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Part 3.

This website is miserable enough that putting short fiction on it is genuinely not a worthwhile endeavour anymore, but here we are for one last go. May a thousand plagues strike down whatever poindexter decided 4096 characters was an appropriate limit.

So it's a f*cking GoogleDoc now.

FF14 - Dream Duel

Part 2. Again, Tumblr's moronic textblock ruling makes for a couple of awkward line breaks.

Violet eyes flicker open. And as vision returns to Ysabet, the first thing she can make out is her hands. One curled up close to her chest, the other sprawling, spread to its fullest reach, around where a woman could be, arguably should be, but is not.She closes her eyes once again, lets out a sigh. She never quite knows what company she'll have the pleasure of keeping. In her younger days, she coiled a hand around every breast worth squeezing, but now… she finds, increasingly, a domestic streak. She does not have the partner that a domestic streak suits. Hlessi Inle has not lost her wanderlust. Some nights, she vanishes before the dawn; other times, she slips into Ysabet's arms overnight, without the sorceress so much as noticing.It is worth it, a thousand times worth it. They share conversations and moments and understandings nobody else could come close to. But it comes at a cost. Hlessi wanders and, Ysabet knows, there have been times she has thrown herself into her work, dead to the people around her. It is simply the way of things.But a yearning is only natural.Up, then, up. Up. She drags herself from her bed, sits back on it, groans. Often, apprentices hoping to curry favour with her will bring her coffee. And there was an understanding reached with Idyllshire's finest baker, so good bread, at least, is always close to hand.She hauls herself up, curses an aching knee that never quite healed right - after, granted, being smashed in by a raging dragon, a fairly good excuse - examines herself in the mirror with a faux-critical eye before concluding there is nothing to complain about, no, nothing at all…"Master Sable!"Ysabet tears herself from her preening. It would be some sport for some supplicant to burst in on her like this, probably in some way add to her mystique. Perhaps make him fawn all the more… "What?" Any spell is broken by her cracked voice. She needs coffee, above all else. Something, anything, to drag her from her stupor…"Another viera's come to the Grove.""It has been known to happen. She can wait for--""She demands to see you, Master!"A hesitation. "She… demands?" Ysabet parrots back, incredulous. "Who presumes to demand anything of me, in this place?""She said she was… she was your master, Ysabet. That she was Ljda Camoa."The apprentice heard a sharp gasp behind the door, and then silence. But just as he began to fear, the voice came back, commanding, resolute. "Watch her, but do not lay a hand on her. I shall take care of this."Perhaps that ironclad certainty could pass for armour. The apprentice certainly hoped so, as he scurried down to raise the alarm.

Some minutes prior, a tall, spindly figure shambles into the Grove's outskirts.She was being watched, she knew. To any human eye, Tulque seemed unguarded, but to a viera… even in this unnatural parody of natural order, Ljda could sense where the sentries lay in wait, feel their eyes boring into her. Some were of people familiar to her, others not. A couple were males.She chuckles, softly. Of course Mrdja felt she knew better than millennia of tradition. Of course. Never quite as intelligent as she thought herself, that girl…And she curses herself for the thousandth time. For choosing her as an apprentice, letting Mrdja's aptitude blind her to her shortcomings. Most of all, for encouraging her dreams to leave the grove. It had seemed like a kindness, and the damnable thing was, on her own initiative, Mrdja had been determined to grit through her wanderlust and stay, for the good of Camoa!

It had been Ljda who had done the kindest thing, and told her to move on. She could never have expected Mrdja to return, dripping with the glistering corruption of a world far, far removed from anything Ljda had ever seen, crashing guilelessly through the old paths and begging to return. How could she have forgotten that that could never be? Even for her?This would be a mercy. This wounded stag needed to be put down.It took some time for the first challenger to appear, an unthreatening, pale sliver of a man, smiling encouragingly. Ljda raises a brow. "So little fear," she says, through a thick accent. "Do you approach all strangers with such guileless faith?"The man does not quite know what to do with this. Not afraid, but now, off-balance. "You are not the first viera to arrive here, not by any stretch."Ljda smiles. "I know. I can sense the others watching me. Perhaps that is the source of your confidence, knowing that if I so much as flick an ear in your direction, I shall be shot from two dozen directions in a flash, yes? Never knowing more than the faint whisper of released fletching… were I a petty bandit, or one of the unclean men of Idyllshire."The man decides he should at last speak. "I had only thought to welcome you to Tulque, the Great Library.""Tulque." She tastes the word on her tongue. It is not to her liking. Two syllables interlaced with hidden meaning in the Rava tongue that no doubt Ysabet thought clever. "Hm.""May I ask why you have come?""I have business with your master."The man studies her more carefully. In the distance, Ljda can hear arrows nocked to bowstrings. "What manner of business? I was not told to expect visitors, and your face is not known to me.""You are not of importance. She will know, unless she truly has forgotten everything of her people.""Uh.""Tell her, pawn. Tell her Ljda Camoa, her master, awaits."The man swallows. An anxious, telling look up at the sentries, though he betrays no evidence he can see them, nesting in the overgrowth of the stronghold. He must simply trust that they are there, as he turns his back… "I'll have to ask you to stay here."An ironic chuckle. "Fear not. I shall not take any step closer to that impostor tree." Until she has dealt with Mrdja. Then, she shall deal with it, and anyone else in her way.The man scurries away, and she waits, and waits, and more eyes pop out from the fringes. More viera, some armed, some not. Many pilgrims, a couple of children. Ljda begins to feel a slight twitch of discomfort, and subtly gathers some power to her, ready to escape should their loyalty to 'Ysabet' prove too strong.But she has to trust. Trust that Mrdja would command she be unharmed. Whether through residual fondness or, perhaps more realistic, arrogance.And then…

… she is there. Flattering gasps follow her trail. She wears silk robes of teal, a slate-grey cloak sweeping behind, tight, efficient long gloves. A golden circlet with a single jade inset keeps her billowing, waist-length hair from her eyes. Yet her feet are bare, and every step causes the bloom of flowers in the wake of her tread. In her hand she bears the greatmace Læraðr, gnarled umber bark spiralling up the shaft before twisting around a great jade, glowing softly. Most pilgrims have never seen it, and of those who have, few have seen it brought to bear.Ljda chuckles. "You misjudge your audience, Mrdja. Am I meant to tremble at this show of vanity? Or is it for the benefit of your fawning supplicants?"Ysabet smiles, with little humour. "It is good to see you again, Ljda. The years have been kind.""For one of us, perhaps. You've grown fat," she spits out, meaning so much more than that. Decadent, slow, corrupted by ways not her own."And you have grown old," responds Ysabet coolly, just as layered. Outmoded. Complacent. Unnecessary. But it hurts her to speak this way. A great respect lies beneath the surface, barely suppressed; but suppress it, she does. She cannot afford to give ground, here of all places."The natural twilight of a life lived well.""Lived?" Ysabet barks out a laugh. "Within the narrow confines of a single grove? Yes, I once thought that was 'living', too…""Yet you sought to return."Ysabet snorts, but has no response."And, once spurned, to build your own pale imitation." Ljda looks around, disgust writ plain on her face. ""It takes time," says Ysabet, softly. "The work will outlive me. You taught me that much, Ljda. You taught me well.""Not well enough, Mrdja. Else you would not have considered this folly.""Mm. Perhaps not so much as the land. Was that not another of your lessons, master?" The word startles all around. Said with as much bitterness as could be mustered, yes; but a show of deference, all the same. "Country is its own teacher. And I have strode nations, Ljda, continents, worlds… taken all that they sought to teach me.""I have read your mad ravings," says Ljda. "Were they supposed to impress me?""I saw the truth, committed it to paper. Make of it what you will, but do not doubt that."Ljda snorts. "You would say or do anything, Mrdja, if it was for approval. For respect. That was always your flaw, and I curse myself for never seeing it. Little wonder I find you in an edifice to your own glory, surrounded by fawning apprentices." Ysabet takes half a step back, the words leaving a mark, but Ljda steps forward-- "Call it whatever you will, Mrdja, but never claim this bastard offshoot is a true reflection of home! To say as much betrays you, either to be deluded and ignorant enough to believe it, or as a charlatan, determined to pass it off as truth to those too foolish to know better!""It will grow," says Ysabet, hand shaking around Læraðr."I will torch it. After I destroy you. My student." She spits the word.Gasps all around, and a few more likely apprentices go for their weapons, renegade viera reaching for their weapons-- "No!" Ysabet barks, holding up a hand, but she can think of nothing more to say. "She… I will handle this.""Will you, now.""No, Ljda, you… you cannot mean to kill me." Ysabet laughs, a sudden shock of disbelief.Another long stride forward. "I must. I sensed the corruption in you when you tried to return to Camoa. An incident," she adds drily, "one cannot help but notice you omitted from your precious Annals. Are some truths too hard for you to bear?""To be loathed, feared… for whatever reason, outcast by my own people?" She laughs, bitterly. "How could they not be? And now, my own teacher exiles herself to murder me. So deluded, she thinks she does it for love."And Ljda lies. "There can be no room for love.""You thought it was mercy. I have no doubt, you would put me down tenderly, master, but I am not ready for the axe, yet." Her grip tightens white around Læraðr. "You shall not destroy what I have built. And you shall not claim me."

Ljda's cloak slips from her shoulders as she steps forward, in the traditional garb befitting her station, the green veil and drapes, the ochre body-paint, and the staff, that staff, the symbol of office Ysabet had so often eyed with envy, the one she had crafted, the one she would be buried with, lashing out, now, commanding wisps and spirits to strike out---- a sweeping gesture, Ysabet slaps them aside. Another assault, rebel vines snaking down from above, and Ysabet kills them with a thought, and sweeps aside the next burst of pure energy, angles herself back from a shard of concentrated air aimed squarely at her heart, and above, she can hear the anxious chittering of her charges, why is she not fighting back? Is she so pinned down? Well, of course she must step up her efforts for the audience. She would hate to be upstaged on home turf, and when the fury of the Sun itself is turned on her, she stares into it, steals it for herself, and hears the faintest catch of Ljda's breath -- at last, she has exhibited a power beyond what Ljda thought her capable of -- and lashes out with it.Her master steps back, repels and ripostes, counterthrust caught in a following strike from Ysabet, and for a moment the two are clashed in a battle of wills as their minds intertwine. And what Ljda sees--

horrors from lands far beyond, echoes of the dead from civilisations passed, a marble heart, thick white blood dripping from the corner of her mouth, the death rattle of gods, the debt of dragons, eyes closed in the void and the decision made, to die that the rest may live, but even then, she lingers on as others winnow away, destined to be all but alone with her thoughts

-- throws her back, and Ysabet hesitates for a fraction of a second. Near-fatal, as a giant slab of marble hurtles towards her, but she focuses her energy and shatters it with a blow of her mace as it comes to claim her.Ljda regathers herself, but Ysabet tires of holding herself back -- and, to a mix of emotions, realises Ljda has held nothing back. With seething hate and, yes, the embers of disappointed love, Ljda comes at Ysabet again and again, but each time her mastery of the elements is swept away, each of her blows finds itself outmuscled and outthought, her endurance waning, her speed lacking, as Ysabet steps, inexorably, forward, coming closer and closer to casting her out from the grove. And Ljda realises, with dawning horror, what Mrdja meant by country being her teacher. Perhaps in Camoa, it would be different. Perhaps not even there. For while the wind may be at Ysabet's back in this land, the fledgling Green Whisper in her service, it is not Tulque that empowers her, but the scars of her travels. Ysabet steps forward again, and all she has seen in her travels steps with her, distilled and channelled into an extension of her will and a gentle word, and Ljda's guard, desperately thrown up as the tides begin to turn, is shattered by a blow with a form no witness to the duel can perceive, yet leaves Ljda screaming in frustration and agony nonetheless. It has spilled no blood, left no scar, yet as Ljda sinks to her knees, it seems as clear as day that the duel is won.Ysabet rests the butt of her mace against the soil, dazed by her own success, and tries to piece together what happened. No, she knows, everything she did… even if the words do not quite describe the weaving of spells, even if there is no coherent order to events like the swings of a blade, her power does not come as a surprise to her. Yet…… she looks back on Ljda, and tries not to feel pity. Ljda is worth better than pity. She was Ysabet's master. She taught Ysabet all she knew. She seemed, within the confines of Camoa, at the very bounds of mortal power.

But she is no god, not even a primal. Those, and the few fellow mortals strong enough to contend with them, Ysabet has slain. By the dozen, at this point.The revelation makes her giddy, for a fraction of a second, before sadness takes hold. That feels more appropriate.A moment of inattention, and Ljda takes advantage; in her reverie, Ysabet only realises by the gasps of the others. A sentry slips down from a vantage point. "Shall we pursue?"The thought makes Ysabet sick. "I shall handle this myself, Krjn. Here." She hands her the mace, before sweeping off into the wilds. "I shan't need a killing tool any longer, that deed is done," she mutters with disgust, just loud enough for the pilgrims to pick up, and to worry.

XIVWrite '23 - Stirring

Part 1/3.

Apologies for the inopportune line breaks, the post would otherwise not post (or even save). Tumblr is a state of mind.

It is quiet, in the brush.The wind rustles through the leaves, and a soft hum echoes through the clearing, a harmony carried from a land far from this place.At the source, a tall, elegant woman dressed in soft teals, sifting through plants with the same languid grace she carries herself with in every motion. She runs to stoutness, by the standards of her lithe kind, and there is a pleasantly plush quality to her hips and thighs, by any measure. But there is a strength beneath the signs of a gourmand's taste; firm calves, a tight back. She takes her pleasures where she can, but it has not been an easy, sedentary life.She is Ysabet Sable, once Mrdja Camoa, known best for her journals detailing the Crystal War, written from its epicentre. And she is being studied.An ear flicks. Ysabet can sense the eyes on her, and it galls her that someone out there thinks they could sneak on her. Do they have such little regard for her senses? Leave aside her undoubted puissance as a sorceress, which must surely precede her - she thinks - but she is Viera, of the Camoa people. Her natural senses alone are more than enough to alert her to the crackle of leaves underfoot, the steady breathing in the bushes, the very sensation of sight fixed on her back. She does not want to give its source the satisfaction of thinking it has the advantage on her.Nonetheless, she shows no other sign of her irritation. It is prudent to sit, and clip leaves, completely dead to the world in all other regards.She lies in wait. Go on. Commit…

"You're sure that's her?""Sure I'm sure.""Well, what are we waiting for?""Is now the--""Her back's turned! She's literally humming! You waiting for a signed bloody invitation?""Well, then we can--""On three, then? One, t--""Go, go!""What?""Just--"One jumps the gun; cursing, others follow, and Ysabet turns -- sees all manner of weapons, purses her lips -- and in a single fluid motion sweeps the staff up and across, poleaxes the first man, follows through into the second, taking the wind out of him. She kicks him into his fellows, delaying and scattering them as she turns her momentum into another swordsman -- a pain, a sharp pain, but she blocks it out for now -- covers her half-stagger with a sweeping blow, knocks the man's sword from his hand and brains him on the follow-through. She turns, plants her stance, heels digging into the wet soil, siphoning the flow of generations of carrion up through her body and concentrating it into one fingertip, releasing it with a single word as the remaining thugs rush her, catching a surge of brilliant light full in their wide eyes, reducing them to staggering, quavering wrecks, stumbling about and groaning.

