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rodarin-calrise · 3 years

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It Was An Accident

You didn’t mean to bump into the man — an older fellow, only managing to keep from toppling over thanks to his well-planted cane. He scuffled along at a faster pace, obscenities most likely what was muttered under his breath as he passed you by. While you may have been at least somewhat sorry for burdening the elderly man’s day, you were far too focused on the journey ahead. Candlelight Cove, the main port town of the Westmoore Province. You had heard tales, from strange to downright cautionary, of Westmoore and its surrounding locales. But from where you heard them seemed to constantly elude your memory. While Candlelight seemed to be the most tame, it carried most of the warnings being the entryway to most’s adventures into Westmoore — mainly being, don’t go. It was the first stop — and therefore, it was the first mistake. Stay away from Westmoore. Turn back. L̻͖̮͈ͅe̳̬̤̙̫̹a̡͕v̶͈e̸̤͉̥͓̣.͈̺̝̭͔̭̘.

It was an accident — the sudden lurch of the boat tugging against its anchor as it docked caused your hand to catch at some loosened wood on the deck’s railing. A long, albeit shallow scrape now stung at your palm — but ignoring the light throb of freshly broken skin, you stepped foot onto the dock. It was just as dreary as the stories foretold. A light, gentle patter of sprinkling rain kept the stone roads slick and shiny enough to reflect the grey, cloudy overcast. As you and the remaining fresh arrivals stepped into town, others hurried to leave — plenty seeming far too eager to return to La Noscea. Casting your doubts aside, you gave the small town a quick glance — and true to its name, ever-burning candles decorated anywhere the rain couldn’t reach. Windowsills, lamp posts, the crooks of sheltered alleyways. It was ominous, in an eerie sort of way.

It was an accident — you must have spaced out while you were fixated upon the fountain of liquid pearl. How was that possible? Could pearls even be perfectly liquefied like this? It was a smooth, ever-flowing cascade of pearlescence — rainbows shimmering within the milky whites and shimmering silvers as the flowing substance caught the flickering candlelights. It didn’t even seem like water. It was dense and viscous, like some sort of runny syrup — and for some reason, images of blood beginning to coagulate and clot were filling your mind as you studied the fluid. Your fingers were so close to dipping within the fountain’s falls, but the sudden hand on your shoulder startled you away. A few splatters of your blood speckled against the hypnotic substance, quickly mingling into the pool below as the falls continued. “Welcome to Westmoore~” chimed a rather mountainous man. He was dressed in a finely pressed suit — but although it was clean and wrinkle free, he seemed to have clothed himself in a hurry. The buttons were loose, his inner shirt askew. The collar was half unfolded, and his tie was loose and lopsided. Dark hazelnut-brown hair was swept back in messy curls, while golden eyes stared into your own. They were empty, vacant, as if staring straight through you to the ground below — accompanied by an equally emotionless smile, as if his lips were simply plastered that way. His voice was low, rich and smooth — flowing effortlessly like honeyed whiskey as he introduced himself. “I’m Rodarin Calrise, the Mayor of Westmoore. Come — let’s get you settled in.”

It was an accident — before you knew it, you were already leaving the faint glow of Candlelight Cove in the horizon, coming upon a signpost that waited at the T-shaped ending of the road. To the left, Westmoore. The right, Devil’s Edge. And right you turned, following the self-proclaimed Mayor the opposite direction of your intended destination. "We.. aren’t going to Westmoore?” You finally managed to ask, fighting the sudden wave of nausea that tried to prevent the question from being asked. “Oh no, no–we need to get you settled in first.” Rodarin replied — his stare and smile as glazed and absent as ever, as if in a haze. A haze you soon felt buzzing over the back of your mind as the road descended towards the thick treeline of the woods by the side of the road. Everything became.. calm. Numb, even. All you could focus on was the smell of moist bark and the crunch of the stone road you absently followed.

It was an accident — at least, you think it was. When did you arrive in the woods? You think back, brows physically straining as they knitted together in struggled contemplation. You.. couldn’t remember anything. All you could recall was walking on the road — Rodarin saying ‘you needed to get settled in first’. You can’t remember how you got here, when you got here, how much time had passed, where Rodarin was, where you were — nothing. The canopy of pine made it impossible to tell if it was night or day within these woo — wait.. canopy? You recall the woods by the road you had walked upon earlier — their branches were barren. This.. wasn’t right. None of this was right. And the more you thought on your situation, the stronger your stomach knotted and shakier your hands became. The air was somehow chilled, yet humid at the same time — and it was taking its toll quickly. You could already feel your skin prickling in defense against the cold, your teeth quietly chattering to prevent from locking. But a shimmer of hope soon sent you running towards it — the gentle glow of light flickering against the trunks.

It was an accident — surely, this had to be an accident. A mistake. A prank — anything to explain what you were seeing here. It was you, slumped against the trunk of a pine on the cold, damp ground. Motionless. Pale-blue. The left side of your skull was caved in, while a large gaping hole was missing from the right side of your torso — a few pieces of meat still clinging desperately to the blood-stained tips of what ribs remained. A single lit candle was held in your hand, your knuckles whitened and blood dripping from the base as if you had held onto it for dear life. The light danced upon a white creature crouched by your corpse. It held no features, its figure resembling the basic shape of a humanoid structure — like a cheap doll that sat in the children’s stores in Limsa Lominsa. Stumpy arms and legs, and a large rounded head — where blood stained and dripped over the area a mouth should be. Your blood, no doubt. Its ‘skin’ was constantly rippling, like waves upon a disturbed lake — ending in thick streams and globules of its white composition to fall and spill over the ground. The scent of a charred candlewick filled your lungs — and that’s what it was. It was wax. A golem, perhaps? Some sort of animated waxen puppet?

Your guesswork was interrupted as it seemed to look back towards you — it was hard to tell with the absence of eyes. Rodarin appeared from behind the tree your body rest against, his vacant smile now replaced by a grin of absolute pleasure — his teeth all sharpened into fine points. “Welcome back to Westmoore. I hope you enjoy your stay. Try to avoid the Woods next time, won’t you?” he said before bursting out into laughter--though whether it was out of amusement or malice, it was hard to tell. And then, pain. Your hands clawed at your chest, desperate to remove whatever white-hot dagger was digging itself into your heart — only to claw at your own flesh. You gasped for air, falling to the ground and curling involuntarily in defense against the crippling pain — its intensity so powerful it caused you to gag. Your eyelids fluttered as your eyes rolled back, staining your mind with the last image they saw. Your corpse, staring back at you — grinning so widely and gleefully that the corners of its lips were beginning to tear and bleed. And then, the world went dark.

I̡̹̼̳̞̭t̞̬̗̱͚͙̩ ̯͈̻̗̾̋ͫ͐̑̽w̭̤͖ͯͣa̡̹̞̥̬͑̑ͨs̤̗͔͗̆̿̽̅ͯ̀ͅn̷̖̖̙̼̰̱'͏ṭ̶̓ ̸̦͐͐̐̎̅ͅȃ̠̥͗̐n͖͍̞̥͚̋͊̌ͅ ̶̘͎͍̤̤a̵̞͖ͨͭ̾͌̚c̳ͯ̐͂c̀̋̄ͮi͛̽ͣ̑̃d̼̐͆̚͠e̝͚̼̮̟͈̙͊̀̑͑ͧ̚n̪̪̯t̲̞͟ͅ.ͬ̀ .

