

Your OC is handed a baby to hold whilst their parent attends to an emergency.

Your OC is out in the wilds and needs to make camp for the night.

Your OC is introduced to someone who they have clearly met before and cannot remember their name in the slightest.

Your OC is alone in a supposedly haunted building or abandoned ruin.

Your OC is teased regarding something that they actually feel very sensitive about.

Your OC receives a mysterious letter accusing a close friend or lover of wrongdoing - or perhaps even something truly heinous.

Your OC is walking along the street and someone runs into them accidentally and apologises.

Your OC is gifted an outfit or costume that is really rather risqué - if not outright brazen.

Your OC has already eaten and is very full, but is offered a generous meal by a hospitable friend they do not wish to offend.

Your OC is called upon to tell a joke or funny story.

Your OC is challenged to contest of strength or skill by someone of surpassing arrogance.

Your OC is approached by a friend or acquaintance in need of advice in matters of romance - or even sexual intimacy.

Your OC loses something important to a partner or close friend - perhaps something of great sentimental value or simply very expensive.

Your OC is doing a silly, and distinctly unflattering impression, of someone they know, when that person walks in on their performance.

Your OC is asked to lead the first dance at a sophisticated society event or party.

Your OC encounters a beggar or panhandler who requests some money to relieve their many hardships - their story seems genuine, but something feels off...

Your OC is asked by a friend or acquaintance if their new outfit (or armour as the case may be) looks good on them. It really really doesn't...

Your OC is bathing naked - perhaps under a waterfall or in a stream - when a stranger interupts them.

Your OC is asked to make a speech or read a poem at a wedding or funeral.

Your OC stubs their toe and it really hurts.

Your OC is travelling by boat or carriage and a stranger falls asleep on their shoulder.

Your OC is getting into bed when there is a sudden (and very insistent) knocking on their door.

Your OC is lost in a gloomy forest and it's starting to get dark.

Your OC wakes up with a thumping headache and no clear memories of what happened the night before.

Your OC is being lectured, or possibly even scolded, by someone in a position of authority.

Your OC has found something funny and cannot, literally cannot, stop laughing.

Your OC discovers that a rather straitlaced and reserved friend or acquaintance has secret and rather shocking habit, interest or kink.

Your OC finds a lost child in the marketplace or commercial district.

Your OC is training or sparring and someone compliments them.

Your OC is mistaken for a servant or domestic by a rather haughty individual of high social standing.

Your OC is forced, due to a series of unforeseen events, to borrow a set of clothes from a friend or acquaintance that is very far from their usual style.

Your OC discovers that they have a fan club - or at least a following of devoted admirers.

Your OC is watching someone attempt to do something at which they are extremely capable. However the person they are watching really isn't...

Your OC is in company when a remark is made about a race or nation of people that is, at best unkind and inaccurate, and at worst downright bigoted.

Your OC is watching a stage performance by a clown or magician and is called up to the stage in the name of audience participation...

Your OC and a close friend are sharing a room, but there is only one bed. A reasonably-sized bed, but definitely only the one.

Your OC is called upon to recount an embarrassing or comic incident in which they have been involved.

Your OC finds a wallet or coinpurse dropped on the street - a very full one with a lot of money in it.

Your OC goes to the baths or spa in a new city and discovers it is very much communal.

Your OC attends a memorial service or funeral and is asked, unexpectedly, to say a few words about the deceased.

Your OC accidentally breaks the law - or perhaps does so in order to achieve some higher aim - and is challenged by the authorities.

Your OC is gifted some rather racy underwear or beachwear by an admirer or partner.

Your OC finds something they though had been lost forever long ago - perhaps a letter from a friend, a picture of a family member or a souvenir of a even many years before.

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.

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.

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 6 - Halcyon

[Spoilers for ARR, Stormblood and Heavensward]

“What was it like, before the occupation?”

In that moment, Conrad Kemp couldn't keep the surprise from flickering over his face, turning to look at the Ala Mhigo native turned refugee and stare for a long, hard moment. Brynhorn Fiske sat unmoving, gazing out over Rhalgr's Reach with a critical silver eye from their perch atop the outstretched hand of Rhalgr himself. Gentle wind, blocked by the high walls on all sides, gently breezed through the white hair of the older man, and the longer black, more unkempt hair of the younger man, tugged at their coats, and brought a slow realization to the leader of the Ala Mhigan Resistance leader.

“Ah, you only knew the Garlean occupation.” Bryn nodded, shifting the rifle laid over his lap, and a look of soft sadness passed over his eyes. “Yes, and no. They invaded when I was ten. And I fled for my life at thirteen to avoid conscription. But my life before that…” He didn’t want to get into it, what he had seen, how he, so young, was forced to see the darker side of human nature. How even without the Garlean invasion, he would have fled anyways.

“You knew it right as you became a man,” was all Conrad said in reply, and Bryn nodded in agreement. For a long moment, they were both silent, and then Conrad spoke in a quiet voice. “It would be inaccurate of me to say peace existed with the King of Ruin on the throne, but the time before him…” He trailed off, and he smiled, eyes wistful as he tilted his head up into the air. “Halcyonic. My wife and I were together, we were happy, we had not a care in the world but healing, learning, growing. It was all incredibly peaceful.”

Bryn nodded softly, closing his eyes as he tried to imagine a time when the King of Ruin was not in control. When the Garleans were not using his village as a staging ground. When he might have had a normal life. He took a deep breath of the cool air, and let it out slowly, sighing as he shook his head. “I can only imagine.”

“Maybe you won’t have to,” Conrad said softly, motioning to the Warrior of Light beneath them, to the small contingent of Eorzean Grand Company members milling about, providing aid or training to the resistance. “For once, Eorzea is taking interest in our plight, the city states are sending aid. They took the wall-”

“-and paid dearly for it,” Bryn’s voice had more bite than he meant, and he saw Conrad’s face fall, the pain evident in his expression.

“Aye, that we did. Papalymo was as much a friend of mine as he was to you and yours.” Bryn was silent in the wake of that admission, and it was many, many seconds before he broke the silence.

“There was a time I was ready to turn my back on my home, to forget I ever hailed from here, to stay in Eorzea and see where it took me. But seeing this…” He gestured to the resistance, and shook his head. “This reminded me there is something worth fighting for here.”

Conrad nodded, in understanding, his eyes softening. “Thank you for agreeing to fight with us.”

Bryn rose, and shouldered his rifle, glancing at Conrad as he grunted in reply, “Thank me after we finish this fight.” And he strode towards the winding path that led back down to Rhalgr’s Reach and his waiting friends, new and old.