She considers the situation. Any number of ways to disable them, from here, but she decides hitting them is the most cathartic way to bring them down--A click and another sharp flash of pain from the brush. "Would you stop doing that?" she snaps, without turning, and clicks her fingers. She is rewarded with a scream, as the tree the man hides in springs vines that clamp down and trap him in his vantage. His crossbow falls to the plashy floor. "Irritant."And another irritant: the poison coursing through her blood. She closes her eyes and concentrates, master of her own form, redirects it up through her gullet and spits it out onto the floor. She frowns. It tastes of weeks-old lemon.The business tires her. She glances over the blinded mercenaries, taking some measure of pity on a woman she deems moderately comely, and sees fit to dispel her curse. She blinks, shivering, as definition returns to her sight, and feels the long, deft hand tighten around her jawline, claws digging ever-so-softly into her flesh, and tilting her head up."A… aahhh," she says. It feels like the thing to say."Feeling regrets, are we?" Ysabet's smile does not reach her eyes. And, because she cannot resist setting the record straight, adds, "You and your idiot companions breathe like working bellows, to say nothing of the way you stomp through the woods. Idyllshire is not sending its best, is it?"Defeated, the mercenary shakes her head."Your name, girl?"A hesitation, as though she worried this would give the sorceress some greater power over her. At last, "Aedelle. And you're right, we are mercenaries.""Mm.""Our employer… told us we had to make right a great wrong. There was a deal, made with her grandfather…"Ysabet raised an eyebrow. She had not been in these lands long enough to be making deals with grandfathers."Please, Master Matoya!" Aedelle wailed, her courage failing at last. "Forgive us!"Ysabet's grasp of composure slipped. "You thought I was Matoya?!" Inadvertently, her claws tighten and dig into the mercenary's throat."Ah-- ! Are you not… ?""A sorceress of around as many years, perhaps, though I daresay I wear them more gracefully. I am twice her bloody height, for a start."Aedelle's eyes brighten. "So you know her?""I know everyone worth knowing," sniffs Ysabet, a trifle generously."So, do you think you could--""And I would not be so cruel as to send you on her path, unless you have always harboured an affinity for eating flies and sitting on lilypads.""… Huh?"Ysabet rolls her eyes, and releases the sellsword's throat. Aedelle staggers back, hand to her neck, wincing as she feels the slick blood on her finger. "Just give me the name of whatever idiot sent the rest of you idiots after me."She does."Now, get out of my sight."She does that, too. And as Ysabet turns away, shaking her head at the folly of man, she plucks the bolts from her thigh and flank and curses, more at the holes in her clothing than the holes in her body. One could be mended easier than the other.

"You can come out now," she declares without turning. "Unless you also plan to stick a knife in me, in which case you are very, very stupid.""Er…" The final man steps forward, wringing his hands. Ysabet at last turns, eyes him over. Unimpressive, and her lip curls. Still, he forges on; "My name is Jylael, erstwhile of Gridania -- like you, an exile," he hastens to add, "come far to try and make a life for myself. I feared these mercenaries had come for me; while it's clear now that isn't the case, still, I thank you for handling them.""Mm." Ysabet steps over one of the groaning bodies. "Far indeed, but why here?"He hesitates, and dithers, and only just begins to open his mouth when a new figure vaults from the trees, and Ysabet starts back; this one, she had not sensed. And the reason becomes clear enough as she looks her over, from tip to pointed, clawed toe, as the viera newcomer says, "I had better take over, Jy.""Of… of course.""Rysha!" Ysabet gasps out the name as soon as it comes to her. A face known to her, true, but… in a specific place, and so a specific time. To see her here…"Just so." Rysha's smile is small, crooked. "Your past is beginning to catch up to you at last, Mrdja."

Offering hospitality was the very least Ysabet could do, and did. And so now they walk through the Dravanian wilds, distant howls attesting to the danger that could befall the careless in such a land, but the confidence with which Ysabet strides is more telling still. There is no danger here for those who know the woods, know the safe paths… and have potent sorcery to fall back on, should knowledge fail in the face of dumb chance.Rysha and Jylael eye one other, behind the sorceress' back. The insistence has been made that serious talk must wait for the table, and that is amenable enough to them; they have gone a while between hot meals. But though Ysabet's manner is, thus far, cordial, will that survive their request for shelter?The three weave through the woods, finding their way to the foot of the great library at its heart. But it is already a place changed greatly in the past few years, and indeed from Ysabet's own recollections. She had tended to it diligently in the rare moments of peace, in recent years; now it looks almost inviting, were it not for its savage surroundings. It has been scrubbed clean, stripped of the vines that had choked it. Age has robbed the marble of much of its lustre, but it still has some glimmer of majesty to it.

They enter, and Rysha hesitates. Jylael throws her a questioning glance, but she addresses Ysabet with something almost framed as an accusation. "It feels… it feels almost like…""Almost home." Ysabet's words drip with melancholy. She turns, and manages half a smile. "Rehabilitating the Great Library is but one half of my work, here. The easier half, at that. … You feel it, too, then?"A terse nod. "The Green Word speaks, here." Rysha could feel its thrum through her feet, though it was… faint. A mere shadow of its presence in Camoa, in any of the viera groves."More of a Green Whisper, at present." Ysabet gestures at the centre of the room, where sunbeams flicker between the branches of a tree caught in awkward adolescence, one with aspirations of magnificence but not, yet, a true forest heart. "My student, or perhaps patient, these past years."Jylael co*cks his head, and falls back on his own peoples' ways. "Like the Guardian Tree?""Tch. Does it look dead to you?" Ysabet chuckles softly. "No, we shall not make ourselves beholden to the oak, here.""I see. So your efforts to share tea with us were in service of showing this off," says Jylael drily.Ysabet does not deny it. Besides, the gravity is not lost on Rysha, who looks on Ysabet with a new respect. "I had… worried that you were mad.""Some still say I am.""Perhaps, but… you have not fully lost sight of the old ways, either. I confess, when I had heard of your destruction of the Guardian Tree, I feared you were casting aside all tradition…""Mm. Their traditions were strangling them. A solid foundation is a wonderful thing, but… in need of an interpreter, I find." Ysabet smiles. "You know I trained for this, Rysha.""For something like it. But I scarcely thought… I scarcely…""Rysha?" Jylael looks up, alert and alarmed, as Rysha walks over to the forest heart, dazed. She has been his constant companion, his source of strength, ever-focused and demanding focus from him, too, by no means a daydreamer. Ysabet watches closely, intently. One hesitant step, a second…… before she collapses by the foot of the tree, head bowed, and lets out the tears. "I just wanted to hear it again," she whispers through shuddering sobs. "I needed… I needed to hear it. Or else…"To return or to die. Ysabet closed her eyes. The Green Word had been as a second heartbeat, for close to a century. Its emptiness was cavernous within her, and though it had been easy enough to push aside for a time, once she had grown used to the rhythms of life in Eorzea, before the constant novelty had worn thin, but the pressing, primal need to hear once again had overwhelmed her. And return was not an option. She had tried, in the face of all evidence of a welcome, against all tradition. Shameful memories of being outcast still dogged her.And so she had worked, tirelessly, to form a grove of her own. Retiring from active service in Eorzea's defence, slipping away from society, weaving the sorceries great and small she had learned from her travels, all to spin together those she had worked before embarking in the first place. The final synthesis was no true copy, but it could never be, should never be; it was a different place, a different time, the land's heartbeat a continent away.And at last, with Rysha's tears, she knew this was no delusion. It did, truly, beat once again.She was, once more, Viera.

Thirty years pass.Old heroes waste away, new ones rise to meet new threats. Ysabet watches them, body unbent but weary. Even a body that shrugs off the ravages of time is still subject to the scars of battle, and she has seen far, far more than anyone should have.Her aid is still sought, and from time to time she musters her sorcery, storms out into the wastes and claims another trophy, grumbling all the while. She declares a dozen times that it is the end of enough, and eventually, it is. She puts the final, definitive strokes to the last of her Annals.She signs it with a new name; Ysabet Mrdja Tulque.Tulque is the name of her grove, though it has taken on the name 'Ashleaf' among some. It has flourished, in the adjoining years, and its reputation has spread. Pilgrims arrive for the library, knowing honest scholars are never turned aside, and some settle to learn. Others arrive because there is nowhere left to go. And, increasingly, viera drift in from all parts of Eorzea. Whether dissatisfied with life outside their homes, or in need of temporary spiritual relief, they find their way to Tulque, the closest thing they have. The Green Word does not quite, yet, speak above a murmur. Perhaps it never will.But word of the grove has reached one viera, only recently departed from Camoa. She has attracted attention. Clearly ancient, though by no means decrepit, raw-boned with frail white hair. She has come a long way, following the siren call of the Word, though not because it has been a stranger to her.Her lip curls. She feels it beneath her, stepping into the clearing that marks the border of the grove. It feels a pale, fragile thing, to her. Only one who has fell far from home might consider this thin gruel a true reflection of the Word. Only one corrupted by the influence of worlds far off-country, and who cannot see that corruption for what it is.She closes her eyes, and sighs. It brings her no pleasure, but she knows now what she must do. … No, she has always known. All through the long road, she has known her solemn duty. It is the only thing that took her from her lands, once they could be left in a capable successor's safe hands. But it is only now that she finds the resolve within herself.Her former student must die. It will be a mercy.

The Warden

Ysabet Sable is never allowed back into Gridania.

Pertains to Endwalker’s tank role quest, and contains spoilers to it, as well as continued liberties with canon.

He ran.Antoin knew nothing else. Thought had deserted him, sanity followed. All that mattered was getting one foot in front of the other, staggering and stumbling through the brush. His breath was shallow and frantic and... somehow, wrong. But he was ahead of his pursuers. That was all that mattered. And so long as he was, there was hope...He was focused on the heavy tread behind him, growing encouragingly fainter. The soft leather ahead eluded him, until it was too late. Wood and crystal whistled, cracking him squarely across the forehead and laying him out, panting and twitching across the forest floor.The culprit stepped over him, gave a quizzical look, then gingerly prodded him with the tip of her mace. Little response. Adequately stunned, then. She dragged the point across his open shirt, pulling it down over one shoulder...... and there it was. The sign of corruption."Hold there!"The woman barely flinched as the warning shot whistled between her ears. She flicked them in irritation. "You're late, Wailer.""Who the hell are you?" Not the shooter. Ysabet counted six... no, seven. Two thought they were hidden. And she heard a heavier tread in the back, there..."I am Ysabet Sable. You know of me." She shifted her posture, resting both hands against the greatmace Læraðr."Do not interfere," snarled a third. "This man bears a plague--""He bears no plague," snapped Ysabet. "You really think a chigoe did this?"Relief, from the man on the ground. "It's not-- it isn't the Creeping Death? You're saying I'm safe? I'm saved?""Perhaps," lied Ysabet."What do you know of it?" said another Wailer, arrow already nocked. "Did you cause it, eh?"Ysabet glowered at him. Evidently, he did not know who she was."I know you," he went on. "You really think I'd forget a lost rabbit, far from home? Sniffing around Quarrymill?""Ah." She levelled a claw at him. "No, no, no. I do remember you.""Aye?"Quietly, she said, "I remember you sitting on your hands, In thrall to your dead gods, as a man died in front of you."His knuckles whitened around his bow. "Say that again--"The clank of metal got closer and closer; at last, it crested the hill. "What the hell is going on?" And then, "Ysabet!?""Hello, Severine," said Ysabet, eyes not moving from the Quarrymill Wailer. "I am surprised to see you. Pleased, as well. Care to enlighten me as to what's going on?"

They took Antoin back to camp to convalesce, then took tea there. Ysabet, somehow, always came prepared."The Twin Adders have a blasphemy they needed put down," Severine explained. "I was available.""So were others. You didn't have to run out. Don't you have a child to rear?""I didn't know you were here!" Severine leaned back with a sigh. "Look, this isn't meant to be dangerous. We've slain blasphemies before by the dozen. I'm here to keep the Adders steady while they get the job done.""Mm." Ysabet sipped at her tea, trying to look for delicate phrasing and not finding any. "And how do they feel about taking orders from an outsider who looks a lot like a duskwight?"Severine's smile was humourless. "The Adders keep professional. They're used to mixed company. They've actually seen some of the world, had to work with different people. The rest... haven't exactly been cooperative. But I can't imagine you've had much better luck.""No, I haven't." She leaned forward. "I'm unsurprised to hear of the blasphemy - is there a name?""They're calling it Gleipnir. Why are you here, then? About the Creeping Death?""At first, yes." Ysabet chuckled, softly. "Though now, I see a fuller picture. The corruption in the woods runs far deeper than one stray blasphemy."Severine raised an eyebrow. "That might be the case, but the blasphemy is important. Especially if it's behind this plague. Will you help in the hunt?""Ah, I doubt it would be welcome...""I'd welcome it," she countered, flatly. "Whatever your issue with the Gridanians isn't my concern, but surely it involves clearing out Gleipnir. Better to work together than at cross-purposes, no?"But there was no time for an answer. A scout burst into the camp.More attacks. This time, at Rootslake.And this time, the Elder Seedseer was going to attend in person.They left. Together.