#Rodarin Calrise #Westmoore #Candlelight Cove #Public Prompt #Use this as you wish!#It's time again #The Nightmare before Endwalker #FFXIV RP #Crystal LFRP #Mateus RP #Balmung RP

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the-children · 3 years

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The Westmoore Tragedies | Chapter 1

I’ve always had a morbid curiosity for Murder. Specifically, how a Murderer’s mind worked.

Rough crinkling of parchment filled the air as Rodarin shuffled through the various stacks and disheveled piles of documents atop his desk. A rugged hand reached up to glide his fingers through curled locks of chestnut-brown, a deep sigh escaping his lips—a mixture of frustration and fatigue.

But this?... This is just fucked up...

The flames of various candles began to flicker in unison as the stilled air of his makeshift office was disturbed by the opening of his door. A fair-skinned woman with raven-black hair and gentle eyes soon peeked into the room, offering a weak, almost apologetic smile to the man. “It’s nearly midnight.. Are you coming to bed soon?” Rodarin’s figure had shifted instinctively, using his broad frame to shield her view from the documents cluttered over his desk. She didn’t need to see this. Turning to glance back over his shoulder, Rodarin offered a forced smile in return to his wife, Sarina. “Yeah.. yeah, I am. Couple more minutes, love.” She lingered in the door for a few moments longer as she watched her husband turn back to the papers he studied, her weak smile slowly faltering to a more worrisome expression. Nonetheless, she took her leave, the gentle thump of the door signaling Rodarin’s privacy.

I’m sorry for worrying you.. I’ll make it up, somehow.

A tired slouch returned to his posture—his facade was becoming tiresome to portray. His gaze swept over the various stacks of parchment towards the farther corners of his desk. Articles, written accounts, sketches, photographs, his own notes—cases he had either solved, or assisted with. Rodarin was an investigator, his experience ranging from queries of petty theft and cheating spouses, to assisting the Fleet when they were stumped. Some were even solved out of personal interest, a byproduct of his ever-inquisitive mind. As Rodarin’s gaze fell back to the documents resting before him, his brow pulled in frustration. This was the best of both worlds—a contract made with investigative branches of both the Guard and the village council for differing reasons. And the more he learned, the more it gnawed at his mind. He was curious—too damned curious.

Eagerly, he shifted through the papers once more, studying the articles that had been brought to him. A copy of a statistical report from the council, showing a sudden and drastic spike in missing children reports from the village and surrounding towns, and even more coming in from various sources. This wasn’t limited to Vylbrand, or even Eorzea—it was occurring everywhere. There was seemingly no discrimination as to race or location.

As Rodarin continued through the pile, the documents became more recent, and more violent. Murdered parents, with their children missing. Reports of children leaving for the forests, and brutally attacking Maelstrom privateers who try to stop them—some of them even being confirmed as a missing child themselves, and search parties unable to locate them afterwards. The final folder within the pile was the latest to date, one that filled Rodarin with unease. The Westmoore Orphanage Massacre.

Eight caretakers dead—horribly mutilated. An elbow thumped against the table as his forehead leaned into his palm in effort to lean closer, a sour taste in his throat as he studied the photographs of the crime scene. The caretakers were completely unidentifiable within the photographs—the only way they figured out who was killed was thanks to the work schedule kept on record by the head Matron. Their torsos were all split down the middle, their insides completely cleaned out to be strung throughout the orphanage. Their heads were missing, and as yet have not been found. Their arms and legs had been scratched down to the tendons, and three of them had their legs broken to splinters—it was Rodarin’s assumption that these three had tried to run away.

What kind of sick fuck would do this, at an orphanage? Why kidnap the children afterward? It can’t be for ransom, they’re orphans..

The most chilling aspect of any of this, however, was the location. Westmoore—the quiet village tucked away in the mountainsides of Vylbrand he and his family had lived in for many years. He remembered it clearly, only a handful of days having passed since—the screams of panic when the scene was discovered, and the stench of rotten flesh and dried, caked blood that wafted from the building the next few days afterward during the preliminary investigations. Not a single orphan was accounted for—all forty-three of them were now listed as missing, though the entire village suspected the worst. The council wanted answers for the growing fear of citizens, and the Maelstrom held suspicions for terrorist or even cultist activity. Rodarin, however, feared for his own son and daughter, and planned to protect them the only way he knew how. By solving the case.

to be c͕̫̼͎o̫̻͙̖n͚̻̻͎t̜̩͖̻͎̗i͉̯͚̬̬̙̤n͎̙̱̰u̲͎̥͙͍̰̜e̟̮͎̫̩̺̗d̹͖ .

#The Children #Rodarin Calrise #Westmoore #It's time again #Origins #FFXIV RP #Crystal LFRP #Mateus RP #Balmung RP

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ka-ffxiv · 3 years

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But It Wasn’t An Accident

(( @rodarin-calrise ))

The thick, liquid pearl sloshing in the fountain caused him to fancy it as congealing blood. Blood fresh from his victim's mouth, slightly foamy, but hardening into brown flakes. Blood seeping from where the ceruleum charge had launched it when it made contact with the soldier’s abdomen. The ichor from the body's stomach was even thicker, more in tune with the consistency of the fountain. The outer layers had congealed and darkened, becoming almost rubbery in texture like extra surprise giblets that coated the entryway to the man's-

A hand grabbed his shoulder, and the pout that formed over his deliciously purposeful feminine lips portrayed his disappointment with the manners of the equites here as he was force fed greetings of, “Welcome to Westmoore~ I'm Rodarin Calrise, the mayor of Westmoore. Come -- let's get you settled in. ”

The man's manner of dress did nothing to save him from the posh Viera's judgement. It was disheveled, poorly done, and basically an afterthought. Ka turned and bounced his travel bag up the touched shoulder slightly, also meant to dislodge the mayor's hand. A perfect smile played over the previous pout and he masked his voice with effeminacy, “Hello there, pumpkin. I'm here to inspect the scene.”

“Ahh, yes, yes, right away, but first let's get you settled in!” The mayor left little room for protest as he moved off down the path, but protest Ka did.

“I only have this little satchel. Hardly a reason to fuss over room and board,” he mentioned sweetly, if not saccharinely.

“Nonsense, nonsense!” Rodarin replied as he seemingly sped up even more, “Guests are welcome. Yes. Very welcome.”

The darkness closed in with no more candles to hold it at bay as Ka followed the man until they reached a crossroad, one sign pointed at Westmoore, and another at someplace called Devil's Edge. It was the latter that Rodarin chose to head down. “We aren't going to Westmoore?” he asked with a chipper lilt that cloaked an abrupt nausea.

“Oh no, no -- we need to get you settled in first,” the mayor replied with a stare devoid of thought.

One of Ka's ears folded over itself in disgruntlement, but -- the smell of the moist earth was so thick and rich the mosses growing over it could be visualized, shoving their image to the forefront for observation. It was nice, thick and green, but -- cold, cold, cold. He shivered. Arms wrapped tightly about himself as his nose bobbed nervously and his ears swiveled for any purchase on reality.

Rodarin was gone. There was no road. There was no sky. Only a forest. Another forest come to further mangle the remnants of his sanity.

He froze at the sight of a light, paused, thought, and then cautiously approached with arms still about himself trying to calm the shaking.

