FFXIV Writes 2024 - Prompt #1: Steer

FFXIV Writes 2024 - Prompt #1: Steer

Spoilers for Dawntrail MSQ up to level 92 and all the story that comes before it lie beneath the cut! You have been warned.

Xander couldn’t help but chuckle as he settled into his cabin for the evening. How do I always manage to get myself entangled in politics? I keep swearing that this time, this time I’ll do the wise thing and act as an observer as I travel, and yet…

He’d had his misgivings about going to Tural for the sake of aiding the nation’s princess in her bid for the throne from the very beginning. While his time spent in other lands often ended up entwining him inexorably with their political goings-on, this would be one of the first times he was going to a location for explicitly political purposes. Well, aside from his aid in Doma and Ala Mhigo in their liberation from the Empire, but that felt different, and he wasn’t as directly involved in the discussions when the time came to determine what shape the nations would take in the wake of their newfound freedom. There, he was one soldier in a crack squad amongst many revolutionaries.

But this time- this time he’d be traveling to Tural strictly to aid someone in a political maneuver, throwing the weight of his not-inconsiderable strength as combatant and advisor behind whichever person received his backing. And yet, while having met Zoraal Ja himself, he was inclined to agree with Wuk Lamat’s assessment of his character, Xander couldn’t shake a feeling, especially during these early legs of his journey, that he’d been talked into backing the wrong horse.

Wuk Lamat was not ready to lead these people. He’d said as much directly to her father’s face, which was perhaps a lapse in etiquette and diplomacy, but he’d been asked for his honest opinion. She had a good heart, she clearly loved her nation, but she lacked the forbearance, maturity, and, more importantly in his book, the support of her people necessary to give her victory in the Rite of Succession any meaning.

As things currently stood, if she succeeded in the Rite where all others failed, Xander had little doubt that her success would be attributed not to her, but to her cadre of foreign allies, and especially to him, about whom some few rumors from overseas had already begun to circulate. (Though none properly grasped the depth of his deeds, and understandably so, they beggared belief when he considered them from an outsider’s perspective.)

He knew all too well what he looked like, his introversion mistaken for pride and smug superiority, his strategies and candid words to a nation’s leaders taken as strings pulled in a coup d'état at least once. An outsider, the wicked vizier to the throne who held the true political power. (An accusation that, at least for Ishgard, he would be hard-pressed to deny- he’d really charged in like an aurochs in a china shop and destroyed their thousand-year foundational beliefs without a second thought to the repercussions for the people living there, back then. It was little wonder people looked at him either awestruck or askance after he’d nigh-singlehandedly ended the Dragonsong War. The tales always conveniently forgot his comrades and companions in their efforts to tell stories of Great Men, it seemed.)

And who was he to come to Tural to steer the course of its future? Should that not be left to the people who lived there, with his influence far, far away from it?

He remembered asking that question once of his latest lover, a man only all-too-familiar with the concept of barging into another nation and imposing the will of another over it, ere he set out.

“The seeds of Empire are sewn upon two primary concepts: One, that your homeland’s culture is the best of all possible cultures. Two, that all other cultures must, by nature, be primitive, the result of ignorance, or dangerous, and a threat that must be eliminated. You have far more self-awareness than I did at your age, and have ever been to new locations as a learner and observer. You needn’t paralyze yourself from your nature of helping others, so long as you keep an open mind and listen.”

Gaius was right, Xander had to admit. And there was most certainly a difference between imposing one’s will and being invited to play a role.

A role that he was only now coming to understand, in full.

“Guide Lamaty’i in the way that you think best. Walk at her side and, when needed, push her to walk forward.”

He was not here to gain Wuk Lamat glory, but to nurture her. To ensure that she grew into someone truly worthy of the title of Dawnservant. He had been invited to aid her because learning of other people’s perspectives might force her to reconsider her own limited knowledge, and thence grow.

I’m hardly a stranger to mentoring others, be it in the art of combat or simply the life of an adventurer. Xander mused, fiddling with a crown-and-sword-shaped pin he kept fixed to his lapel. This is- while admittedly a much larger task- an evolution of that same mentality. So. Best not to think of this as a means to steer the course of a nation, but rather, a way to steer Wuk Lamat along the paths that will help her grow and aid her people the most. If in so doing, she manages to succeed in the Rite where others fail, then so be it. But even if not… He smiled to himself. It will be worth it to watch another sprout blossom.

FFXIV Writes 2024 - Prompt #3 : Tempest

Spoilers for the White Mage and Dark Knight Job Quests below, along with mild Stormblood Spoilers, you have been warned. Also, Celeste is not The Main WoL, but part of the WoLstatic alongside Xander (Main WoL), M'hana, and Iori.