"How can we face a beast like that?""Seedseers're sitting pretty with their guards and their finery... what do they care about any of this?""They aren't doing a bloody thing. They just don't care..."An uneasy silence fell upon the camp. Commonfolk looked up from their circles of gossip toward the unlikely newcomers. The Elder Seedseer, too, looked up from her conference with her bodyguards, forcing a brave, terrified smile. "Ser Belgrave. And... Lady Sable? I had not thought you would come.""Nor hoped, I suspect." Ysabet's ear flicked. She had not often troubled the Shroud. It had always felt... wrong, to her, to its very core. "Nevertheless, I aim to be of service to you.""What happened?" Severine asked.An Adder grimaced. "Gleipnir's stalking the region. No more attacks - yet - but the locals are in a panic.""There is no cause for panic," said the Elder Seedseer, voice carrying clear across the camp. "The beast will not trespass here."It lacked conviction. And, worse, emboldened one man to bite back, a stage-murmur under his breath, "easy for you to say, eh? We ought to pack up and head to Ul'dah. 'Least down there they don't pretend to care for the common man..."The accusation struck Kan-E like a blow to the heart. She cared. Of course she did. And she would weep for any lost. But what could she do?So she thought. Ysabet cut over anything she could have said, a cruel laugh twisting the knife. "You think so little of the land, you would flee before fighting for your place in it? Has it mistreated you so?"The man had not meant to be overheard; or, at least, not consciously. Confronted, he doubled down. "That isn't-- that's not how it should be! We're meant to live at peace with the land, right? The elementals have to be kept happy, and if the Seedseers can't even do that, what're they for?""What, indeed," Ysabet muttered, too loud. Far too loud, in Severine's mind. "Calm yourselves. Whatever the elementals' part in this, I will keep you safe."A pained look, from Kan-E. But perhaps it was the shove she needed; she was the spiritual leader, once again. "The elementals live among us. They do care, and they do reward our faith. I swear no harm shall come to any of you. Even now, the net closes on Gleipnir..."She trailed off at beating footsteps. Another report. Some locals really were trying to bolt south to Thanalan.

They tried it Kan-E's way, for a while. But when they found the men, they were frantic. And one had been stricken. He turned, and the rest of the crew with him, the panic more infectious than Gleipnir's plague.Severine and Ysabet did all they could, and put them quickly to the sword."Raya-O said we would need to turn to the elementals for assistance," said Kan-E, her slender shoulders slumped, "and I know, now, that she was right.""Must they be roused?" Frustration crept into Ysabet's voice. "Is the rot not apparent? Is it not enough of a threat--""I will seek audience with the great one," said Kan-E - coming close, for the first time, to truly raising her voice. "I shall make the proper ablutions; pray return to the Adders' Nest and await my summons."The Seedseer stalked off, guards in tow. Ysabet stood, and watched them leave. Severine lingered between them, gave a searching look to Ysabet, but she was not comforted by what she saw. There was a coldness in those eyes. "Not coming to the Adders' Nest, I take it?""I have my own preparations to make," Ysabet said, quietly.Severine grunted, and half-turned away. Then turned back. "Assume, for a moment, that I'm not grounded enough in druidic philosophy to follow this... this tree-measuring contest with the Seedseers? I don't understand how these people work, either, but is it really ours to reason why?"Ysabet gave it thought. She had a way of musing that Severine could find infuriating, sometimes; tell her something she really needed to gnaw on and she would stand there, staring straight through you, sifting it over. But eventually, she came to her conclusion. "I came to Ul'dah, and did not understand. Then I saw the truth; that it was broken. But with the Sultana and the Bull, and the rest of the Scions, we did what we could to make it whole, no?""A fair assessment. But...""When we came to your own homeland, Ishgard, the other Scions did not understand. But you knew the truth, did you not? That it, too, was broken? And with you and Aymeric, the Azure Dragoon and the Fortemps, did we not mend it?"A tight smile, through Severine's thin lips. "We left it better than you found it, certainly.""And what of Garlemald? There was a cancer there, called Empire, and we cut that out, did we not?" Ysabet was growing in momentum, now, the words coming faster and more strident. "And Garlemald will heal, as we left it. So now we come back to Gridania, and we see a people in thrall to blind gods who lash out without their rituals and their sacrifices, a... a people who will let children die and duskwights be made outcast, to preserve their unnatural order, all to earn protection from these vaunted elementals... only now, to find them too numb to stir, even as an otherworldly threat threatens to consume all in its path? You tell me, now, that this is a land we cannot mend? That we should leave these people to rot?"There was silence, for a time. A gentle breeze rustled the canopy above."So," asked Severine at last, "what will you do?""That... I do not yet know. But when it is time to act, I shall."

Mrdja's arms trembled. The point of the arrow wavered, dipping madly under the target, then swaying right.Damn it all, how did Kjva make it look so easy? Her arms were strong, her aim was steady. With her, it was one swift motion. No hesitation. And always, always, always, she struck her mark.Mrdja ... released.The arrow vanished into the undergrowth. The stag was not alarmed enough to scatter.Stupid, stupid! She pulled another. Pulled it back-- no, too soon! She had to breathe. She had to stay calm. She knew this. And in front of the targets, she was a fair enough shot.The targets did not have chests with pounding hearts. The targets did not have darting black eyes, deep as pools. They did not--She let fly. The stag grunted, staggered to its left... shook its head violently. The arrow was lodged in its throat. But it was too stupid to know it was dead.It looked straight through Mrdja, who did not know until that moment that a stag could look reproachful. And then, of course, it fled. Fumbling for her second arrow and swearing the foreign curses she'd picked up from the merchant caravans, Mrdja raced along to follow, forgetting all she had learned about drifting along the forest floor in tune with it in the interest of pure pace. Or was her own heart racing too fast?She was no huntress. But she was here to learn an object lesson. Ljda would not see her until the stag's head was produced. The nature of things was out of balance. Foreign hunters had driven a herd into the woods, and they threatened to grow out of control, and this proud old sire would do more than his share to multiply the damn things.'Can we not leave it to the hunters?' she had made the mistake of asking.Ljda had frowned. Instantly, Mrdja knew she had erred. 'It amazes me,' she said, 'your capacity to repeat the same mistake, a thousandfold. You aspire to master life, yes? To become a healer greater than any salve-maker, to ensure the grove will flourish, to keep your people safe?''I do! Is that not--''There are two sides to it. And sometimes, to preserve life,' she said, plucking a weed from her garden, 'we must bring death'.And so she'd been out here for two days. Exploring this extended metaphor to its conclusion. Ljda had a sick sense of humour. Worse still, she heard on the wind that the proper huntresses were taking bets on how long Mrdja would take before finding her prize.But at least the shot was landed, now. She needed only follow, scurrying through the forest floor, steadily gaining as the stag lost speed, the shock of its eventually fatal wound catching up, slowly, slowly--The wolf came from nowhere. Slavering fangs clamped around the stag's throat, dragging it to the ground and silencing it - but for the crack of its neck - with a hard yank.Mrdja stood and watched in horror. And it looked up. And it saw, perhaps, a second meal. Or perhaps competition over its first?Instinct took over. Somehow the arrow found its way to the string, without her even knowing. And somehow, as the wolf leapt, it found its mark, burying itself through one eye and deep into the brain. It hurled itself on her with the last of its strength, but as she kicked and struggled, it slumped off her with no more resistance than its own weight.She sat there, breathing, for a time. Wondering why her racing heart felt so good inside her.

Ysabet found the Guardian Tree unwatched.She frowned. That was not how it was meant to be. And when she saw the first shapes of warped, discarded armour, she knew...... well, she knew she could not concern herself with that. Any number of hired hands could take down a lesser blasphemy. Only she could do this, now. Not even Kan-E, she suspected.For better or for worse.The 'ritual preparations' were a pretext, Ysabet knew, which meant it would not be long before Kan-E, Severine and the Keeper made their arrival. And they would not allow her to do... this."Hello, Father Tree," she murmured, running her long fingers through the canopy. "I do hope you are not counting on pleasantries, today. I do not come as supplicant."It rustled. Perhaps already resistant. No, it could hear, she knew. And what it understood, it did not care for. This was not the way of things. This was not how they were done.She drifted her long hand down across its branches to its trunk, claws scraping gently against the bark. It liked that not, either. Yet she did not find the rebuke she expected. "Grown timid in your old age, is that it? Tell me your story." And, when it did not prove immediately forthcoming, "I will have your story."The bark betrayed it. There was... a wound, on it, that could never heal. And she let her mind and soul drift to the fringes of the great consciousness within, keeping her feet ever grounded, staying moored... and she let its memories bleed into her.A wanderer and a Padjal - in training, a mere child! Meant to keep me safe! Meant to protect! Yet he brings this interloper! Can you not see? See through his lies?And the wanderer rose from his pretended prayer, pushed past the child, snapped a branch off the bough--The rebuke was great. The wanderer did not survive, struck a thousand times a thousand times, no punishment too great. And the unworthy earned his punishment. Stripped of his horns..."Ea-Sura," Ysabet murmured, and her eyes were open, and she saw it-- him! It? Waiting. Watching. Slavering.Profanity's spawnDespair's orphanSadness, angerSadnessDeath's prayerOne and allAnd the fear overwhelmed all. Ysabet pulled herself back while she still could, and dragged herself, mind and body, away from the Guardian, which had whipped itself into a mad frenzy. Ea-Sura! Ea-Sura! Ea-Sura comes!And yetAnd yet... it waited. Only waited. Ysabet watched it, back rising and falling, sapped of all colour and life and somehow all the more indefatigable for it.And Ysabet realised, then, that it awaited an opening to avenge itself."For a branch?" she said, softly. "All this, over a branch?"A branch? The rebuke came strong, but Ysabet was ready, this time. Indignation overpowered its own fear, but could not find a way through her wards. Corruption starts... covenant broken... all lost... would that there was the strength... to bring to bear... were I strong... you would be crushed... breaker of faith..."You damned a child for the sake of a trick, a single pruned branch it cost. And now your people reap what you have sown, and here you stand." Ysabet shook her head softly. "Unwilling to act. Fearful of the beast's wrath falling where it deserves. So more die, because of your sloth."No strength to share! No strength to share! The flesh rots! Drive out the evil, drive out the evil!"These woods do rot. The corruption spreads, for want of pruning." Ysabet gathered herself, hands clenched around her mace, letting it become the conduit for her force. "You are the source of the thousand poisons, Guardian. And I am no Seedseer in your thrall, but my people did name me Warden, for I kept them safe. We heard and knew and felt and breathed the Green Word, not the lies of elementals, and the Word never promised protection, nor asked service. We needed only know our place, do our part. Know that I see you for what you are," and she was bellowing now, her words echoing through every corner of the Shroud, "and name you false prophet, name you deceiver! The world demands you be unmade, and through me, it shall be so!"Læraðr came down; branches whipped out, lashing at her, at Ysabet, grappling at her, driving her closer, driving her to one knee. But she made the world rise to her defence, the primal aspects that respected strength; the earth bowed to her and shielded her, vines lashed against the Guardian and drank deep of its sap. Evergreen leaves yellowed and fell all around, warden and guardian locked in primal conflict. Yet with every step in the physical world, Ysabet came closer to its presence in the world beyond, a thousand years of experience at the core of the Shroud. There was a presence here with a power far beyond her, and though it was confused and complacent and fearful, bloated and decadent... this was all that kept her from being subsumed into its core.Yet so close, she could see those flaws, and they gave her resolve. Gave her contempt. Both proved fine shields. But it would mean nothing if she could not deliver... the final blow..."YSABET!"The name sprang from two mouths, one Severine's, one Kan-E's, witnessing her struggle against the Guardian. The latter railed at her; Ysabet tuned her out. But the former unsheathed her blade and advanced---- but not on the guardian. But neither on Ysabet, for now, at last, Gleipnir pounced with a wounded, bestial roar, driving its claws into the Guardian, ripping away at its bark. Its poisons seeped into the tree, and it keened, and lashed, and struck back---- and left an opening. Ysabet ripped herself clear of the vines, the barbs and thorns tearing through her flesh, but it was enough. Enough to drive her mace through the tree, shattering it to the core, a strike that burst with a thousand long-awaited winters and the killing frost that would give way to renewal.And Gleipnir, too, struck again and again, until a terrible silken sound cut through the rancour. A single blow from Severine drove through its spine, pinning the beast to the tree.The Guardian shuddered. Tremors beneath their feet-- the ground gave way, all around, as roots splintered. And the Shroud screamed in mourning, for it did not yet understand--"What have you done?" There were tears in Kan-E's eyes. "What have you done?"Severine stamped on Gleipnir's back to drag her blade free, expecting a reprisal that never came. The thing seemed... almost tranquil, in truth, slumping against a dying tree. Severine dragged her blade back, but the second blow never came. It was not necessary. The beast was dust.Ysabet leaned heavily against a nearby, innocent tree, breathing hoarse and ragged. "I have done my part, Elder Seedseer.""You slew the Guardian Tree!""I am pleased to say I played some significant part in that, yes." With some effort, she looked Kan-E in the eye. "You thought to bring ritual? You thought to plea for your lives? You would have wasted your time. Its thoughts were on the surface, there for the taking. It was consumed by fear. Useless to you; worse than useless! It caused this! And your peoples' complacency..." She shook her head. "Ach, I do not care to moralise. Ea-Sura is slain at last, and avenged besides, and you will learn in time to thank me for my part in it. But I will not force you to exile me, Kan-E. I will go."But when the next words came from Kan-E, as Ysabet panted and tried to regather herself, it was not to berate her. "But what do we do? With the Guardian fallen... ?""Ha. That's easy enough. Slash the site clear, burn it, then..." Ysabet forced a smile. "Then bury a sapling in its stead. Place your faith in the Shroud to adapt... and in yourselves to adapt, besides."

It would take more than that. Far more than that. And Ysabet Sable never did return to Gridania, her status as pariah marked forever - or, at least, for the generation. That, at least, she was destined to outlive.But the sapling they planted would outlive her, in turn, growing strong as it fed off the charnel of the Guardian. And that was the way of things. The way it should be.It really was that simple.

FFXIVWrite Compilation (2021/22)

Every FF14Write post I made for 2021/22, compiled and ordered.

Art credit: @nerdlordholocron

Ysabet Sable (Mrdja Camoa)An elementalist far from home, determined to see the far corners of the world and write down her tales for posterity. While she can come across as callous, she desires meaningful connections. Treasures her airs of dignity and poise.

2.0 Lovely, Dark and Deep2.0 Heady2.55 Adroit4.0 Destruct5.0 Vainglory5.0 Baleful5.0 Aberrant5.0 Avatar5.0 Oneirophrenia5.4 Soul5.4 Miss the Boat6.0 Onerous6.0 Row6.0 Promises to Keep6.0 WardenPost-FF14 CrossPost-FF14 BoltPost-FF14 NovelPost-FF14 Turn a Blind EyePost-FF14 PitchPost-FF14 Before I Sleep

Cwenthryth SadlerAn Ala Mhigan immigrant on the streets of Ul’dah, Cwen says little and seems at times disconnected from the world. While initially her moral flexibility lent herself to work as gang muscle, she has found genuine meaning fighting for a cause beyond her next meal.

Pre-2.0 CranePre-2.0 Foster2.0 Commend2.0 Bow2.55 Speculate3.0 Fluster3.0 Scale4.0 Friable4.0 Veracity5.0 Silver Lining5.5 Preaching to the Choir6.0 Attrition

Severine de BelgraveA spare child of a Dzemael client family, Severine’s only duty was to serve Ishgard without disgracing her family name. She accomplished the first of these, but liked a drink and didn’t guard her tongue, leading to an informal exile in Eorzea.