What the light illuminated left his head slightly slack from confusion. That was clearly his gorgeous self on the ground. His androgyny would be near impossible to replicate in the exact portions he had sculpted for himself. His eyes moved from where his skull had caved to the hole in his torso where the slightest hints of organs were visible -- what did his insides look like? Sheer curiosity overpowered anything else. The faceless, waxen monstrosity sampling his corpse didn't phase his mindset. It would just be a bothersome detail until it acted as something other than decoration.

The monster looked his way and Rodarin appeared from about a tree, “Welcome back to Westmoore. I hope you enjoy your stay. Try to avoid the Woods next time, won't you?” He was all smiles and sugar, displaying the points of his teeth. A new detail. And then he began letting out howling laughter, and not the sort you would release towards an ally in such a predicament. Not if a shred of empathy existed, anyway.

Ka stared at him as his mind did a few simple calculations that lead back to the conclusion that no action he would take would have any meaning. In summary, he was either already dead or this wasn't real. Either way nothing he could do past this point would ever matter, and so Ka did as he pleased-

-and gave a quick succession of jabs at the Mayor's gut, the same sort a rushed chef gave a chicken prior soaking it in spices. The previously unseen dirk was quick and to the point. It conveyed all he wanted to say to him, really.

While he aimed towards the gut, something else stabbed him in the heart. Ka's fist squeezed the wooden handle as the stream of pain hit and nearly brought him down. Without break, another torrent of searing ice in his chest forced him to his knees and his response was to release a steady tone, lips pulled back into some combination of a smile and a snarl. The tone raised, hit a new note, and continued in song. Even as the agony tore at his innards and brought him flat and blind, he sang gently until his mind joined the void with his other senses.

At least, until he woke up. It was the roof of his wagon he serenaded now. A ball of sheets had been bunched into a fist and clammy moisture dotted his gooseflesh afflicted skin. His expression quickly dulled with voice falling to silence, nose bobbing slightly, and he muttered to himself with disdain, “That's what I get for drinking myself to sleep.” And he'd do it again tonight.

#rodarin calrise #Westmoore #public prompt #the nightmare before endwalker #I actually have no idea how to use tumblr

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dawning-star · 3 years

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ℑ𝔫𝔱𝔯𝔬𝔡𝔲𝔠𝔦𝔫𝔤...

After bullying talking with our dear Host, I spent a bit of time last week to renovate my apartment from being a simple little screenshot studio to the Mayor's Office. It is now available as an in-game set piece for @rodarin-calrise specifically, as a small part of the event that first started with the appearance of @the-children.

So, if you have some dealings with the good Mayor, there's at least now an in-game locale for it be it actual RP or...if you just need it for a reason. Just respect the space is all I ask if you do wish to use or visit. It'll stay up for a while because I like how it turned out.

Located at {Balmung} Lily Hills Apartments, Ward 13 (Subdivision), Room #28

#I held onto this with it mostly under wraps until they could take a look #but with their seal of approval that means it is now A Thing #I really don't want to use the tag please don't make me it's a misnomer and Saint is completely to blame #ffxiv rp venue #balmung server

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thevoilinauttheory · 3 years

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It Was An Accident

[ for @the-children‘s Nightmare Before Endwalker, and as a response to @rodarin-calrise’s post here! ]

[ i didn’t reblog it because of how long it’d all be and i am constantly anxious about taking up peoples’ dashboards lmao so i’m so sorry if this is done wrong in advance, i haven’t rp’d on tumblr in like... years and i feel awkward af but the adderall and need to write are curb-stomping the anxiety (okay this is like... half prompt half rp reply i’m so sorry) ]

[ this is in direct sequel to this prompt! ]

The first sign should have been that he woke up... semi-peacefully. No nightmares, nor terrors, nor screaming; he was startled awake by nearly falling out of his chair.

Gods, his head hurt. He couldn’t even rightly blame the drink for it - he drank far more than that on a daily basis... or maybe it was the withdrawal. No, it had to be the damned voices. He heard them again, and the more he blamed them, the more prominent they were.

He stuffed his hand into his pocket.

The watch chained to his belt said it was mid-afternoon, and yet... it was just as dark outside as it was when he arrived. What time was it when he arrived, even? He brushed himself off, straightened the bags that settled at his waist, and set to stepping outside of the inn... the thought still rattled.

What time was it when he checked in? How long was he asleep?

He couldn’t rightly remember.

It was still damp outside when he made it there. It killed whatever mood he could have had, really. And killed his hair too. He was trying deperately to cling to something small - his book came to mind, and he fished it out to begin writing in it again. All of the questions in his head.

“What time is it? Has it passed, even? Is there a fluctuation we should be aware of?” He could feel it - that something off, the one that crawled through his blood with a sickening ichor; it paced his own, matched his breathing. There it was again. “What is this feeling that keeps dragging its way into my throat? Should I be worried? Should I be scared? Should I embrace it? For it feels so much like...”

He stopped in front of a fountain, staring at the pearlescent water as if it’d give him answers. Watching it ripple as any other fountain would--

Pearls?

It shimmered, oily, like soap - waving an array of muted colors underneath the candlelight. How strange. How--

How could he even see it?

Maximiloix pulled his eye patch over his aetherial eye, revealing the world as it truly was - blinking to gather his bearings on the suddenly bright darkness that assaulted his vision. It was just the same. The water was like that of liquid pearls, how could he see it so clearly without sight? He slid the patch back over, now leaning back to write in his book again.

No, he was going to draw this. He needed some sort of evidence that he wasn’t as mad as he was being made seem - he stood for a few minutes, crudely sketching out the shape of the fountain, and the colors that plagued it. No, he wouldn’t let the curiosity end there, with a picture. He fumbled through his bags for the containers he brought. He was right in bringing materials to conduct research, an island that springs up over a literal night must have some interesting characteristics. It was before he could truly grab what he was looking for, that a hand had found itself firmly planted on his shoulder.

It was a simple gesture which had warranted the simplest of defenses - of course, Maximiloix was anything but “simple” and the fear that shot through him to rupture his deep concentration formed a splattering of flames that emanated from his feet and spread outward to gain distance on whatever creature or person had the utter audacity as to touch him.

What followed was a laugh - of course it was. Many found his defense funny in some strange way, and his eye found the perpetrator in the form of a man. Tall for a hyur... short, compared to himself. He tilted his head at him,

“Welcome to Westmoore~”

He had chimed. Some vague semblance of happiness found in the dreariness of the area - yet the expression on his face was devoid of any such emotion.

There was something wrong here. So very wrong. He couldn’t place it. He ignored it.

“Thank... you, I suppose.” What else was he supposed to say? The citizens had barely spoken a word to him, unless initiated himself. This man came from outright nowhere, spooked the magic right out of him, and suddenly... talks to him. He was torn between asking questions and keep silent. Something wasn’t right about this man - in fact, the voices-- Maximiloix rubbed at his forehead to try and quiet them down. “Apologies for the... display. I am Maximiloix Voilinaut, sent by the Maelstrom to... investigate the place, I suppose. I- I am sorry, did I catch your name?”

It was foggy, the voices, the sights - the aether that faded in and out, with colors the swayed as much as he felt like he currently was.

“I’m Rodarin Calrise, the Mayor of Westmoore. Come — let’s get you settled in.”

Right. Rodarin - had he heard the name before? He couldn’t remember. Everything was beginning to get... hazy.

“Settled in? Oh, there is no need - I have found my own way for the time being.”