Celeste reeled as she arrived in Camp Tranquil from Rhalgr’s Reach. Even replete with anima as she was, teleporting took the wind straight out of her. Or, perhaps it was merely her anxiety that sucked the wind from her sails as she made to approach her two former mentors in the art of the White Mage.

No, not to approach. To confess. To admit to what she’d done to their most precious artifact, something an outsider like her should have been blessed to so much as touch, much less wield. She’d felt the knife of shame in her gut when she took Rielle to see the Padjali to determine what ailed her, but that was nothing compared to the guilt squeezing around her stomach like a vice right now.

Her mouth and throat ran dry as she stood before her mentors now, fiddling with the blessed robes of a White Mage that she was no longer fit to wear.

“Celeste! It’s good to see you again. What brings you out this way after so long?” Raya-O-Senna asked, the cheer in her voice sending another splinter of shame through Celeste’s chest.

“I-“ Celeste began. Faltered. Wrung her hands nervously before her. Gods, where do I even begin-? “A-Ruhn, Raya-O, I have… I have a confession to make. The resting place of A-Towa-Cant’s soul, the White Mage Job Stone… After the incident in Ul’dah a year ago, I-“

The two Padjali stared up at her, expectant. A-Ruhn’s expression was unreadable, hidden by his bangs as it was. Raya-O simply kept her hands folded behind her back, leaning forward as though paying rapt attention to Celeste’s every word.

Celeste squared her shoulders. Tried to screw her courage to the sticking place. Then, bowed before her mentors, letting it all out in a rush of breath. “In my spite and fury with Gridania for refusing to shelter my companions, I chose to throw the Soul of the White Mage into the Abyss churning outside of Ishgard. I’d go to retrieve it myself, but visiting such an area, buffeted as it is by ice and wind aether, would be the death of me, so I- I just wanted to let you know and to give you both my most sincere, heartfelt apologies. You gave me- with great reluctance- a precious gift, and in a fit of pique I threw it away like so much garbage.”

She rose from her apologetic bow, hands outstretched as if seeking the young seedseers’ clemency. “You are under no obligation to forgive me, and I understand if you never want to see me again after this, but I couldn’t- I simply couldn’t let this sit on my heart any longer.”

Not if she intended to put the lessons Fray and Myste taught her to good use. Not if she ever intended to forgive herself.

Celeste felt two someones take hold of her hands. She opened her eyes to find her mentors staring up at her. She hadn’t realized she’d closed them.

“Celeste. You needn’t ask for our forgiveness.”

She blinked at A-Ruhn’s words. “But I lost your most precious treasure. Not just lost, but threw it away-!”

“It’s not so lost as it might seem.”

As Celeste tilted her head in confusion, Raya-O reached into a pocket of her robes and withdrew a familiar worn, egg-like white crystal, holding it out for the elezen to take. Celeste cupped her hands around the Job Stone, which glowed faintly with power that resonated to the depths of her soul, a reassuring whisper of the voice of nature, silent yet strong, echoing in her ears.

“This is- but how?!” She asked, inarticulate with a combination of shock and relief.

“We received it around eleven months ago by way of a rather frostbitten postmoogle, who’d seen it glistening in the depths and thought it might be important. He told us at length about how he nearly ‘froze off his pom, kupo’ while trying valiantly to retrieve it.” Raya-O intoned with a grin.

“We suspected something had gone wrong when you never reached out to us for further guidance after obtaining the legendary gear once worn by A-Towa-Cant’s apprentices.”

Eleven months? Celeste felt a little sick as she did the math in her head and realized, “So, when I came with Sidurgu and Rielle-“

A-Ruhn nodded. “We already had the stone back in our possession, yes. We were not going to seek you out and force you to resume the art if you did not want to. And we could both sense that the tempest churning within you at that moment must have been dire indeed to force you to take so drastic an action.”

“So you see, we’ve no reason to be angry with you. We never were. We were just hoping that you’d find your way once more. And now, it seems that you have.”

The Seedseers’ forgiveness ached far more than their condemnation ever could have, and Celeste found herself weeping before them, clutching the Job Stone to her chest amidst inarticulate apologies and quiet, hiccuping sobs. And yet, with each tear, she could feel the festering bitterness lingering in her heart towards her second home bleeding out, leaving behind a clean wound that was, at last, ready to heal.

“All right. I’m ready to learn. If you’ll have me.”

Raya-O-Senna beamed. “You don’t even have to ask. Let’s resume where we left off, shall we?”

directors using colorful or "impossible" lighting to convey mood and meaning and beauty my beloved. directors making night scenes impossible to see for the sake of realism my beloathed.

Reintroduction

Timeline: 2.0 beginning

Mayhem Moondrop returns to Gridania for the first time in a decade, looking for a fresh start as a registered adventurer.

(I'm posting this during FFXIV Write, but it's not an entry; instead, I'm going to pin it as an introduction to my Warrior of Light.)