3.0 Confluence4.0 Thunderous6.0 Anon6.0 HailPost-FF14 Illustrious

FF14Write22 - Vainglory

In which Ysabet Sable takes the fall.

"One of the many curiosities of the Flood - or, to give it its rather unwieldy full title, 'the Definitive Account of the Flood of Light that Threatened to Swallow the World Whole, and of its Ultimate Defeat' - is that Sable never chronicles in detail how she came to arrive in Norvrandt. She does describe a 'calling' that befalls one of her companions and in a later volume details what became of Hlessi, her future wife, to bring her there. Yet her first accounts of being in Norvrandt are in the 'Rak'tika Greatwood', in the process of reuniting with the, ah, equivalent to viera, where she spends hundreds of pages detailing the world in degree in lieu of any real sense of narrative; this is only picked up when her companions find her again. Now, it can be surmised that she must have ended in the Greatwood somehow, but how? Some extremists have posited that the entire book is fiction, but this seems deeply at odds with what is known of Sable's character - and these volumes tell us as much or more about her than they do about the events she hopes to capture - but my preferred theory has always been that her arrival was a time of chaos, and she simply did not have time to detail the events that befell her. Moreover, that they were too mundane to prove relevant to the account, once she did find the time to begin..."

Violet eyes flickered open. No. No, on second thought. Too bright. She'd give up, gather her thoughts awhile.The Calling. The Calling. Oh, it was fine and fascinating when it was happening to other people. But she... ? She had always thought she would have more time. Time to, for instance, stop it from ever happening. That would have been nice.Hm. Sensations. Bad ones. For instance, a twig digging into her bare breast....Why was her--Where was she? Was she dead? What was going on?Reluctantly, she pried open her eyes. It was horribly bright. Throat, parched. Head, aching. Worst of hangovers. Couldn't be dead. She'd lead too virtuous a life to be beset by hangovers. Also, Thancred wasn't dead. Braindead, maybe. Who could tell the difference? Haa. She was alive enough to joke."Oaghhe."She forced herself up. Leaves rustled underfoot. Felt good to be standing on ... wait, no. No, it didn't. It didn't feel right, didn't smell right. Where was this? Not Eorzea. Not Golmore, certainly. Somewhere... far beyond... ?And she was shorn of aether. It did not feel... cut off from her, to her relief. But if something attacked her, she would only have her skill at arms to count on. The arms she did not, presently, possess....She decided she would climb a tree and panic there instead of the forest floor. Yes. Better to have a vantage point.It was a good plan, and it would have worked if she was not so disoriented. For three, four steps, she sprung up the branches with an alacrity that belied her frame and age. Then she tried to throw up, fell out of the tree and broke her arm.It was not a good day.

Hours passed. Too many... strange. It should be nightfall, she wondered, should it not... ?Perhaps she was so disoriented she had simply lost track of the time. Yeah. That had to be it.When she found signs of civilisation, she pounced on them like a starving man on a loaf of bread. A road. A road! It was a risk, and she was tempted to wait until night fell (any minute now...) but her stomach growled between thoughts.She had a little magic to her, now. Coming back all too slowly. Enough that she might be able to protect herself...She needn't have worried. The place was empty, and picked nearly clean. Meticulous. But no cobwebs. They had not left in an undue hurry, and not too long ago.What had driven them out? And where had they gone?A few houses were likely emptied prior to that, though. She found some abandoned clothes. Made for shorter people. Shorter, starving people. But there was a dress loose enough to become an ill-fitting tunic, some rope she could force into a belt, boots... it would be enough to not look like a wild-eyed barbarian if she ever found a local.There were small mercies; not least, a well. Her thirst had crept up on her, but now water was in sight, she found it all-consuming. And after she had slaked it, she bolted a door shut with the last of her wards and passed out on a ratty old mattress, too tired to wait for the sun to set.

She woke up... who knew how much later? Past the dawn. Nine, ten hours perhaps, but it had felt like far fewer.Her hunger had woken her. Viera could last on an empty stomach longer than a hyur... by a day or two. Probably? She had never needed to put it to the test. Hers were a hardy people... in their own lands.Nothing to do but keep walking.Night did not fall. Night never fell. It could not have been so long. So why did it feel so long? Did time pass slower, here? Wherever 'here' was... ?But after countless hours, the stench of people assailed her. Living in squalor, in bulk. She followed it hungrily. Maybe, if luck supported her, they would be brigands who would try to kill her and she could murder them and see if her palate could force down human flesh.Ha, ha, ha...She collapsed on the outskirts.

Her eyes flicked open once more. She heard... voices.Why was it still so damn bright... ?"Finally awake," she heard. Then bustling, people crowding around her."Oh, thank Vauthry!""For what? We don't need more competition--""Are you really, really sure she's not a sin eater?""Sin eaters are beautiful. This thing's caked in mud and sweat. Oh, she's one of us, alright...""Hush. We have to stick together.""D'you reckon she's come all the way from Fanow?""Why not? Word's spread far.""She looks pretty well-fed. I reckon she got thrown off the tower. Shouldn't get a second chance..."Ysabet forced her voice into a piteous croak. "Shuuuut. Uuuuup."They did. Long enough for her to try and pick out a few faces.A young woman, who had certainly been comely before the emaciation kicked in and was still, really, only a long bath away from presentability, smiled encouragingly down at her. "Be of good cheer! You've made it. Just. Here, eat this."'This' was disgusting. It tasted of chalk, and absent of all that was good. But it did, just about, sustain her... maybe it would give her the strength to find more food. There had been berries, before. She could have foraged. But she was not desperate enough... it was all... wrong..."Do you have a name?" asked the woman at last, giving up on her thanks.Right. Yeah. "Ys... yss'bt." Recognition? Any recognition? No."Isbamet? Right, right. All the viis i've ever seen have those weird -met names. Mind, I've only ever seen two or three." The woman smiled at her encouragingly.Others did not seem so impressed by her disorientation. She forced herself to nod, and at least seem like she had herself together. "Yes. Ysa...met. Is my name. Like the other viis. Which I am.""Of course," said the woman. "Where did you come from?"Ysabet blinked at her stupidly."From Fanow, or--""Yes," she said immediately. "There. Isamet Fanow is my name. My head hurts. Thank you for taking me in. How long was I out?""Three, perhaps four hours."Then why was it so damn... ? No. If they were not worried, she could not show her hand by being worried. Perfectly normal. The sun was in the sky forever. "I understand. Yes. Well, it is good I have made it here, to my destination." She looked around. "Just to be clear, ah... just to be certain. Where are we?"

Nine days. Nine days of sitting outside the city, cooling her heels. Getting her strength back, she told herself. But it was clear that the city was the place to be. Outside the city was terrible. Entering the city was only barely worth the trouble of being outside the city. But it was very much worth the trouble. After all, the world was ending.Eh?She pieced her circ*mstances together, bit by bit. The portents were not good. The sun did not set. The land was diseased. And the damn chalk-bread, that... was good for barter, at least. The refugees certainly couldn't seem to get enough of it. She ate enough to live.When the guards asked her her trade, she said she was a writer. It did not feel prudent to reveal the full extent of her magnificence. Not just yet.Only when she was in would she built her strength. There she could, at last, spread her wings...

"Isamet?"Dutifully, Ysabet bounded forward as her master yawned her name. Oh, how she hated her! Oh, how she hated her shrewish, vapid friends! But it would all be worth it. She was getting closer to the heart of power, this... 'Vauthry' they all heard about. In hushed whispers and reverent tones alike; fear and love, a potent mixture. She would get to the bottom of this, yet...But for now that meant smiling like an idiot as her master paraded her in front of her soft-boned friends..."This is Isamet," she repeated unnecessarily. "A viis, you know.""Oh, how droll!""Yes, that's just what my Stol said! Oh, and will you look at her little ears...""Oh my! So droll!"Ysabet tried to think of how clean she was. Think of the food in her belly, the warmth of the hearth..."Oh, but Isamet, dear, would you mind brightening up a bit? It's quite putting me off my fifth course."Ysabet smiled. Incisors gleamed. The fifth course could now continue.Clink. Gura-Prel's teeth scraped against the spoon. "Isamet here," she said, mouth full of food, "she can read. And write! Imagine, a viis - and one of the, you know, the savage ones from Fanow - able to read and write!"A friend smacked her wet lips. "That is so droll."Ysabet stared dutifully at the wall."Do you suppose..." A second friend slurped on his food, and did not deign to swallow his Godsdamned food before continuing to speak, spraying food across the table, "D'you suppose she knows any folk songs? From her people? I'm sure they are very merry over there.""Oh, that's right!" Gura-Prel brightened up. "A merry, simple folk, eh? Isn't that so, Isamet?""It is often mistaken for--" She bit her tongue. "It's. Others have made. The assessment is--""Oh, dear," said the final friend, chortling heartily even as she slurped on her wine and oh, oh how dearly Ysabet wished she had not been born with the curse of hearing. "She really tries to talk like a civilised person, bless her."Gura-Prel felt the need to defend her investment. "It's not like that. She can be very articulate.""Mmmmm." Slurp. By the Green Word, was she licking the dregs from the damn goblet?! "Honestly, Gura, I fear this will end up like the last one.""Oh. Do you think so? No, I quite like this one.""Maybe too much," opined the male. "You could afford to feed her a little less. She looks a trifle spoiled, and I like a hungry look in my servants, don't you? It keeps them from being complacent.""Oh, she came that way!" said Gura."Did she? That's very droll," said the woman who said everything was droll. She was the one. In Ysabet's increasingly creative power fantasies of murdering Eulmore, she was the first one to die. Four chocobos would tear her apart, drag pieces of her to every corner of the world, so that she could never say the word 'droll' again..."She isn't really that impressive, Gura. The Blois got in a viis only the other week, you know." Leaning closer, he said, "You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were following trend-setters.""Why, Pelo!""But fortunately, I do know you better! So how's about one of those folk songs, eh? Or dance? Do you think she dances, Gura?""Do you, Isamet? Do you dance?"Ysabet's smile was more brittle than glass under a rock. "I love to dance. I love dancing more than anything in the world except serving you, master.""Ah, I knew it." The male smacked his lips. "These simple tribals, they really can't resist a good old shake, eh?""Well then," said Gura, gamely, "let's give it a shot!"

Half an hour later, the tea party had concluded.Thirty-five minutes later, Ysabet's voice could be heard wailing through Eulmore's vast halls. "No! No! I did everything you asked for! I'm the most literate person in the world! I DID THE STUPID DANCE! You don't want to do this! LetgoletgoletGO!"People lifted their heads, for just a moment. Ah. Nothing of importance. Just seemed someone had lost her chance, but there were always plenty waiting to take her place.Unusual, though, thought the few in line of sight of proceedings. Most did not take six guards to subdue.Ysabet did not see a point in starting a killing spree. Yet. But that did not mean she was going to go quietly, thrashing and kicking at her escorts. "Idiots idiots IDIOTS!" she screamed. "I put up with your vapid friends for THIS?""Oh, please, Isamet, you're making a scene," pleaded Gura."I will stop making a scene if yoU TELL THEM TO LET GO OF ME!""Oh, we will," muttered a guard, chuckling. His mates chuckled with him, with the imbecility of people who lacked imagination enough to have more than one joke. It was rarely a good joke."They're just going to escort you out of the city, darling, there's really nothing to worry about," soothed Gura.And... yes. Wait. She was right. This wasn't the way to the jail. She relaxed long enough to be dragged a considerable distance.Then she realised she wasn't being taken to the front gates, either. But by then, it was too late and she was on the precipice, surrounded by armed men, and rumours she had heard about and assumed were imaginative metaphors suddenly flooded back to her...Gura smiled apologetically at her. "So sorry it didn't work out."Ysabet glowered back. "I hate you with all my hate."And then the gates behind her opened, and the boot pressed into her midriff and her heels gave way and now, at last, she was flying...

"... the strongest evidence for my theory actually emerges from a different primary source of the era, who spoke to Sable some years later about her time in Norvrandt. According to this account, Sable said that her greatest achievement in Norvrandt was 'not burning Eulmore to the ground and killing everyone inside', which does to me suggest some hidden encounter prior to the Fanow entries..."

FF14Write22 - Hail

In which Severine returns home, at last.

@nerdlordholocron continues to inflict Yangir upon us.

He would have cut a sad, lonely figure. Out in the cold, drunk, cursing wildly and leaving weaving footprints in the snow."I want him back! I'll have him back! I know you're in there, Haillenarte! Get your... your green fingers off him! Yours and y- you- that whor* of a cousin of mine! Back, I tell you! Bixente! Papa's waiting!"But it would have been harmless, had he not the connections. This was a family issue, now. And so the larger man behind him, none too gently, took the fop by the shoulder and dragged him aside. "Enough, Pavarin. You're making a scene." Few greater crimes existed in Ishgardian culture. "Lady Aminata! We know you are not a combatant. But this is a matter of honour, I am sure you understand." And almost nothing more critical existed in Ishgardian culture. "If you open the door, I am sure that--""Belgrave! It's Belgrave!"Damn. The cousin hoped very much for her to remain absent. Indeed, it appeared that the tall, lean figure storming towards them had not been here long. The snow had not yet settled in her hair.

It started, as many things did, after the Dragonsong War ended. Many fortunes had shifted. Now, the most exclusive balls in the land were beginning to invite Haillenartes again, and an end appeared in sight to their status as the last and least of the High Houses. There was even talk that the dubious honour of holding Camp Cloudtop might no longer be a drain on their resources alone, though some had come to count on it as a place to dump their second sons.Lady Aminata Haillenarte, then, arrived as a very eligible bachelorette indeed. She was Count Baurendouin's niece, with little temporal power but plenty of wealth, a good house, a good name. Her parents had sensed a change in fortunes and deliberately withheld her from a number of engagements. Picking their moment. Now was the moment. Ishgard's court scene was her oyster.What Aminata was really, really not meant to do was fixate on the first pretty young hedge-knight to cross her path, but that was precisely what happened.Still, Severine de Belgrave was not the absolute trash fire of a few years ago. She had left the court in disgrace, then, under obscure circ*mstances which had, in their obscurity, been left to grow unchecked. Whatever the truth was, the gossip was now that she had been caught with the exile Jandelaine, found in the Dzemael count's bed underneath nothing but an ancient family tapestry, now soiled by their exertions...None of it mattered now, though, because her star was rising. She had fought with valour by the side of Aymeric, Estinien and all the rest, and there was absolutely no question of her ability as a knight. She still had a whiff of scandal about her now, true. But that only made her rakish, now. And rakish was a good thing, especially if you were an eligible 24-year old with a heaving bosom barely contained by its emerald dress.Unfortunately for everyone, Aminata caught Severine's eye, too. She approached ardently, with a twinkle in her eye, taking a hand already outstretched. "May I have the honour of the first dance?"The first, and all the ones after it. They were married within the year.But then...