But he insisted... and he couldn’t refuse. His feet followed the Mayor regardless of his qualms. He had only been this entranced once in his life, and... well, it didn’t end up too terrible, he had thought. Not that he truly noticed it all.

“I will say... time is easy to lose track of here, is it not? Or...” Maximiloix drew the watch from his pocket again. The time hadn’t changed. “...Or it cannot be lost at all, can it.”

What was going on? Why did he continue to follow? This all should have settled wrongly in his stomach. There it was again, the cold ache that chewed through him - that turned the ice in his bones to water, it heated him from the inside. Was he sweating again? What in the hells was happening?

They turned the opposite direction of their intended destination - where he stared at the sign in disbelief, and yet... he could not question it. The words that came from his mouth were of an entirely different subject. His mind had shut down all sense, and defaulted to his usual state of... conducting research.

“Do you find that the characteristics of your flora and fauna may differ from that of Vylbrand’s? Despite arriving in the area... it would seem strange some magically appearing island would have the same as us. Much like Val when it was rediscovered - the entirety of its character had shifted in the short time it was gone. New creatures, new habitats, even a change in how magic worked within its bounds. Despite the usage of aetherytes on it, teleporting to it still remains largely impossible - what of your island? Is yours just the same?”

The error of attempting to compute the danger he was walking into resulted in a string of nonsense, the floodgate of voices released with no filter - and for a moment, anyone that had known his grandson would know exactly where the man obtained his penchant for not shutting up.

His questions were cut... somewhat short by the pain in his head, the nagging and yelling and gods-awful screeching picked up again. He kept the grunt of pain to himself, but when he was able to focus again...

“A forest?” He hummed under his breath. Nothing was adding up anymore. Was anything adding up before? If it was, it wasn’t now. He looked at his watch. No time had passed. It was broken. Or time was broken. Something was broken. Where were they headed? He couldn’t remember. Was he going senile already? He predicted at least another decade before that.

What was happening - what was happening -

Maximiloix shook his head to clear himself of the fog, blinking the haze from his eyes to be met face to face with... what was this mess? He looked down at himself. The melting disfigured man shaped pile had his colors. That was his signature he was looking at, but no. That was impossible. Instead of being deterred by the sight, by even the creature that was supposedly eating chunks of the damned thing; he stepped forward. He moved towards it. The curiosity, it would kill him in the end, wouldn’t it... and yet, he didn’t care.

“Welcome back to Westmoore. I hope you enjoy your stay. Try to avoid the Woods next time, won’t you?”

The voice of the Mayor cackled in his ears as he tried to make heads or tails of what he was looking at; his eyes turned up to a face of sharpened teeth - the predator seeing its prey. And he...

His own laugh bubbled up from his chest, through the searing and burning pain in his chest - he laughed, he laughed. There was no one here to be scared of this unexplained jovial attitude - there was no one to look at him strangely but the strangeness that surrounded him. He laughed as his knees hit the grass, as he clawed into his own chest, as the edges of his vision began to grow dark.

“This is no nightmare - this better be the best damned sleep of my life!” He laughed. And laughed. And laughed more through his words, up until there was no air for him to laugh with - up until he passed out there.

#nightmare before endwalker #prompt #about: Maximiloix Voilinaut #the cold truth #it is time for sleeps #the pain and numbness took over halfway through #and it ended up not as good as i wouldve liked #but i am determined to just #post #"orz

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ffxiv-angora · 3 years

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>> Original prompt post by @rodarin-calrise <<

(( Sorry for the double post! I went back to change/fix a few things and decided to just repost this on its own. It's still basically the same thing. Just changed up the ending lol ))

If it weren’t for the inquiry and promise of a substantial amount of gil sent to her by the Thaumaturge Guild, she wouldn’t be here. Stuck on this damn boat surrounded by equally curious strangers on their way to the mysterious island that had appeared overnight. It’d only been a sun or so since she’d met with others in the Shroud to discuss the matter of all the strange occurrences in Eorzea. That storm, which had something called The Arrival hidden at the center according to The Whispers, had only just formed. Now it had parted to reveal something that definitely didn’t belong. Large landmasses don’t just form out the aether like that. Angora couldn’t deny that she was curious. At least this trip would possibly give her something to take back to the rest of the group along with lining her pockets just a bit.

At least that’s what she’d hoped.

“Ah- My apologies!” Where did that old man come from? Her mask did have blind spots and she’d been deep in thought. The man was gone before she could try and apologize further. Angora shrugs, turning back to the ocean. Westmoore, was it? That’s the name she’d heard whispered by others who had visited ahead of her. This port they were coming to was Candlelight Cove. Odd names all around. But she supposed she’d heard worse.

The ship’s sudden lurch and halt did catch her off guard just enough to cause her to stumble. Angora hissed more than a few profanities under her breath as she inspected her hand. It’d only just been healed up after her encounter with The Children and now here it was bleeding again. Lovely. Her ears pinned back slightly and she did what she could to wipe the blood off her hand before clenching it into a fist in an attempt to stop any further bleeding. It was quickly forgotten once the ship’s ramp was set out so they could go ashore. Angora paused long enough to give the town a quick glance and raise her hood up over her head before disembarking.

Candlelight Cove was...interesting. It certainly lived up to its name. The oddest thing of all was the fountain. Angora couldn’t help but just stare at it. There was no way the substance pouring from it was water. Yet it seemed to be liquid. It was thick. Certainly not something she was willing to shove her hand into. She did start to reach a hand out to see if she could sense any sort of aether within this liquid pearlite substance.

Until a hand on her shoulder about had her jumping out of her skin, that is.

Angora’s ears pinned flat against her head as she spun to face the new arrival. How had he managed to sneak up on her so quietly? The sight of him was unnerving. Everything from his distant stare to that uncomfortable smile. She hardly had a chance to question him before he’d introduced himself. He was the mayor?

“...Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rodarin. I don’t know about getting settled in yet. I’ve only just arrived- h-hey!” She hardly had a chance to finish her statement before the man had already turned and started walking away from her. How rude. Alarm bells were already ringing in her head. This man was already strange enough. Now he’d just started walking off to lead her to gods know where. Surely he couldn’t be trusted. But...if he is the mayor of Westmoore, perhaps he could at least show her to the town proper. Angora sighs, double-checking she still had her linkpearl and weapons with her before hesitantly running off to catch up with this Rodarin. At least her wooden mask did a good job of hiding her confused expressions.

Angora made a habit of glancing over her shoulder to keep a mental check on how far they’d walked from the port city. Every step was counted and tucked away for later. Just in case. When they came to the fork in the road, Angora stepped closer to squint and read the writing.

“Westmoore and Devil’s Edge? The latter sounds quite ominous. I suppose we aren’t too far from your” -she blinks when she notices the mayor had changed course to head in the opposite direction of the city he was supposedly in charge of- “We.. aren’t going to Westmoore?”

“Oh no, no–we need to get you settled in first.”

“I-I…” Angora shifts her mask slightly so she could press a hand to her mouth. Why did she feel so sick all the sudden? Had the trip over really upset her stomach so much. She eyes the retreating back of Rodarin warily. Perhaps this ‘Devil’s Edge’ was the name of their housing district? Like the Mists? Her ears pinned back once again but she eventually jogs after the mayor to catch up with him. Those alarm bells from before were still going off and yet...they seemed much quieter. Distant. Even as she walked beside Rodarin down the path she found herself only focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. Her head felt...so fuzzy. When had she let herself give in to being so careless?