Luckily, they were too surprised by the sight of the Moogle, so soon after waking from another dizzy spell, to react to it out loud. As they watched it bob in the air and steal the wine of the merchant who’d joined them at an earlier stop, it became clear that they were the only one on the cart who was seeing it, and they didn’t want to start the process of returning home by convincing onlookers that they were prone to conversing with thin air.

“Have you chanced to witness anything suspicious, kupo?” The little creature hovered and dipped anxiously in the air, and after a moment’s consideration Mayhem shook their head, hoping their fellow travelers would think they were still clearing away the cobwebs. They knew what Moogles were, of course, having grown up in Gridania as a child and heard plenty of stories about them, but they’d never glimpsed one up close, and certainly never before been able to see through the glamours that concealed them when they didn’t want to be found. Maybe that, too, was related to the strange dreams and dizzy spells they’d begun having after the Calamity a few years ago? The fits had only grown more frequent when they’d returned to the Shroud’s denser aether, enough so that they’d decided to take this carriage for the final leg of their journey back to their childhood home.

The Moogle seemed disappointed but not surprised by this response, and flitted off into the woods after a bit more chatter: Mayhem watched them go, hoping that they’d have a better opportunity to converse in the future without looking like they were losing touch with reality.

The gregarious merchant who sat across from them had by this point moved past the sudden inexplicable emptiness of his wine bottle, and resumed engaging them in conversation. Bremondt, as his name turned out to be, seemed a pleasant enough fellow to pass the time with, and as the two young Elezen tucked into a corner of the cart didn’t seem eager to join in with any stories of their own, Mayhem was soon caught up in laying out their pre-adventuring background for him. They explained about the theater troupe they’d traveled with before the Calamity, first as a guard, then as a stagehand, and eventually taking small parts onstage as well. “Unfortunately, the Calamity made things too difficult for us to keep on as a group,” they sighed. “I admit I’ve been a bit at loose ends ever since; coming here to register as a guild adventurer seems like the best idea I have for a fresh start.”

“Plenty of folks lookin’ for just that, these days,” Bremondt agreed. “Did your traveling theater band ever come by Gridania, or is this your first time down this way?”

Now, Mayhem hesitated. The players had been on their way back to Gridania for the first time in a few years when the Calamity had struck, having picked Mayhem up on their previous pass through the region, before they’d hit their full growth and back when they were still going under their childhood name. So they hadn’t traveled here with the troupe, but it was far from their first time being here among the trees. Not that they felt they owed a near-stranger like Bremondt the entire truth of their story, but was it really worth coming up with a lie over something so minor?

Luckily, the man seemed to have taken their pause as a response in and of itself. “Ah, don’t mind old Bremondt,” he answered, waving off his own question. “Everyone’s got a couple dozen things they want to keep to themselves, don’t they? I don’t need to pry into what your history with the place is or isn’t, but let me update you on the latest developments, as someone who runs these roads pretty regular-like.”

Mayhem let him go on a bit about the state of the roads and the forest, the beast tribes and the merchant guilds. It had been almost a decade since they’d left the city - maybe more than that, with how hazy time had gotten for a little while in the immediate wake of the Calamity. Most of the guilds had been handed over from the masters they remembered growing up to one apprentice or another; everyone had known Beatin was the only real candidate to take over the Carpenters’ Guild, but there had been a bit of rivalry among the leatherworkers, and it was interesting to learn that the haughty and exacting Geva had been the one to come out on top in the end.

Not that they were going to let on to anyone just how well they knew these people. They’d changed enough in both name and appearance that they didn’t expect to be recognized as anything but a newcomer, and so a newcomer was what they would pretend to be. Instead they chimed in politely just enough to encourage Bremondt to keep carrying on as the carriage wound its way up toward the gates of the city, until at last they rolled to a stop.

“And here we are, lad,” Bremondt said, dismounting from the cart with a grin. “Didn’t mean to talk your ear off quite so much, but I hope some of it helped you get settled. I’ll be headed for the markets and then back on the road once I’m done there. If you don’t mind, what’s the name I should be listening for the next time I come? There’s something about you, I don’t doubt you’ll be the talk of the town soon enough.”

Mayhem grinned back at him and jumped down as well, then bowed with a flourish. “Neither lad nor lass, actually, but always a performer to the core. My name is Mayhem Moondrop, and I do indeed mean to be memorable.”

They say you should write every day, but sometimes a functional writing process looks like writing 1k in a sitting because you're getting a head of yourself, writing 500 words because you had a chapter to wrap up, writing 50 words because you felt too sad to write, writing no words because the state of the world overcame you for a few days, writing 1.5k because sometimes ennui turns into fury and purpose, and then 700 the next day because you remembered that there was a cool scene you wanted to get around to and—