"I don't have time for this ritual nonsense," growled Severine. "Step away from the door or I will kill you where you stand, damn the consequences!""Ser de Belgrave," said the brother, stiffly. "Cousin.""Twice removed, and I bloody wish it was further! Away from the damn door!"The brother stepped away, and guided the fop to a respectful distance, too. But it was not only the two of them. A handful of other Dzemael knights were out. Watching. Waiting. If this did not become a matter of honour, it might even suit some of them."So then," said Severine. "Tell me your grievance.""My grievance--" said the fop, stepping forward before the brains of the do pulled him back."My brother wishes to be reunited with his natural son. Of course, he appreciates you taking him in, giving him shelter, but--""Like hell I do! BIXENTE! YOUR PAPA IS WAITING FOR YOU!""Tell your drunk fop of a brother," said Severine, deathly soft, "to keep my son's name out of his mouth, or I will cut out his tongue."Silence."Good. Because if you make me draw my sword, I swear by Halone, I will not stop with him."

... then there had been a war. There was always another war.Severine crawled out from her extended honeymoon and her crippling hangover and kissed her wife goodbye, and marched out into the cold to fight in far-away places that Aminata had only ever seen on maps. Gyr Abania? Ala Mhigo? Doma and Kugane, the Azim Steppe?Now the giddiness of those early months was over, too soon. Now Aminata could only look through windows.Other ladies of the court lapped it up. This was a proper courtly romance, now. Severine need only complete it by dying, and then Aminata would be free to never take another lover and languish until her death.Severine wrote back every time she remembered. The letters grew more sparse and more terse as time wore on. More and more went unsaid. Aminata began to practice her languishing.And then, all of a sudden, a knock at the door. Her weary heroine was there. She had not even changed from her armour; still stank of other men's blood and sweat. But to Aminata, that made it all the better; she had come straight home."I want you to see Ala Mhigo," she whispered, her first words through the door. "I want you to see what it was all for."After which, she burst into tears.

"My father is dead," said the young man, at last. The names came at last to Severine. He was Didieric, improbably the elder of the two; the other, Dorian. And it sounded as though he'd sobered up. Threats of tongue-ripping tended to have that effect.The silence hung awkwardly where Severine's condolences were meant to go. She did not fill it."And so..." The man sniffled, a ghastly sound. "So that makes me." He jabbed his own chest a couple of times. "I'm the lord of my branch of the family, now. And...""And the family needs an heir," said Dorian, quietly."I thought there would be more time..."There was a crowd, now. Voices had been raised. This was far too nice a district for that."You're done?" said Severine, at last."It's for the family, Severine," said Dorian. "Our branch and your family... we aren't too far removed.""More is the damn pity." She spat every word."My point is, you know how it is. The fact that we cling to the fringes of the name is all that separates us in prestige. And so we must dance, to stay relevant. Even your lady wife knows! The cores of the Great Houses thrive, but the rest tread water. And so, to be strong, there must always be an heir--""One will be produced or found."Didieric found his voice again, in an odd, uncomfortable hiccup-laugh. And then he howled, "You will leave me with nothing!"Metal plates scraped against each other as Severine shrugged."Bixente! I want him back! I WANT MY BIXEN--"The flamberge made a silken sound as she drew it loose. The knights thought this was their opening. They charged.A bad, bad mistake.

It had all happened so quickly.Severine was in Garlemald, now. Apparently. At least this name was more present than last time. Garlemald always loomed.It seemed that many of the great heroes of Eorzea had fallen victim to some... sleeping sickness. If there was a war that would leave Severine behind, it would not be this one, it seemed.But then, it had been an odd thing. Last time Severine had returned... tired. Even diminished, perhaps. She always had a brave smile for Aminata, and if anything, the love was stronger than ever for it. Yet often, Aminata would catch her staring into space. Or else it was the dreams, awful dreams full of fury and cannonshot.Ishgard remembered. But Aminata wished Severine could forget.Nevertheless. Another war.And in her absence, a curious scandal. It emerged that a fringe Dzemael had left a bastard - well, that was common enough - with his own maid - oh, my! - who he had then cast out into the street - heavens! - and left to die, six years later, of exposure. The child was left behind; the priest who saw to the maid's rites kept him on to help with the cleaning, but the father would have nothing to do with it. Fail to acknowledge the child? Certainly, but at least have the grace to make sure he was discreetly taken care of! Everyone was very shocked. Something had to be done, they all said, not doing anything.Common enough. Still, out of idle curiosity, Aminata looked up the lineages. It was distant, but... Severine could call herself family.And then Aminata found herself doing... something. Venturing down tentatively to the fledgeling Foundation, calling on some knightly cousins to stop her being murdered or wastrelled or whatever they did to highborn ladies down there, past the screaming of babies and the dreadful smells, and she met with the priest. She convinced him of her good intentions, left him with money in thanks for keeping the child, and left with him, taking him back to a brighter place where the Sun touched.He was a quiet child. But intense. Intelligent. He took his new circ*mstances in stride with the traditional Ishgardian stiff upper lip and emotional constipation. Aminata saw dutifully to his affairs, hired tutors, additional servants, ensured he would never want for anything again. Spoiled him completely, in truth; it was good that the priest had already taught him humility. And it gave her time to procrastinate writing to Severine, to tell her of the new... ward. At worst, someone to keep inside and take care of. At best, perhaps, a child of their own... ?There were times she wondered if she had not overstepped. But it was the right thing to do, to take him in. Severine had an unconventional but unwavering sense of honour; she would always stand by the right thing to do, would she not?In the end, she needn't have worried. When Severine returned from her latest foray, limping in the door, she noticed Aminata's shyness instantly, followed her to the room where their son was waiting.She took one look into those dark, earnest eyes to fall in love instantly.

Ignorance was their undoing. Severine had been among the finest knights in Ishgard before she had left. Now, she was something slightly more than human.The blows were swift and decisive. From each knight, she exacted a price. A hand from one; from another, an ear would do. The third lost his good looks, the fourth would never get his left eye back, and the fifth... well, she would live. Perhaps they would find really good healers. Perhaps not. At least now they had some humility, a scar and a story.Dorian was the last, mounting a desperate stand before his brother. Blood was blood, despite everything. And to give him his due, he lasted the longest by far. Playing defensive, hoping Severine would lose herself to rage, awaiting an opening... four sweeps of the blade were all it took before the waves of the blade hooked in under his crossguard and flicked his sword free, sending it spinning into the snow.Her blade pressed against his throat. By the flat. But she let him have a good, long look at her tired eyes. They had seen far more blood. They had seen far too much.And then she released him, after those seconds that felt like hours, pulling away. "You're a good man, Dorian," she said, distantly. "We'll do this another time. A better time."Dorian nodded, and backed away, and watched helplessly as Severine stared at Didieric. He was making a fair attempt to crawl away, having lost his footing in the snow. Severine looked him over... then drove her solleret down on his leg in just such a place that it would never quite fully heal."Remember me on rainy days," she bellowed over his yowling, before at last, mercifully, stepping back inside to her home.

The hearth was warm. The stones kept the cold out. So many tantalising options awaited Severine. The bath, the fireplace... at the very least, stripping off her damn armour."Mina?" she called. "You're alright?""That awful man's gone?" Thumping footsteps down the stairs, taking them two at a time. Aminata de Haillenarte approached at speed. Severine quickly stowed her flamberge against the wall; it would hardly do to impale her lady wife within seconds of returning home. Besides, that freed her arms to hold her, tight, her gauntlets pressing hard into her soft back. She squeezed her eyes shut..."Yes. I drove them off.""Them?""He brought a few friends who did not feel like waiting for a duel." One had laid an edge against her side. Not all the blood was her own. "I really... have to get out of this armour, Mina." No matter the aphrodisiac effects that the scents of sweat and shed iron had on a noblewoman.But a flash caught her eye. Not Aminata's. One of them was not used to danger in every corner. Not a danger this time, though; Bixente and his shyness, and his understandable reluctance to approach his unstoppable war goddess mother, clad head to foot in ebon armour, wielding a wicked six-foot blade steeped in the blood of her foes. Children could be so strange, like that.She put Aminata down on her dainty little feet, and got down to a knee. "I'm home, Bibi," she said softly.The child took two hesitant steps forward. Then, with a child's gift for awkwardness, asked, "Was that my father? Outside?"Deep breath. Aminata and Severine shared a glance."He said he was," said Severine at last. "He thinks he is. But it's for you to decide, really."The child stared slackly at Severine, computing the new information. "Can he be my father," he asked, ponderously, "if I've never met him?""Well, he won't have crawled far," Severine made the mistake of saying aloud. She did not have to guard her tongue, on the warfront. "We could go--""Sevi!" said Aminata, trying to be outraged."-- anyway, um, Yangir's in town, so." Yangir meant Fun, Severine attempted to convey psychically. Fun meant Think About The Fun And Stop Asking Questions. "I took the liberty of inviting them to stay, however long they'll be around. Which I imagine," she added hastily, with an apologetic glance at her lady wife, "won't be long. Given the weather's like this."Aminata's smile was soft. "I'll make arrangements. In the meantime, perhaps you might like to bathe..."

She would like to bathe. She did like to bathe. She liked to bathe long after the water turned cold, hands lolling out, staring at the ceiling.She'd made it home.She left only when it became apparent she was on track to make a convincing impression of an Ul'dahn Sultana, dressed herself for comfort over style, and was pleased to find Aminata by the fireplace."The boy looks strong," she said at last. "Growing, fast."Aminata smiled over at her. Wearily. Severine realised there had been tears. They had come, most likely (her intuition was right), as the Dzemael goons hammered at the door, threatening to rip one of her pillars away from her, with Severine gone, perhaps dead. The last place she had mentioned did not even appear on a map. The same missive mentioned that she had killed God. It was a lot of information to convey in a three-sentence letter, stained faintly with tears.And now... and now it was back, and okay, but so suddenly--Severine shifted across, gently slipped her arms around Aminata, guided her head to thud against her bony shoulder. "I'm sorry," she said at last. "There was... too much. Too much to write.""And to say? Now?" No more tears would come. She had expended hers.Severine thought it over. Shook her head. "Some things... some of those things we saw, they should. Stay in my head." She had seen worlds end. She had teetered on the brink of death more times than she could count. She had... died...Perhaps it was the thought of her wife and child that left enough of her for the others to find, again. She had too much left to do. Too much left to see."Thavnair was beautiful," she said, softly. "We met with... do you know, their satrap was one of the great dragons?""You jest.""I don't. His hoard, you see, is his people, he..." She trailed off.They sat, a while. Listening to the fire crackle. Listening to each other breathe."He has grown," said Aminata, at last. "You've missed so much.""I know.""And I don't know how long I... if I can...""You won't have to. After this, I... I... my days of..." How to convey it? The feeling of stepping against an almighty power and at last knowing you were inadequate, an ant trying to lift the world, and that, regardless, you had to try? "Ishgard needs me, now. The Scions have dissolved, and they-- they've taken enough of me, in any case.""You'll stay, then?" Aminata looked up, her eyes bright. "Can you promise it?"She looked down at her. Blinked once, twice. Gave it the gravity it deserved. And she shook her head. "If the stakes were that high again, and I was called upon, I would have to step forward. But Garlemald is subdued, the... the adversary we faced has been vanquished. I have to believe we've earned ourselves peace, Mina. For long enough, at least, that my armour will be gathering cobwebs the next time we face such a threat."It was a complicated answer. It would take some time for Aminata to fully unravel it, wrestle with her feelings. A simple answer would have been easier, but... it could never have come from Severine's lips, not from the woman Aminata loved.It was enough that Aminata did not pull away. "But must you have invited Yangir over?" she said, instead. "The boy is too impressionable--""I know," sighed Severine. "He loves them.""They told him about horses! And profane language!"She pulled her closer and watched the fires dance. "Then we shall just have to weather the storm."

FF14Write22 - Before I Sleep

Peace.

Hlessi is @nerdlordholocron

Every day, Ysabet Sable tended to the grove.It had needed more care than ever, since her return. It had been a long time, now. Ganzorig had left, produced children who, themselves, had submitted themselves to her teaching. They too had left. They, too, had children. In every sense Ysabet Sable lived in the fullness of time. And yet, stubbornly, she remained.Though the morning rituals grew more and more taxing on her. She was the warden of this place. It was her duty.Onto pleasure. She shambled through the halls. Not quickly, nor with the determined stride of her youth. Haste was not seemly for one with a mane so grey, while the years had bleached the flaxen yellow from her hair. She had grown stout, then squat, then - seemingly overnight - lean and stretched over her frame. Her strength had gone, and she could not stand too long, anymore.The last thing to go would be her eyes. The intensity of that stare remained strong. Strong enough to trick their subjects into thinking she was not squinting.But she could still pick through old tomes in her forbidden section, left untouched in this infinite library. She plucked out another from the shelves, almost at random - all here were new to her, not yet vetted, she had learned hard lessons from letting her students spelunk as they wished - her cracked nails finding purchase, dragging it out. Slowly. Even this took effort.She opened it, leaning against the shelves as her eyes flicked through the words, fingers very slightly trembling as they reached for every new page.She smirked, as the gist became clear to her. No dark magic, here. Ancient magic, certainly. Only in the sense its fundamentals were outdated, disproven. The only threat here tha--The only--Here, the only threat here that any--Here that anyone would take it--One would-- !The book clattered to the floor. Bouncing once, on the edges of the hard cover, before sprawling open, pages bent at odd angles.