When she does look back up again, her pace quickly slows. Where were they? How long had they been walking? They were heading towards...where? This forest looked different. That wasn’t right. No matter how hard she pushed to try and think of answers, nothing was there. Her ears droop underneath her hood and her tail curls anxiously around one leg. Her heart feels like it’s going to beat right out of her chest. She’d forgotten. How could she have forgotten?

Wait. Where was the mayor? Angora spins around until she spots the light. Perhaps he’d gone ahead to light the way? It was fairly dark in this forest. The cloak around her shoulders is pulled closer as the temperature drops. It was supposed to be enchanted against extreme temperatures. How was she so cold? There were so many questions swirling in her mind that were going unanswered. And yet...she pushes forward. When she arrives at the tree, she really wishes she hadn’t.

Once again, more frantic questions fill her mind. How? How was this possible. That...person on the ground was her. Or at least looked eerily similar to her. That couldn’t be true simply because she was perfectly alive and standing before it this instant. Yet there she was...on the ground with her skull bashed in and chunks missing from her torso. She stumbled back a few steps with a startled gasp when she saw the strange creature. It seemed to be made of some kind of wax. This was something she’d never seen before. An unfortunate theme with this whole ordeal.

Why wasn’t she running? She should be running. Right? But where would she go? She couldn’t even remember how she’d ended up in this forest. Her mind drifts to the linkpearl that she’d brought along with her. She needed to call someone. Anyone. Let them know where she’d gone. So that they could find her if she died- No. No, she wouldn’t die here. There was far too much on the line. Too much was waiting for her back home.

All the fear that had been building up in her chest immediately flared into a rage when Rodarin stepped out from behind the tree. Him. This was his fault. He’d brought her here. Her anger only continued to surge when he spoke.

“Welcome back to Westmoore. I hope you enjoy your stay. Try to avoid the Woods next time, won’t you?”

“Welcome back? What in the Twelve’s name is that supposed to mean?!” she hissed. “I’ve never been here before...” What he said rang a few distant bells in the back of her mind. The Whispers.

“They have always been fond of you. This result is unsurprising."

That is what it had told her about The Children. It spoke as if these events had happened before. But they hadn’t! Surely she would have remembered something like this. Her memories of her unfortunate childhood and life before the Calamity were fuzzy at best for some cycles, but she couldn’t have forgotten this-...this fear.

“What is the meaning of all of this, Rodarin?!” Her tone wavered between anger and desperation. “What do you mean by next ti- Argh!"

Angora had felt all sorts of pains in her life. She certainly had the scars to prove it. Everything from paper cuts to being run through with a sword. Slashed open. Each of those times she’d managed to press on, be it because of sheer stubbornness or adrenaline. But this? This was different. Her legs immediately gave out from under her while she desperately clawed at her chest. That wooden mask she’d been wearing up to this point fell into the dirt. The pain was cutting through every fiber of her being. Even having a voidsickess eat away at her very aether hadn’t been so agonizing.

She needed help. Someone. Kowa, Yera, Caspian, the group from the Shroud….The Whispers. Anyone. Please. Angora takes a shuddering breath. She needed to stand. She needed to fight. Dying here was not an option.

Faintly glowing, furious eyes made their way up to rest on the laughing Mayor. One had shifted to claw at the ground beneath her. A vicious growl ripped its way out of her and a few tears stained her cheeks. Angora fought through the pain the best she could to try and summon her aether forward. To lash out at Rodarin with fiery claws. But it doesn’t move fast enough. The few embers she’d managed sputter out as the world spins and falls into darkness.

No. Please, no. Not here. Not yet. The look on the face, her face, was burned into her mind.

------------------------

When she does finally wake again, it is not peaceful. Angora’s body lurches and she jolts up into a sitting position with a startled scream. She was...alive? How long had she been out? What had happened? She blinks a few times, her head still swimming as she tries to look around to see where she’d ended up.

Was that rain? Angora squints, slowly leaning back to look up at the stormy sky. This wasn't the forest from before. She flinches when her back hits something solid. Not trusting her legs just yet, Angora rolls onto her knees to see just what was behind her.

It was the crossroads sign.

How in the world had she managed to get back here? Had she even gone into that forest in the first place? A flash of the distorted face on her "corpse" has her heaving. Surely that hadn't just been some sort of nightmare. The pain had felt so real. Her hand still stung and her chest burned from where she'd been clawing at it. But here she was, sitting on the soggy ground soaked to the bone as if she'd been sleeping there for bells.

Angora hisses, grabbing the post of the roadsign to get some leverage and slowly force herself to her feet. Her very bones creaked and her limbs felt like they were made of lead. That wouldn't stop her, though. She makes an attempt to brush some of the mud from her pants and her withering gaze shifts towards Westmoore. Her discarded mask gently floats up from the ground to rest in her waiting hand.

Not yet. Westmoore could wait. For now, she needed to return home to speak with the others. Her mask is slipped back on and she pulls up her hood as she starts on her way back to the port in Candlelight Cove. This place clearly had many secrets and things were personal now.

#ffxiv #ffxiv rp #ic things #angora #The Nightmare Before Endwalker

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thefuckingsun · 6 years

Photo

@westmoore-province ‘s Mayor Rodarin Calrise

#portrait #The Children #Westmoore #sun scribbles #my art #he's a creepy dude #@_@

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the-children · 3 years

Text

The Westmoore Tragedies | Chapter 5 - Final

[ TW: Extreme Violence, Gore ]

Brisk steps echoed along the street as Rodarin made his way through the Ward, his heart continuing to drum on the edge of panic and mania. He needed to see that his twins were safe — to make sure no one would harm them. He didn’t have to worry about those dark, abysmal Children of the shadows. They didn’t kill fellow children, onl̢y ̴hor̢rifi̵ȩd ad̷ưlts̢ ͘k̨il̕l͝ ̛Ch͏i̧l͟dre̸n. That’s all that matters to you, their safety. That’s all that mattered to him, their safety. The few people that still lingered in the streets gave him puzzled glances of confusion or concern. Others just pretended not to notice, keeping their distance from anything that would prevent them from having just another ordinary day. Despite the absence of any wound from the branch that had impaled him, the gaping hole that persisted on the front and back of his shirt, coupled with the large blood stains that seeped beneath them, offered clear evidence it had happened. Small rivets of crimson continued to dribble from his ears and nostrils — the gentle ringing in his head still persisting. His staggered, swaying gait didn’t persuade people to offer aid.

Once the home of Sarina’s sister came into view just at the end of the street, he fought against the dizzying buzz in his skull to quicken his pace — nearly stumbling over more than once as he grew closer. He needed to hurry — he needed to see with his own eyes that his children were safe. That the Children were safe. That the C̛h̸i͠ĺd͏r͢en ͏w͏er̸e ̷sa͏f̵e. He didn’t even bother with the door, his shoulder bashing into the side — a loud crunch and clatter of splintered wood raining down as the frame was ripped open for him to storm in. “Sarina! Viveann!” He called out their names, squinting to see into the darkened home. He hurried into the living room, his fists clenched tightly as no sign of t́he ͟C͞ḩi͠l̕dr̸en were present — not even the toys they had packed. Hurried footsteps alerted him to the staircase, his hand instinctively bolting to the hilt of his sword — though relaxed only slightly as he saw Viveann in her nightgown. “Rodarin!? What the fuck are you doing!?” She exclaimed, a slight tremble of fear and frustration in her voice at the sudden and violent intrusion.