Her eyes flickered open. Her senses laid their reports at the door. It was no darker than it had been, so it cannot have been too long - or had it been that long? No. Someone would have checked on her. They were checking on her more, these days. But nobody could enter this section... unless they forced it. They would need to be really sure.Her forehead was slick. The floor was cold. She wanted to throw up. She did not want to move. Better to be carried. No! Then everyone would know her weakness. What? She was not weak. She could get up on her own. That aching sound? Her hip and shoulder. Bruised. Had they hit the bookshelves on her way down? Forward. She had fallen forward.Sight: she could see the book. Mangled. That could not stand.She forced herself onto her knees, holding both hands flat to the floor as she panted, tried not to look at the blood continuing to pool underneath her. Drip, drip, drip, down from her forehead. It stank of iron.In time she took the next leap. Got back on her feet, and stooped down just long enough to heave the book up, examine the damage. Not good. The creases were set like that forever. She tsked, and laid it on a nearby table.She felt a terrible thirst.Now to get out of here. No! First, to look presentable. But when she put her finger to her head, tried the simplest of healing cantrips, she found her well empty. To push it through would do more damage than it would fix.So... then... what? To sulk here, forever? To die, alone?She did not want to die.She tried to spit into her hand, but her mouth was too dry. Reluctantly, then, she wiped her forehead clean with the book's appendix. It scraped like sandpaper against her brittle skin, but it was preferable to the thought of going out looking like... this.She shambled out into the harsh light, made it to the sanctity of her bedroom. A few people noticed her, but nobody saw anything out of the ordinary. She told herself that, anyway.Water helped. And rest. She slumped at her desk, waiting for Hlessi, a natural nomad who had stayed remarkably close over the past few years. Perhaps she wanted to be ready for this eventuality. Perhaps she, too, was simply getting old; fifteen years Ysabet's junior, but raw-boned, brittle."Hlessi," Ysabet told her, that night, "we should get our affairs in order, here. I wish to see Inle. You always said... your people would allow you to return, did they not?"The meaning was understood. The end was near. It was right and just to die on viera lands.

Ysabet did not do her rounds, the next morning. She lay in bed, getting her strength back. And it was returning.The day after that, her preparations began. She sent a message to the steppe to call on Zaya, Ganzorig's daughter, and in the interim spoke with Yenve, once of Paharo. A steady and resolute Veena - it was a time to put aside old prejudices - who remained firmly in touch with her peoples' ways of knowing and being, while never looking back to the forests with yearning. She would be the new elder of this place, and help guide pilgrims until it was her time to pass on the torch. She accepted it as the honour Ysabet hoped she would, showing no emotion but determined stoicism.Zaya arrived, and Ysabet spent a month with her, showing her the duty. What it meant to keep the grove, and by extension, maintain the wellbeing of Dravania. "You are no mere warden," she said, "but a custodian of the land. Pass on what you can, to whomever you see fit. You are in every way my equal, and hold my trust."There were tears, that time. Zaya had only recently become a mother. Perhaps sentimentality was to be expected.Yet still there was more to do. Reaching out to Idyllshire, communicating the shift. Writing the last few letters to make the last of her influence felt. Days, then weeks were lost to administration. There always felt something more to bog her down, one more... excuse, not to go and face her end of days. So long as she was here in that seat, it felt as though she could go on forever...At last, Hlessi said, not unkindly, "If we are to leave, the sooner, the better. It would be a hard travel to make in winter."Her meaning, too, was understood. They had to leave. While there was still time.They set out the next day.

Twelve months had passed, and Inle was still... unsure of what to make of the one who had returned. Then again, had the commune ever known what to make of her, before her departure? It was good to see her again, though as ever there was that uncertainty, the feeling that to reach a hand to her was to grasp at spirits.The other one was arguably less curious. A foreigner to this place. She called herself Mrdja, of Camoa, a larger commune. Not unknown to those of Inle, but with little reason to deal with one another. She was too frail to work, but brought a vast wealth of knowledge. And children seemed to like her. Her contributions were noted.The two were inseparable, and treated each other in such a way that suggested they had been separated quite often; amicably, but often. Now was time to cherish every moment with one another. The end was, after all, in sight. And the winter twisted the final knife.Two more months passed. There were no more falls. She simply moved less and less, slowing down gradually, retreating inwards until the last time she crawled into her bed, knowing she would not leave it. Even still, she lingered quite comfortably for a time.Hlessi did not leave her side. They could always find something new to talk about. After... after..."A hundred and seventy-three years together," she croaked softly. The first words she had said in hours. This was the fourth night, under the covers. It would be soon, now. But her chest still rose and fell, and she could still meet Hlessi's eyes."They were kind to us both," said Hlessi softly."I know you yearn to wander." Ysabet's smile was crooked. "You have your own... last journey to make, eh?"It was a mercy on them both that Ysabet was the first. Parting would have been too painful, under Hlessi's terms."At least this way," Ysabet murmured, "I get to be the selfish one, hm." Her eyelids were so heavy. But she could never tire of looking at Hlessi. Not even after... "A hundred... however many years.""The number does not matter." Hlessi pressed her hands around Ysabet's. "The time we had together will have to be enough. And it was. A beautiful thing, complete."Ysabet nodded. "I would like to think... the same, our lives? As, who we were? Hah... !" She coughed, feebly. "Never stopped. Never stopped wanting... one more day...""It will have to be enough," Hlessi repeated, with a sad smile. "And it should be. Your soul was a magnificent thing. You shaped the world, my love. Such a burden to bear. There will be peace, for you. Waiting, one step further into the night.""Peace..." Ysabet took a soft, shuddering breath. "Yes. That... . . ."Slowly, her hand slipped from Hlessi's grasp and lolled at the side of the bed, knuckles scraping against the floor.

FF14Write22 - Pitch

In which Ysabet Sable paints it black.

They had made good time since Ishgard. Ganzorig had to wonder at the point. The Grove had waited three years since Ysabet's flight; could it not wait hours longer?He made the mistake of bringing it up to her. The old viera chuckled, as she usually did when she had an excuse to keep talking. "Word may still outpace us. Now we have committed to arriving in this gloomy place, and to what end... ? She will know what my coming heralds, boy.""Her doom?" It seemed her type of dramatic flourish. But he had missed the mark, this time.She scoffed. "Her salvation, boy. If I am-- we are strong enough for the trial ahead. Though of course, she will not take it willingly." She pointed great Lairathr towards the setting sun. "I make it a day from the Grove, at such a pace. We'll arrive at twilight. Either we will reach her at her weakest, or..."Ganzorig did not like the way she trailed off. He had to tear at the bandage. "Or?""Or," said Ysabet, with a crooked smile, "we will know just how strong she has become."

Sleep did not come easy, that night.Ganzorig tossed, turned, gave up to go find his master. Who, precisely, had given her that title? They had both stepped so naturally into their roles. There was no point shying away from it.He found her sitting atop a rock in a cramped-looking lotus, her mace laid out across her lap. "My student," she said, unsurprised. "Sleep slipped your grasp too, eh? Come, sit by me."He did. "Not for want of trying.""Ah, that's the first mistake. But it was good of you to seek me out." Did she wink at him? "Your people always found I could numb the most manic child to sleep with a few stories.""Your stories are fascinating," he said, dutifully."But perhaps I never told them so well as they deserved to be told." She looked out towards the distance. "I was never so warm as most of my companions. Your great ancestor, among them. Do not let the legends make you forget they lived, breathed, laughed, were occasionally ridiculous. I should hate to be the only one diminished, having to live up to reputation in the flesh."They sat in silence a moment."What did you think of them?" Ganzorig asked, at last."I grew fond of them. Eventually." She chuckled again, without mirth. "We 'savages' had to stand together, at times. I envy that they were able to stay in touch with country, with their people. Yet, they helped me during my own struggles with the same, when I do not think anyone else would have understood." She looked across at him with those bottomless violet eyes, expression suddenly serious. "I have only known you a short time, but... they would be proud, I think. And, I hope, would forgive me for the duty I must leave with you."Not a good sign. "What duty is that?"The old sorceress took a deep breath. "When she drove me from the vale, before, she left... another shard of light. Buried deep within, corrupting me. She knew, I suppose, from my chronicles, that I was close to... turning, utterly, to the light. Hm." She smiled, grimly. "I dream, sometimes, of the creature I would have become. Flawless in every facet, greater in strength even than the primals. Gleaming like marble..."Ganzorig shivered. It had little to do with the cold. He knew what to do, what to say. "If it comes to it, I'll kill you before I let that happen.""Good. And if you cannot, then run." She turned back towards him, dragging her eyes over him, appraising. "Find Hlessi, and tell her my fate. Your part will be done. Do you pledge this?"He nodded. What else could he do?"Good. Then let us rest, while we can. Now you know the worst of it, eh? That should bring you some measure of peace."Somehow, it did.

On they strode, the next day, across hills and bridges, through shattered, neglected groves, past the grand young city of Idyllshire.It did not take long for Ganzorig to notice what was ill, as they moved further and further southwest. It started as a feeling, something ... off. Then, the details: the birdsong was muted, the rushes quiet. And, though the Sun moved in the sky as the day wore on, it did not quite seem to grow so dark as it ought."We have our answer, then," said Ysabet cryptically. It took him some time to trace that back to last night's conversation.Something approaching twilight had finally sprung upon them as they reached the river where Ysabet had made her stand against her student's return. Beyond it, more and more of the land grew grey-white, like bleached coral. And then, he saw them - perfect marble gargoyles, slinking just out of reach. Just out of striking range.So they thought.Ysabet moved fast, her mace coming down like a thunderclap. Two of the trees the beasts used for cover lashed down, crushed their backs, evaporated them to so much chalk-white ash. Ysabet stepped back briskly, scanning the horizon again, watched the others flee. Back to their master."Will she come to us, do you think?"Ysabet gave it some thought, then nodded. "Night is our ally. She will want to nip this in the bud." To Ganzorig's amazement, she settled down on a rock and closed her eyes."What?" he asked, at last."So why bother stretching ourselves to give her what she wants?" She cracked open an eyelid. "You should get some sleep, yourself. Your rest is your strength, no? Besides, you will not miss the show, once it arrives.""Eh? I don't--"Ysabet made a quick gesture, and his eyes rolled up to his skull as he collapsed on the ground.

Footsteps awoke him. Not just one set.He bolted upright, and found that Ysabet had considerately placed him in a bush. What was the situation? The master sat with her crossed legs hanging off the rock, almost girlishly, giving the newcomers a disinterested look. Who were they? More of the gargoyles, eight or ten of them, hanging a respectful distance behind their master. Their... shepherd, perhaps, a small, unremarkable young miqo'te in a plain white robe, just as Ysabet had described.The moon had risen, but it seemed like dawn."I knew," said U'Lodea. She did not sound as Ganzorig felt a mad wizard ought. Too plain, too clearly the rural Thanalan. "I did not know how long it would take, but I knew you would come back.""Well, here I am." Ysabet chuckled, soft and mirthless. "So now you can forget this foolishness, eh? Let me help you.""Oh, master. I never did care for your inane jokes.""Few have. It hasn't yet stopped me.""What of the boy, there?" U'Lodea angled her staff precisely, unerringly, in Ganzorig's direction. The au ra began to sweat. "Replaced me already, master?""We shall see. I required a witness.""Oh?" U'Lodea raised an eyebrow.Ysabet hopped off her rock with a grunt, dusting the road off her robes before at last assuming a posture that might be called warlike. "I will not have it said that I did not give you a chance to surrender, before I destroyed you."Now U'Lodea laughed, covering her mouth primly. "So presumptuous, master! Is there no question in the matter?"Ysabet shook her head. "You have made your choices. However bitterly I regret them, I cannot change them." She levelled her mace. "Goodbye, Lodea."U'Lodea's face twisted with rage, and at last, Ganzorig saw her unmasked. "You are an old fool, and I--"But Ysabet struck the first blow, driving her back with a vicious killing sending. U'Lodea was forced on her heels, a great aegis of light shielding her from Ysabet's torment. The shepherd ordered on her sin eaters, but it was little respite. Ysabet was unmasked, now, and grew stronger with every stride. Around her, the bleached grass glowed verdant, seeming to shimmer. The sin eaters shied from it, and tried to run, too late, as nature swept back to reclaim it, reclaim them, sapped the marble from their forms and left them as fleshy husks of creatures that had once been, that could feed the soil."No!" U'Lodea cried, and struck back. Ysabet caught the first and second lance of light in a wall of stone that rocketted up from the soil to protect her, but the third struck her through the shoulder. She screamed, and for a moment...... a moment that stretched on, and on...... and yet, she remained herself. Shuddering, clutching her mace with white knuckles. The next blow could not land. The fourth skimmed wide, but now Ysabet was trapped on the defensive. She could not stay there forever. Something would break her. All that she needed...Perhaps it was predatory instinct that saw Ganzorig break from cover, hurling bolts of fire from his spear. Perhaps it was ancestral inspiration. But U'Lodea broke off her assault just long enough.Just long enough to drive an orb of glistering light through his body, passing like a ghost and yet seeming to linger. Everything glowed, everything itched, everything--But Ysabet had only needed a moment.Vines whipped up from the floor, and they had her. Each flowered and wilted in a mad flurry of age, growing wildly and splintering into more and more, each lashing their way around U'Lodea. She screamed and thrashed, and screamed again as they began to grow thorns. Biting her flesh, driving through her skin, into her eyes, as the vines crushed her utterly... and then she was gone, the most that could be said that she was in there, somewhere, perhaps dead, perhaps worse. But silent, mercifully silent and still.There was no time to stand and sway gently in the breeze, pondering her own magnificence. Ysabet dropped the mace and forced herself to run.Ganzorig knelt, twitching, vibrating. There was too much... motion, trapped within him. More than he could contain. More of everything than he could contain. And Ysabet realised, as he looked up to her with white eyes and tried to form those two desperate words, 'help me', that she could not.Not here.

She carried him for miles. The night, at last, began to fall. Gradually, as though only just relearning the habit. The light receded from Ysabet, unable to approach her. She would not acknowledge it. She would not acknowledge her own agony, nor her body praying for her to stop. It was not an option.Not until she reached the Grove.She found it more or less intact, its magic perhaps too great for U'Lodea's corruption to reach. No matter. She could study it later. She needed a stone slab to drape the au ra over, her notes to research, her reagants. But of course her people had fled.Not far, some of them. News spread. By the next day, near a dozen apprentices had returned from nearby territories. Most had not left since the incident, praying every day for Ysabet to return. Many viera came back, too. Somehow, they had known.None were safe. All were drafted into the initiative.It took the better part of that day, too, before it was ready. A hulking golem that could, at last, sap the light from him. She prayed her frantic notes, a century old by now, and her fragments of memory were enough.The golem placed its hand, almost solemnly, upon Ganzorig's breast. He breathed, still. Barely.And the golem began to glow. The clay trembled, shifted. Cracks opened. Fragments fell. Ysabet, drained utterly of power, could only watch as it... it...... held.And Ganzorig's eyes opened. One white, a single perfect blemish to pay testament to his trial, but the other its native indigo. Through cracked lips, he asked, "Why are there so many people here, all of a sudden... ?"Of course, Ysabet would never admit that she had cried. But it did not matter. There were witnesses.

FF14Write22 - Veracity

In which the Warriors of Light are confronted with alternative facts.

"And, behold! As the Warriors of Light did venture into the heart of the Garlean lair, an abominable mecha-primal did bar the path! Each of its three maws did open to reveal a dozen cannon, and each shoulder bristled with a score of guns! And with a vicious swing of its claw, it did lay about it, and scattered were the Warriors of Light! And lo, spake the Warriors of Light unto the MechaPrimal: 'Do you truly think you have the power within you to overcome us?' For, combining the power of their hearts--""What?"The minstrel's hand paused on the strings. Did he hear dissent from the crowd? He looked around, and only allowed himself to see enraptured faces. "Combining the power of their hearts, as they did, the Warriors--""No. That didn't happen."Eyes turned, now, to the burly woman hanging by the bar. A heavy, unstrung bow leaned on the counter by her side. And lo, did the minstrel realise: Oops.The woman shifted across to look at him, staring through him. Patiently, as though explaining to a child, she said, "That weird emotions stuff didn't happen. Gaius talked at us for ages.""What did he say?" someone from the crowd asked.The woman scratched the back of her neck. Then she shrugged. "Wasn't paying attention. Was looking for weak points in the armour. Wasn't a mechaprimal. Just a big glowy thing. Built kind of bad. It fell apart after a while." She looked back up at the minstrel. "If you're going to tell it," she said, with the gravity of someone eminently capable of breaking his neck, "tell it right."

"Yea, the chittering beetle-hordes of the Gnath did part like a chitinous sea! For they did know: their doom fell now 'pon them, as the sun crests the mountains to drive away the night! Yet, as the Warriors of Light descended, they did wonder: could the insects truly be giving the heart of their terrible lair over? Nay... what awaited them there was a thing terrible to behold: an unthinking behemoth, terrible in aspect! Five tongues slavered between the gaps of a thousand teeth, as eight-score beady eyes did level on the heroes! And it did fall upon them with a ravenous hunger, and would the lady at the back kindly cease her scoffing."The lady at the back did not cease her scoffing. Instead, she stood, shivering against the cold, and removed the fur shako keeping her from dying of exposure in Ishgard's eternal winter. Two flax-furred rabbit ears came free, and flicked with irritation, and the minstrel swallowed. Oh."You used 'terrible' twice in one sentence," she said. "Ironic, perhaps, given it is how I would describe your performance. Have you no respect for the truth, little man?""Um." He had plenty of respect for the truth. He also had a roof to keep over his head. "I-""The primal Ravana," said surely, regrettably Ysabet Sable, as eyes turned to her, "took on an aspect far more knight than dragon. It was a noble creature, in its way. It sang--""Beetles do not sing," said the minstrel, strangled.Ysabet glowered at him. "Has it stopped you? No, it was only in Ravana that I found the knightly conduct that I had been lead to believe this frigid hellhole..."

"Yet, as they reached the heart of the Ananta, they were met by the serpentine seductress: Lakshmi, Herself! And though each of the Warriors of Light saw the most beautiful woman they had ever seen, and the more lascivious of their number did find their hearts unwilling to draw steel, the creature was, i'truth, a being of terrors unthinkable! Two heads did she have, and eight arachnid eyes 'pon each! Four sabres did she wield, with which she carved out her necklace of severed heads, draped over her ninety-nine swollen breasts! For today would be a most rough wooing indeed!"The inn hooted and hollered. They were loving this. And one of them, one rather better-connected than the rest, nudged the Ishgardian knight to his left. "Is it true? Did it really go down like this?"Severine de Belgrave kept a straight face the only way she could: by raising her glass to her lips to conceal her smile, drowning it in wine as she nodded frantically. At last, she managed: "Yes. Um. Yeah, no, that's precisely how it happened."

FF14Write22 - Anon

In which Severine dwells on the challenge to come.

Severine's dreams haunted her, again. Not nightmares. The abstract never bothered her. But there was nothing so cruel to her as parrotting recent memories.She was among the finest products of among the finest martial traditions in the world. Talent and training, combined with her natural athleticism and and her uncanny, crystal-given anticipation, had turned her into what was, when you stripped away the layers of honour and code, a finely-honed killing machine. Her flamberge - a gift for her aid in saving her homeland from itself - had been forged of the finest steel, shaped to suit her expansive, assertive style of swordsmanship, its edge keen enough to scythe through dragonhide. Her armour was all but impenetrable to weapons, and yet she wore it as naturally as a second skin, its weight so immaculately dispersed as to be unnoticeable. And at 33 years, she was at a point where her physicality and experience dovetailed into her prime.And yet.She had answered the call and assaulted the Towers at Thavnair and Garlemald, faced down the remnants of the Garlean legions. She had torn down creatures beyond comprehension as they had destroyed the minds of those not blessed with her resolve. She had, surely, done her duty.And yet.Zodiark dominated her dreams. Her blade could not find purchase on its hide, try though she might, hacking brutally at it with swings that would have torn stones out of a wall. It made no difference. The creature's focus was elsewhere, until at last, almost as an afterthought, it had snatched her up in a hand that blindsided her and snapped her spine like so many twigs, hurling her down at the artificial floor suspended in space. She had laid there, dying, watching others fall until she felt invigorating magics beyond her comprehension rise her to her feet. She had charged in, once again. She had been swept aside, once again. Crushed like a hornet under a heavy book, unable to so much as slow the beast down.So when the question was put to the Warriors of Light: were they worthy? Were they strong enough to challenge Meteion, and save their star?Well... some could answer with confidence and conviction. And tomorrow, they would be tested.Severine feared, above all else, she would be found wanting.

"On your feet! On your feet!"She groaned and picked herself up, as Ysabet stepped over her body, no time to wait for her to knit back together. They were surrounded by the fallen. They would not die, not here. But if they could not prove their mettle, then the world would suffer for it. That meant far more than the survival of Severine de Belgrave.Ysabet did not last long, under Hydaelyn's onslaught. The blade of light carved her down, left her to fall in a pile at the mother-Goddess' feet. So few remained. So little hope.Severine stood. Her knuckles tightened around her the hilt. She could not weave any great sorcery to turn the tide. All she could do was buy time for the others...She dithered, mired in doubt, for only a moment. But it was enough. The mother-Goddess was on her.The sword shimmered as it carved its deadly course, and only instinct let her step back. Hydaelyn pressed her advantage, each swing perfect, yet brutal, driving Severine back on her heels. The knight tried to step to the side, buy herself some more space - space is what she needed! The damn flamberge felt so clumsy, needed too much room to swing - but the onslaught kept her funnelled down. Back she stepped, and back again, until her heel pressed down against the searing light that kept them locked in combat. There would be no running from the test. No hiding from their judgement.And at last, the blade of light weaved effortlessly under her guard, carving a white-hot furrow through her armour. It drove through her again, and again, and left her falling, falling, as the Goddess turned to deal with the rest...... and Severine caught herself. Her knee slammed against the ground, her sword driving into the circle, keeping herself upright.Get up, she told herself.Her hand trembled. Her whole body trembled. She wanted to fall.Get up!And for what? To fall, again? She was as weak as she'd feared. What had brought her this far? Ego masquerading as courage?No. She was here for a purpose. She was worthy. And she had to see this through, with the last of her strength.This was the last of her strength.No. Dig deeper.Slowly, she creaked to her feet, throwing the last of her strength into her sword, raising herself up, teetering from foot to foot... she felt like she carried the weight of the world. But there was enough, there, deep down.Now, go! She could not hope to stand there! Let her momentum take her forward, before inertia drove her back to the ground!She took one tremulous step forward. Then another, a third. She drove herself on, threw herself forward, a war-cry tore itself from her lips, and Hydaelyn turned to catch her blade, turn it aside. But Severine stepped forward again, another vicious swing, deflected aside - no matter, turn inside, ignore the riposte. They struck each other, the Goddess almost floating away, Severine spitting out blood and surging forward again, and again. The blade flashed, chipped away at the perfect form, and again, and once again. And-- !The decisive blow impaled Severine. She all but threw herself into the point. A cry died in her throat, and slowly, inexorably, she began to stagger forward.The voice in her head these past eight years smiled at her, melancholy. It knew, truly, Severine had done what she could.Just... come up short.She stared up, slackly. Was this what it came to? Pity? Her gauntlets scrabbled for purchase against the arm driving the blade through her, until it was ripped free. And that smile stayed with her, as Hydaelyn began to turn away, to finish the others...But Severine found one more forward step in her. With the last burst of energy her body had left to give, she drove her forehead hard through the Mother-Goddess' perfect visage.Something cracked. Maybe it was Hydaelyn, who staggered back. Maybe it was Severine, who at last could sink to the floor, her blade clattering to the ground from limp fingers. But there was a smile on her lips, now, as she watched Hydaelyn turn.Seven grim warriors stared back at her, ready to put an end to the challenge.And this time, there was no hint of pity in Hydaelyn's eyes, and instead, a satisfaction in her smile.

FF14Write22 - Turn a Blind Eye

In which Ysabet’s past catches up with her.

Ysabet dreamed ...The arrow skimmed into the grass, but trembling hands nocked another. The circling wolves bayed for blood, awaiting an opening that would surely come. They would not dare attack a humanoid, most days, but this was different. Something in the land was riling them up...Another shot flew wide. One wolf pounced, then another. The woman stepped back with a cry as one's jaws snapped around her bow and the other around her ankle, and the girl behind her screamed--There was a flash of light. The pressure eased, the wolves turned to slink away, but already the vines were upon them, dragging them squealing and whining into the earth to be drowned by the soil."You are safe," said the Librarian, because she did not know what to do with the crying woman, realising now how close to death she had come. The girl only looked at her. Watched warily, as though a pack of ferals presented less danger than she.The Librarian stepped forward, in green and grey robes that flowed like water around her. Hydrangeas grew beneath her every footstep. The great two-handed mace she bore, a metal orb at the centre of two twining staves harvested from worlds far beyond, seemed almost to thrum with energy. The Librarian swept it down, now, to press against the miqo'te woman's leg; she shied away from the touch, at first, but her wound began to knit itself back together. So, too, the other, smaller cuts found along the long road to Dravania."You were unfortunate," said the LIbrarian. "The beasts were driven mad with rage. A hunting party from Idyllshire slew the rest of their pack, thinking little of it. They thought only of their own peace of mind..." She quivered with anger a moment, before relaxing again, looking over the curious travellers again. "Who are you? Why come so far?"The woman did not yet have her composure back, but the girl... the girl did not look away. No longer than fifteen, the Librarian judged. "I am U'Lodea; this is my mother, U'Shanha. Are the rumours true?"She smiled. "There are so many rumours. Which have you heard?"

Ysabet Sable lurched upright. But then, she thought sourly, she was not Ysabet Sable now. Ysabet Sable would not have put up with being holed up in the cheapest room on the boat, with a wooden slab for a bed. Veis Camoa did. But Veis Camoa still, it seemed, got haunted by Ysabet Sable's regrets."Why do you bother going by Veis?" Ganzorig had asked her. "Surely you could get what you wanted if you simply unveiled yourself."Ysabet chuckled, mirthless. "Nobody expects anything of Veis. Ysabet Sable? She lived a long, long time ago. And if you know enough about my kin to know how long they live, you still know what Ysabet Sable looked like. More pertinently, what she did not look like.""And what is that?" he asked innocently.She fixed him with a gaze. "You are very diplomatic, Ganzorig. Certainly she is not a fat old crone, with weary eyes and a silver mane.""You're none of those things, either."Ysabet tried not to look overly pleased. She failed. "Ah, but I was beautiful once. I know I am still... myself, Ganzorig. Do not mistake this for a greater crisis of confidence." She smiled tightly. "But, almost everyone who knew my face is dead. So it is easier to travel as Veis. There are... fewer humiliations, that way."

Ysabet dreamed ...Ysabet unapologetically picked favourites, and Lodea earned that status quickly. Such a fast learner. Such an eager student. One could ask nothing more.She was unusual, in the Grove. Most students came as seekers of knowledge, first and foremost, scholars whose training happened to be in a form of magic that relied heavily on nature, but with a far firmer hand than Gridanian conjury would ever endorse. Yet Lodea had come specifically to help her people by becoming a true warden of nature, no mere green mage. Life in the heart of the desert was precarious, and she dreamed of her people living in tune with the land, not merely surviving it. Little wonder, then, that Ysabet was all too eager to groom her for a role not unlike that she, herself, was trained for.There was a knock at her door, and of course, when it was Lodea, Ysabet welcomed it. She looked up from her books with a smile. "What brings you here, so late into the night?" Twelve years at the Grove had done much to erode formality.Lodea did not return the smile. Her expression had nothing to it at all. She sat almost mechanically opposite Ysabet, not quite able to look into her eyes, and Ysabet knew something had happened. News from home, perhaps. Nothing to pry for. "I have questions," Lodea said at last. "About your travels.""Go ahead." One of her favourite subjects. She dried her quill and set it aside, looking across earnestly. But where could it be going, she wondered?"About Norvrandt. Your... voyage across worlds."Bittersweet memories. "Yes.""I have read your Chronicles. They are... true, are they not? Only they seem unbelievable.""They are," said Ysabet, quite stiffly. "Every word.""It seems unfathomable. A great all-consuming Light, leaving a cowering land that welcomed the Dark. I wonder," she said quickly, sensing the need to get to her point, "what form that took?Ysabet shifted forward in her chair. "It bleached and rotted everything it touched. The land beyond what lived was simply called, 'the Empty'; not a trace of life or soul remained. A plain as barren as blank paper, nothing more.""At an extreme, yes." Lodea's eyes were bright. "But what of the creatures infused by light? They retained their form?""A form. Yes. Sometimes, even a beautiful one." Too many memories. Even now, decades later, it sometimes felt like she could feel the light's corruption within her. "They became a thing unrecognisable. All that seemed left in it was hunger.""When it overtook them completely," said Lodea, insistently. "What happened before that? To the people who were infected? Your Chronicles are vague on--""They became slow. Pacified. Blank. There was nothing that could be done for them, besides making them comfortable before they died. Why do you ask, Lodea? What purpose can this possibly serve?" She was sharper than she intended to be, but these memories were best left buried deep.Lodea gave it some thought. Then she said, "Nothing, nothing."Ysabet doubted that."I only sought to further my understanding of the Light, and see how else it could be marshalled against the darkness. But, I see now what your experience has taught you."Ysabet nodded, too relieved by backing down to question the oddly specific phrasing Lodea used. "The Light is only a tool used minimally, Lodea. We respect its force all the more for knowing what it is capable of, unopposed."Lodea nodded, rose from her seat, and left without another word. Ysabet had thought that was an end of it. What had she said wrong? How could she have averted that which came to pass?