“Where is Sarina? Where are the Children!?” Rodarin demanded, easing closer towards the staircase as Viveann reached the bottom, her brow furrowing into a glare at the man, as her fear had given way to confusion — though the anger was still quite apparent. “Sarina? Th’hell are you talking about, Rodarin? You lot haven’t visited here since the Moonfire Faire!” A painful thump hammered into his mind, the ringing in his head growing slightly louder — and more disorienting. No — focus, he told himself as his body swayed lightly in recoil, allowing Viveann the time to register his bloodied appearance. Her tone sweetened, cautious hands reaching out towards him. “Oh gods — Rodarin, are you alright? There’s so much bloo–.” Rodarin gripped at Viveann’s forearm, reeling her closer as his words grew more spiteful. “I don’t have time for this shit, Viv — I sent Sarina here with the Children to stay after the murders in Westmoore. Where. Are. They?”

Viveann’s head shook slightly in disbelief, her eyes widening — staring upon Rodarin as if he were mad. “W-What murders, Rodarin? Sarina — the twins — they aren’t here. Are they not home with you? I.. I’ve not heard of any murders in West–” A loud smack filled the room as Rodarin struck her to the ground. Liar. “Liar!” he cried, dropping to his knees to deliver another blow — this time with a closed fist. Viveann grunted in pain, frightened whimpers and mumbled, stuttering pleas unable to escape her lips fast enough before the next blow. And the next. And the next. “Where are they!?” Rodarin snarled — smashing his knuckles deeper into her already crackling jaw before she could even answer. ”I’ll never tell you” “Rodarin, please! Li–” Pop. Her jaw snapped from its joint, a cry of pain gurgled behind pooling blood. “Tell me where the Children are!” ”Never!” Crunch. Viveann could do nothing but watch as Rodarin’s fist wound up for blow after blow — eventually granted the mercy of numbing unconsciousness as his beating went unhindered.

Tenderized chunks of flesh, splintered segments of cranium, and an unrecognizable mound of meat were all that would remain of Viveann’s head–Rodarin’s own hands flayed down to the bone and tendon around his knuckles. She was going to harm the Children. She was going to harm the C̡̕͠h́͟ild̛ŕ̛̛e̡͞͡n. His vision blurred behind a building wall of tears — perhaps he was too late. Perhaps she had already killed them — or handed them off to the Maelstrom to do the dirty work for her. T̨h͞i͝s ̨d͜ea͜th̨ wa͜s̷ ̢too lènie̡n̡t f͟or̕ he̷r.͘ He spent his last few hours in the house searching for any sign of their stay — their clothing, toys, anything at all. It looked as if a whirlwind had devastated the interior by the time he was done, Viveann’s lifeless body lost beneath scattered furniture and debris. He ripped ribbons of linen from her gown to dress the oozing wounds on his knuckles, finally taking his leave from the wrecked house and locking it behind him with the key he had found during his search. He stood there in the chilled night air, staring vacantly at the sky — unsure of what to do. Maybe they returned to Westmoore. A spark of hope ignited in his chest, his feet automatically setting forth to leave the Mist just as quickly as he had arrived. Maybe they returned to Westmoore!

It hadn’t taken him long to complete the journey — a couple of hours, considering his unsteady balance and repetitive pauses to rub at his throbbing temples. Dawn was breaking, a beautiful fiery horizon of the sun’s rays greeting him as Westmoore finally came into view along the cobbled road. It was a peaceful sight compared to the macabre carnage of the past long hours. The streets were still relatively empty — something he was thankful for given his appearance. He was making his way for home, hopefully to Sarina and the C̷͞h̀į͜l̕͠͠ḑ́r̴én͡ — but then, he froze in his tracks. No.. That wasn’t possible.. He turned, looking to the Orphanage that rested on the outskirts of the village. He approached carefully, his eyes wide as he looked into the windows. He could see them — the orphans. Carrying about their morning as usual, along with their caretakers. Their alive, unharmed, caretakers. He pushed the gate open, moving to knock upon the front door.

He was welcomed inside by a startled caretaker, rushing the others to retrieve the first aid kit to tend to his bloodied hands. A cold sweat began to roll down his arms and forehead, his arm reaching to catch himself against the doorway as another agonizing thump hammered at his skull, the ringing growing louder. They should be dead. “You should be dead..” he murmured in disbelief, his fingers trembling as he struggled to keep himself steady. “Pardon?..” The clueless caretaker asked, her frightened appearance only growing. These Children were supposed to be taken, and protected. They should be dead. Blood oozed along the previously dried trail that now caked under his nostrils and ears, the deafening buzz in his skull almost maddening. They should be dead. His least-injured hand reached for the hilt of his blade, the slow metallic ring of steel being unsheathed sending the Orphanage into silence. Vacant, hazed eyes stared back at the woman as Rodarin’s grip over his sword tightened. “Yo̡ù ͜s͝h̡ould ̵b̛e ̷d̵̰ḙ͙͡a̠̱͓̩̪ḑ̟̜̪̯̮̥.̟̪”

With one swift, mighty swing, the enchanted blade sliced through her neck — literally cutting off her scream before she could release it as her body dropped to the floor, her head rolling a few feet away. Rodarin closed the entrance behind him, the other caretakers beginning to scream and beg for their lives — only to be cut down in the same fashion. Three of them tried to run from him — but the orphans, who had been watching silently with emotionless stares, pinned them down to hammer at their legs with whatever they could find as the caretakers screamed in agony. This seemed to awaken the otherwise motionless onlookers, setting them to finish what Rodarin had started. They used large kitchen knives to mercilessly hack away at the remaining victims necks, unable to decapitate with a single cleave given their weaker arms. Others began to scratch away at their limbs, open their bellies to play with their entrails — playful giggles and smiles beginning to show on their faces. What good Children. What good C̵͢hiĺ́dr͞ȩ͝n, he thought, allowing them to play as he moved to take his leave, only to find a dark figure standing in front of the door. It was one of those shadow-woven Children, waiting for him as glowing white eyes and wide, gleeful grin were resting upon him. Its words flooded his mind.

C҉̘̳͖̪ͅo͔͙̘̫̼͞m̵e̙̗̬̝̤̱̥͜.̼͈̫̯̜̙̞̀ Ț̛̦̯̠̳̙̫h̛e̴̬͍̙͎ṛe͔ ̤̬͖a͖͇̝r̙̭̙̹̭e m̸̟̟̦̳o̦̰̪̻͓̮͟ͅr̦̬̘̭̯͡e̸̲̦̙̥̱͖ ̳͍C͏͙͓h͏̭͈ͅi̵̬̘̱̫̻͖l̷̮͔d̵̳̙r̗͓͓͔̬͘e͎̣n͉̤͡ ̞̰̲̼̲̝f͍͜o̤r ̰̤̩̱̜̳͚͘ý̳͎ͅo̞̮͕̠̗̦ụ̠ͅ ̻̝̞t͖̭̰̗̱̤̬o͓ ̠̪͘s̬̰͍̺̬a̺̣̖̤͡ve̴͕̻̘̝͍̣̟.̢̦̮͔ .

Go with them. Rodarin nodded, moving to take the dark Child’s hand. His vision began to blur and distort — or perhaps it was the world itself? The familiar crimson taint began to seep into his vision, overtaking it and drawing the world back into focus until he was able to make out his surroundings. He was back at the school, standing in the entrance and looking into the main hall. With a blink of his eyes, the bloody shadows were gone — the school appearing as normal. The sounds of lectures and murmur of children filled the hallways, muffled behind closed doors. Thump, the ringing grew even louder in his mind, fresh blood spilling from his head once again as he fell to his hands and knees. The teachers are still alive. They should be dead. He pressed his hands tighter to the ground, arms quaking behind his struggle to lift himself back up. They should be dead. To protect the Children. Once he was back on his feet, he staggered his way towards the main office — Rodarin’s face completely expressionless as he drew his bloodstained sword once more. They need to be dead.

The door for the office shut behind him, a soft click offered as it locked. None of the faint, muffled cries of terror and pain, nor the heavy cleaves of his blade carving through flesh would be heard through the closed door as the school’s lectures persisted. The headmaster and his receptionist were dragged into their storage closet as Rodarin fabricated notes in their handwriting. Noting not to come into the office due to repairs. Not to contact him, as the administrative staff were on a sudden conference call to Limsa Lominsa. All students grade six and higher were to stay home tomorrow. And all other staff members were to stay after hours with the younger students for a safety seminar to be presented in room ‘1-B’ about the Orphanage Massacre. He taped the notice to the office’s door, locking it behind him before slipping copies of the notice under each classroom door with a single knock. The ringing pulsed louder in his mind as the final notice was delivered, the crimson shadow returning to his vision and resetting him back at the entrance of the school, the doors now closed and the sickly crimson remaining after a testing blink. With blade in hand, he made his way down the hall to ascend the stairwell to the second floor.

Just as instructed, he could hear the panicked discussions of the staff, frightened by the sudden supernatural shadow that had washed over the school, and the chill that lingered in the air. Kill them. The ringing now numbed Rodarin’s mind, his body no longer swaying with dizzying fatigue. I’ll kill them, was the only thought in his mind as he opened the door to step inside — cleaving and slicing through any of the staff that happened to be nearby. The young students watched with indifference as the adults screamed and cowered, toppling desks and scurrying out of the classroom like mice. Rodarin finished plunging his blade into the last victim that remained in the classroom, not even bothering to withdraw it from the man’s chest. He grabbed at his leg, dragging his blade’s new sheath of flesh down the hall to the one classroom he knew they would be hiding in. And just as with the Orphanage, the Children soon set into motion, playful giggles escaping their lips as they hurried to play with their new toys at the end of the hall.

With his work done, Rodarin carefully descended the stairwell to make his way for the exit, pausing at the bend to stare. He could see..well, himself — his back to the stairs as his other self stared at the closed doors of the front entrance in what appeared to be shock. A small hand brushed against his bandaged right, causing him to glance down at the dark Child that was now holding his hand. And just like that, they were gone — Rodarin’s previous self running towards his children’s classrooms in a panic, to try and find them, and make sure they were safe. . .

to be ͚̕c̗̣̫̞͖̹ơ͉̖̰̮͔n̶̻̳͎̫͖͎͙͎̖̂͛̿̑̀̌͘͝-̴̨̹͎̣̰̩̳̮̩̝̝̹̳͑̎͛ͤ̆͊͟͡-̵̶̴̲͓͍̙̜̪̦̪͓̘̙̘̫͙͚̈́ͫͬ̚͟-̷ͦ̈́̊̌ͦ̏̊̉̂̂ͤ̃ͧ̽̊̐̊͋͒͘҉̫͈͉͙͉̺͍͈̬̘͓͇̘-̜̺͇̩͖͋ͩ͆̐̓̎͗͊̽̋ͪ̀͜͡ͅ-͗͌ͫ͆ͫ̎ͪ̒͑́̏͏҉̸̢̖͖̞̹͖͙̤͚͓͎̙̫̱̭̱̤̥̖̠͡-̸̭̪̣͓̖̮̉̋ͨͦ̏ͫ̓͘͟͡ ̶͑͐ͧͭ̀̋́ͭ͂̕҉̻̥͙̜͔̙ . .

#The Children #Rodarin Calrise #Westmoore #It's time again #Origins #FFXIV RP #Crystal LFRP #Mateus RP #Balmung RP

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the-children · 3 years

Text

The Westmoore Tragedies | Chapter 2

[ TW: Gore below the ‘Keep Reading’ line. ]

“Our children aren’t safe!”

“Have they found who killed those poor people?”

“It’s gonna happen again!”

“We want answers!”

More voices soon joined in, eventually creating a dull roar of overlapping panic from a slowly growing crowd of villagers that had gathered before the town hall—it was a bi-weekly occurrence by now since the massacre was discovered. Rodarin shifted his posture against the stone wall of the storefront he leaned upon, watching and listening as they shouted their concerns and pointed fingers. He couldn’t blame them—hells, he sympathized with them. They were scared because no one had answers, and they were angry there was nothing they could do. A gentle sting of pain pulsed through his lower lip as he bit at it in frustration, quickly turning from the crowd as he made his way to the schoolhouse. He needed to pick up his son and daughter early so they could begin packing their clothes and toys. Sarina planned to leave with the twins, take them to stay with her sister in La Noscea while Rodarin stayed a few more nights to find out what he could.

Firm steps echoed along the tiled floors of the hallway, his stare held upon the dull reflections within the tile while he lost himself to his thoughts. Westmoore had always prided itself on its higher educational standards—it was the reason he and Sarina moved here once they learned she was pregnant. It wasn’t a massive, sprawling city like Limsa Lominsa—but it wasn’t some small, run-down village either. There were multiple classrooms, one for each grade. Luckily, his children were only a year apart—their classrooms were directly across from one another at the end of the hall to his left. As he rounded the corner however, a sudden chill licked at his spine, causing him to stop in his tracks.

He had been so absorbed in his thoughts about the circumstances surrounding the disappearances, that he hadn’t been paying attention to his own. This wasn’t right.. something was very wrong about this. The hallways were unnaturally dark given the time of day—and even more alarming were the sudden lack of windows. His breaths became slightly unsteady as a sense of claustrophobia gripped at his lungs. It was far, far too quiet. There were no murmurs of lectures, nor childlike chatter and laughter. With this level of silence, he didn’t doubt he could even hear the soft scribbling of pencils from the classrooms on the second floor—but there was nothing. He took a few quick steps, which seemed to echo endlessly in this dreadful silence, to peer down the main hallway. The front doors were closed. They were open when he entered—they were always open to help keep the hallways cool during the hotter days. And that was another thing—the cold. The chilled air that sank deep into his flesh that was beginning to make his teeth chatter. This wasn’t right.

His heart began to drum within his chest, heated breath billowing from parted lips as he walked briskly towards the end of the left hallway—he needed to see his children. The doors to the classrooms nearly burst open behind the urgency of his entries, but both would be empty. His heart hammered loudly in his ears, hands lifting to run through and pull at his hair as his mind raced with horrible possibilities. Who took his children? What were they doing to them? And were they even still alive? Soft whimpers and murmured pleads began to dribble from his lips as tears gathered—but fighting through the sickening fear that knotted in his stomach, he sprinted for the other classrooms. With shoulder positioned forward, he burst through door after door—each more violent than the last as wood splintered and hinges cracked. He had eventually searched the entire first floor—even the main office and cafeteria. As he approached the staircase that led to the second floor, the shadows seemed to grow darker. His frenzied pace faltered, shaking fingers resting upon the rail as he peered up into the dark.