A boot hammered at the door.Ysabet groaned and dragged herself to her feet. It was not so difficult to find meek old Veis, this time. She had meant to spend this time being useful, teaching, but the exhaustion of the sail had turned her brain to mush. There was room for nothing but sleeping and, more often, failing to sleep."We've reached Ishgard," said the sailor, muffled by the thick wooden door. "Captain wants all passengers out, now. We've cargo to take on.""I understand." Ganzorig answered for them both. It did not look as though he had slept; he did not quite look alert, and swayed slightly. "Are you alright, master?""Everything aches."Which sounded enough like a yes for Ganzorig to guide her towards the surface. Her ears scraped against the door-frame as she hunched under it. Ignominy after ignominy! She cursed her fate before the blinding sunlight washed over her, annihilating all else. Old reflexes stopped her staggering off the pier and into the sea, at the very least."Is it always this cold?"Ysabet laughed, mirthlessly. "For Ishgard, this is warm. Believe me.""Maybe for you..."She shifted out of her cloak and handed it to him. Immediately, of course, she regretted it. The cold cut straight through her. But it was better to have a thin velvet line of fur than scales, here. "Dravania is more temperate, you'll be relieved to know. We'd best make our way to a warm hearth. Get a proper meal and a real bed, eh? And a floor that isn't shifting.""I thought we'd be on the road already," said Ganzorig, failing to conceal his relief. "You got enough sleep for us both, I'd have thought.""Hah. That wasn't sleep, boy. That was passing out."

Ysabet dreamed ...Premonition. A gift of the Echo. Sitting upright in bed at an ungodly hour, hand instinctively reaching for her mace, Lairathr...It did not always just mean a bad dream. And if not, it meant time wasted if she did not prepare.She rolled over the empty space in her bed, which Hlessi drifted in and out from. It would be better if she were here now. Then again, it would always be better if Hlessi was there... for Ysabet. But Hlessi would not truly be Hlessi without the need to wander...No time to dwell on that. She shrugged into a robe and a heavy cloak, gently picked up her mace, and strode through the Grove. A small handful of students were awake, glancing her way as she passed. Viera pilgrims stopped their conversations to stare at her. She did not look back.Whatever it was that had stirred her, it drew close, now.Ysabet stepped out into the harsh winds of the plain, grimacing. She could... feel it, now. Not merely through the Echo, but the land, crying out at a great wrong. And in the distance, she could hear...... laughter... ?A bright light flashed in the distance, like a passing comet. Ysabet pressed on in search of it. She could hear the more curious students following behind, pressing their faces against the windows. So long as they did not leave, there was no need to turn them back. Perhaps this was something they would need to see for themselves.And then she saw it. The light crested the hill, in the marble-white hand of U'Lodea Brill. Her manic eyes alighted on Ysabet. "I have done it! I found the way to tame this wild place, buried deep in those old tomes.""Tame?" Ysabet's eyes were focused on her hand. The flesh gave way, halfway up her wrist, to something that looked hewn from stone. She had seen it before. She prayed that..."To overcome the darkness with light! You knew the power, but you never had the will to use it! Look-- !"Two wolves crested the hill, then a co*ckatrice, then at last a drake. All moved slowly, yet... perfectly, as if at any moment one could stop and become a perfect gargoyle.The words came back to Ysabet. "You've... turned them into sin eaters." Her hands began to shake."No! You wrote of creatures who only knew hunger and killed anything in their path! Look closer, master! They're... content, are they not? Pacified?"She remembered their look well. From the Inn, at Journey's Head. They did not know hunger, yet. They knew nothing at all. "They are something worse than dead, U'Lodea. You're too blinded by your own ego to understand.""My ego?!" U'Lorea snapped. "You said you would train me to protect my people! This is a selfless duty -- look what I have sacrificed!" She grasped her corrupted hand by the wrist. "But it would all be worth it, if my people could be safe!""And you're too blind to see how the world cries out against this... this abomination! I did teach you, aye, but it was to a greater purpose than this!""We do not all live centuries, master," said U'Lodea, coldly. "We were not all born hearing the Voice of the Wood. I cannot wait to learn your methods in the same manner you were taught. My people need me.""If they needed you, they would have been driven from the oasis long ago." Ysabet shook her head. "If this is all you think you have learned, then... then I am a poor teacher, indeed.""Give yourself more credit. You saw something in me. Let me ask questions, read tomes, conduct experiments you never would have tolerated from the rest.""Yes. I did." She had been a favourite. Another regrettable mistake, it seemed. "And it is time to make corrections."And U'Lodea saw, too late, the buildup of power. Ysabet did not move, merely leaned on her mace, but it was enough to unmake one wolf, turn it to dust, then the other. The drake reared up, and Ysabet at last moved, a flick of the wrist lancing a bolt of aether through where its heart had been, and it too dissipated to nothing. Perhaps something yet stirred in the co*ckatrice. It tried to flee. Ysabet destroyed it, too.Then she turned to U'Lodea, again the sorceress of old, majestic and terrible to behold, and stepped forward, a hand outstretched, the other around her mace. "Come with me. I will heal you. You must still learn--"There was a blinding light as U'Lodea lashed out, and the corruption burned into Ysabet's flesh. She let out a shout, pain and shock melding with her sorrow at this betrayal, her failure, and the voice inside her, the voice she had found in Norvrandt that had never truly left her, spoke again to beguile her...She was too strong for it, still. She cast it aside, saw U'Lodea staring, horrified, terrified. Was she more afraid of herself for being capable of these actions, or their consequences? Ysabet could not say. She had never, it seems, truly known her.She reached out again, but the girl ran into the night. She should have pursued. She should have... done what was necessary. But she did not have the heart, and simply watched her greatest failure go.

FF14Write22 - Promises to Keep

In which Ysabet makes her stand.

Ysabet Sable's eyes were fixed on the endless sky.This was a truly barren land, too lifeless and hollow to even be cold. They had passed the realm of the Ea - Ysabet shuddered at the memory - but, after hours of scaling a road built on the bones of their comrades they found themselves... here. At the end of everything.Had life been scorched from the surface, or had nothing lived here to begin with?Nobody felt in the mood to lighten the mood with a joke. There weren't many left to joke at all. Urianger was dead. Y'shtola was dead. Thancred was dead. Cwenthryth was lost, and most likely dead. Estinien and Severine were dead. Some tried to stay positive. Ysabet merely tried to stay philosophical, but even that was a losing battle.The others had mostly gone to sleep. What else was there to do, in a place like this? Worse still, their destination remained further beyond. The machine-cult stranded here, boasting of their hollow conquests, engulfed most of the island.Ysabet had let the others speak with them. Listening was more than enough. Wretches who had lost everything in sight of perfection, and could see no value in the flesh, in life itself. They thought their vigil was vindication of their beliefs, and in this strange land, where belief carved open reality...And yet the cold metal would outlast the weak flesh, if it came to it. If they could not ascend higher, to the upper reaches beyond the drones, then they would be left to watch as Meteion got her wish.For once, she did not want to be noticed as she slipped away from the camp in the night.

She strode barefoot through the charcoal plains, shrouding herself in memories of Camoa. The feeling of fallen leaves under her heel brought her solace, but she let them guide her, as well.Life could not all be extinct. And if she could find the life, she could find the hope. The others needed that...This was no place to lie. She needed that.And she would find it, and through it, guide the rest.It did not take long to lose track of time. What did it matter, in a place like this? Nor could she be sure where she was, as it felt like every step she took placed down another mile of the plain ahead of her. It mattered not.She stayed disciplined, and did not think of the road behind her. Instead she thought of home, of love, of everything she fought for, and it gave her just enough to cling on, long enough to feel it. The faintest vibration of life.Ysabet redoubled her pace. Took long, loping strides. The constructs turned, seemed almost to stare, to at last grow alert. Some stood in her way. She demolished them with barely a thought. Now was not the time for delays.She sprouted a companion. The little blackbird began to taunt her. "Trying to run from your fate?"Ysabet laughed, a soft and ragged thing jostling up and down with her footsteps. "Think what you like.""Oh? Then why do I find you here, so far from your companions?""There is something more important.""Life, in this barren land?" It seemed to chuckle. "You truly are arrogant. You think you are the first to search?""You saw all you thought possible to see. I am untarnished by your pathetic nihilism.""You play the scholar well. Yet in your desperation, you chase dreams and wishes."Ysabet's pace began to slow. She was near, now. She could feel it, pulsing under her footsteps, calling to her. "It amuses you, I am sure. Yet the seed of life is real.""Stranded in a desert, it is only natural that you see an oasis. I linger only to watch you dig both hands into the mirage and pour sand into your mouth.""Perhaps." Ysabet had slowed to a halt, now. The seed was weak, buried beneath the scorched surface. It was real enough. She believed. "But sand can become water, in such a land as this.""But can it slake your thirst?" Ysabet smirked. "Shake your obsession with metaphor. You accuse me of arrogance? You could unmake me with a thought, but you would rather reason me into accepting annihilation? No!" Her words were as thunder, now. She began to grow with every step forward, as roots scythed through earth, vines grasping up to snake around her legs. "You watch us thrash about in this nightmare in search of novelty. And you will be satisfied! I will become the miracle that puts the lie to you!"The broken earth splintered under the force of her proclamation, as did her corporeal form. She had become a thing beyond her flesh, a monument to her own conviction. Whether the seed had been there mattered not, for what was now was a magnificent tree, lush with leaves and heavy with the fruit of an eternal spring, swaying gently in a faint breeze despite the vacuum of its surroundings. It reached to the heavens, cresting the rest of the Omicron husk-world, a bridge between hollow spaces. It was clear, now, that something lived on this barren world. Yet of Ysabet Sable, there was no trace, save a silken whisper in the wind.

FF14Write22 - Novel

In which Ysabet Sable finds ground she’d rather not retread.

Ysabet's bones ached.She was not decrepit. Approaching her two hundredth year, she looked a very graceful middle-age at most. It was undeniable that she had grown somewhat stout, with a couple of lines on her face and flecks of lighter grey on her charcoal-taupe hide, but while these were great causes of anguish for her vanity, almost everyone else she knew had been a skeleton for the past century. That considered, she was doing alright.But the years had taken their toll in other ways. Her body was not breaking down, but her bones had still suffered breaks of their own. One could still only be mauled by primals for so long. Now, even determined striding could be beyond her.It hurt her to admit she was tiring long before her student (when, precisely, had he become her student? Nevertheless, that was how she found herself thinking of him), and hurt her more to see him glancing at her with concern.At last, he asked, "Should we rest, master?" It was in a tone that suggested the statement really meant, 'you should rest, master'."If you require it," said Ysabet stiffly.Ganzorig let the outrageous response fly past, slowing to a halt at a ridge. He sat there, looking out at the magnificent Ruby Sea stretched out before them, taking pains not to notice Ysabet's grunting as she folded up by his side.The gentle breeze rustled through their hair.Ganzorig thought about what Orn Khai had told him. Proud. Arrogant. Ornery. But ultimately, he had been urged to let her talk, and make it clear he would listen."So. Boy."His name was Ganzorig. But patience was key. "Yes?""How far have you travelled?"He shrugged. "I've been to Doma a few times.""Ahh." Did her weary eyes flash with a trace of mischief? "I remember the place fondly. Though it has changed greatly.""For the better?"Ysabet's mouth quirked. "Mm. It changed as cities do. Neither good or bad, merely natural and necessary. I remain fond of it, but returning was bittersweet.""I found your journals there, you know.""My chronicles," she corrected instinctively. A muscle memory built over the course of centuries."Alright, your chronicles.""Did you buy them?""Not at the prices they were going for, no."Ysabet looked pleased by that detail."I was able to skim through a bit. Mostly I was curious about the Khagan.""Mmm. You're cut from a very different cloth." Ysabet hesitated, realising the faux pas. "Again, neither a good nor a bad thing. You're more level-headed, or I suppose, at least, have seemed it thus far." Perhaps he had an anarchic streak. She hoped it would not rear its head at an untimely moment."You were close?""Quite close."Ganzorig raised an eyebrow. "How close?"She waved him off. "Not so close as that. They made eyes at me once or twice, which was flattering. But, no, it became fairly clear they would do the same for almost any comely woman above a certain height. I cannot claim I was their closest companion, either. But we grew to understand each other, somewhat. I should like to think she was fond of me.""Guess I'm lucky I didn't buy the chronicles.""Hmph. I shouldn't just tell you everything. It would save me some trouble to buy you your own, when we get into town.""Do you have the money? If you were swapping tales for food on the steppe..."Ysabet frowned. "I offered what was most valuable, boy, to a people I respect. I have coin to spare for people who have not earned my time, which is far more valuable."Ganzorig decided that probably meant something like, 'no, she did not have the money.' "I'll get the rations," he said, in the interests of diplomacy.He set about the fire, igniting it with a puff of aether and pouring water over a pot full of dumplings. His positioning was careful, giving him a profile view of the sorceress as she looked over the sea. It was enough to pierce her facade of stoic calm, and see through to the core. Misty-eyed melancholy, the slight hunch of age and exhaustion. Her faded teal robe would had been considered finery, decades ago, but was hidden under her heavy grey cloak.Speaking of the past was a reminder of what she had once been, and how far she had fallen. She was too self-aware to take much solace in nostalgia.There were more questions. But the chronicles existed for a reason. "Why," he found himself asking as he returned with two wooden bowls billowing with steam, "did you write them in the first place?""Mm?" She looked over - the facade was perfect now - and took up the bowl. "Ah. My little 'journals'." She shrugged. "It... changed, over time. As I did.""How so?"She frowned, though not from displeasure, as she thought back. "It was a long time ago. But I remember... I kept them from the start. I thought they would allow me a place to put my thoughts in order. It did help with that, yes. And the habit was ingrained by the time I... that it became clear I was involved in events larger than I. I knew someone was going to write on them. Then, I thought, let it be from someone who was there, doing these great deeds. So, they took on an eye to history.""I see." He did, sort of."I had read histories that had come before. Often more revealing about the author than the time they wrote on. I thought there should be... a truth. Not one absolute. I have no doubt it is coloured in some way by my own biases," she said, though in a way that implied she was being charitable to entertain the notion she might be fallible, "but at least I was there. And I cared for the people there. My comrades. Friends, even."The words lingered. The facade cracked. Ganzorig thought he might do better prompting her in a safer direction, away from the dangers of nostalgia. "And before the chronicles?"Her guard snapped up. "I don't follow.""I mean, you said from 'the start'. Of your time in Eorzea?""Yes."Too late to back down. "What about life before then?"Silence reigned for a few seconds, Ysabet staring right through him. Then, turning her attention back to the sea, she said, "Our rations shan't last us to Doma. We had best spend some time hunting and foraging. There ought to be enough to sustain ourselves off the land."Ganzorig was under no illusions. 'We' meant 'he'. He stood up with a sigh, regretfully shoving the rest of the dumplings into his mouth, and inclined his head towards the master as he left.It was the strangest thing. If he hadn't known better, he could have sworn she was close to tears.