He proceeded with caution, climbing the staircase with slow, careful steps as he took this time to try his damnedest at calming himself. Rounding the bend that brought the staircase the rest of the way up, a deep crimson hue began to bleed and taint the shadows, corrupting it into a sickly crimson that tainted his vision—his careful stride pausing a moment to adjust his eyes. His heart skipped a beat as he heard the faint rustling of paper and muffled laughter of children, his pace quickening once more at the mere prospect of finding his son and daughter. Though once he reached the top of the steps, his excitement was quickly crushed by the smeared blood that streaked along the hallway. The first classroom’s door on the right was wide open, blood pooling into the hallway from within. He could make out the smeared drag marks that lead from this open classroom to the one at the end of the hall, with its door closed. Various small shoe prints were left behind in the blood’s trail, all following towards the same closed room. He inched his way down the hall, shaky breaths filling the air between the pauses of muffled laughter and movement that came from the closed classroom. On his way, he carefully inched closer to the open door where the blood trail originated.

His pulse hammered away in his ears as he mustered the nerve to peek into the doorway. The chairs and desks were scattered in disarray while mutilated bodies of adults—teachers and staff—littered the room like trash in pools of blood. Their flesh had been ripped and shredded to literal ribbons, and their faces seemed to have been hollowed out—no eyes, no teeth. “Valrin?.. Mia?..” Rodarin hissed in a pleading whisper, his ears straining as he silently prayed for an answer—only for it to go unheard. Jaw clenched tightly, he stepped back into the hallway and continued to follow the trail towards the closed door at the end of the hall.

His hand hovered over the doorknob as he listened to the commotion within. Occasional laughter, gentle snips of scissors, rustling of paper—if not for the insane circumstances, one would simply assume it was time for crafts. Slowly, steadily, the door opened as Rodarin watched in horror. Various children were scattered among the room, sitting beside the fresh corpses of their teachers—some were still twitching, kept alive to suffer longer. Soft grunts of effort escaped one child as he clipped away at the flesh of a dead woman’s arm. Others were cutting various shapes and patterns into limbs and torsos. Ribbons of skin were used as bindings and plasters for other small crafts. Eyes were scooped from their sockets with tiny fingers as the onlookers cried “Ewwwwww~!” in playful disgust, tossed from one to the other in a sick game of catch. They were playing.. Their faces were lit up in delight, not a care in the world as they played in the blood and gore of their victims. In the obscene horror of it all, Rodarin almost didn’t notice the dark, shadow-covered children standing off to the side, watching the others play with wide eyes and plastered smiles of pure white.

“Mr. Calrise.” He jumped at the formal call of his name, turning quickly to glance down the hall—which was empty. When he looked back, the shadowed children were before him, clawing at his legs as they tried to climb up. He could feel their tiny fingernails digging into his flesh. “Mr. Calrise?” He heard the call again, but was overcome by the weight of the climbing shadows—falling to the ground as his head cracked upon the tile during its whip back. “Rodarin!” A smack stung at his cheek, his eyes bolting open while he gasped and wheezed in panic. Melrin’s hands pressed to his chest, keeping him steady as he studied Rodarin with a worried, concerned expression. Young teens peered past Melrin from the classroom doorway, staring in curiosity and slight fear. “Rodarin, you alright?” Melrin mumbled as he helped him to his feet. “I.. uh..” He was at a loss for words, completely stunned as he looked around. Everything was normal, aside from having woken up on the ground. Melrin gave him a light pat on the back. “You just came to my classroom, stared for a while, then fell over. You feelin’ okay?.. You’re bleedin’” Melrin commented as he gestured towards the bloodstained leggings of Rodarin’s pants.

With tentative fingers he peeled back the cloth, revealing the various tiny scratches that had sunk deep into his flesh. A nauseating panic still gripped at his heart, but for whatever reason, he was back. And he needed to see his children. He needed to leave. “I’m fine. Got scratched up by a damn jackal earlier, must’ve had some disease—feeling all out of place.” He said, fabricating his story quickly as he gave a quick apology and walked briskly towards the staircase with a slight limp. He was on the second floor, and the injuries were still there. It was real, it had to have been. So then why was everything fine now? Back on the first floor, normality had been restored—no busted doors, and only more questions plaguing his mind. He made for the end of the side hall again, finding his children alive and well—and giving them each a long embrace, embarrassing them in front of their classmates. If only they knew why..

He spent the rest of his day with his children, pushing what had happened to the corners of his mind. His children were safe, and he was thankful. That night, he helped them pack their bags, making sure they had enough room for all their favorite toys to keep them entertained while they were away. A restless night awaited him, peeking in to check on them while they slept every ten or twenty minutes as he tried to figure out what the hells had happened. Sleep wouldn’t come until the next morning, Sarina and the kids giving their farewell hugs and kisses as they made off for La Noscea. Rodarin collapsed on the couch, his eyes no longer able to stay open. It was short lived, possibly only three or four hours passing before frantic knocking came to his front door. It took him a moment to heave himself up from the soft embrace of the cushions, the front door creaking open to reveal a captain of the Fleet. “Rodarin, come by the schoolhouse. We found the staff dead.. It’s happened again..”

to ̗̱b̙̤̟e͍͙̦̬̘͞ ̧̠c̣̪̖̙̣̭̮͟o̳̝͝n̥t̪̳i͙̕n̩͡u͓̝e̜̤̘̙̫̩͕d͔̬̩̠̟͙̭͘ .

#The Children #Rodarin Calrise #Westmoore #It's time again #Origins #FFXIV RP #Crystal LFRP #Mateus RP #Balmung RP

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the-children · 3 years

Text

The Westmoor Tragedies | Chapter 4

[ TW: Gore , Body Horror(?) ]

Was he even going the right way anymore? It was impossible to tell. Looking back now, all Rodarin could see was more tainted shadows, bleeding into his vision from every direction. The flames that danced along his enchanted blade offered no sanctuary here in this unholy place, the flames only illuminating up to two feet before the shadows reclaimed the scenery. The gentle crinkle of grass beneath his boots, and the soft crackling of flames licking his blade were the only two sounds that could help fill this dreadful void. He could recall various books and stories that spoke of nothingness — the silence. The darkness. The complete and utter isolation and sense of hopelessness that accompanied it. Words did no justice for the real thing — there was just no true way to describe it. Panic, a sensation he was beginning to grow intimate with, began to build in his chest — for one reason or another, he was sure he was about to die. Sarina, the kids — they would never know what happened to him. Their last memory would be of him waving goodbye as they made for La Noscea.

As these hopeless thoughts plagued his mind and gnawed at his stomach, distant echoes of childlike laughter tickled his ears. Desperate for anything that could lead him away from this darkness — and better yet, to answers — he would cling to it. He sprinted towards the direction of the laughter, grunting out in pain as he thumped and grazed against the scattered trees in the dark. Finally, as he grew closer to the source, the darkness seemed to ease — outlines of the forest slowly but steadily returning. Despite the twisted, surreal crimson that tainted this world, the details of the forest were becoming crisp and clear. This is real, he told himself. Not an illusion — real.

A sudden cry of pain cut through the air, causing Rodarin to skid to a stop behind a nearby tree. He could hear a woman crying nearby, her words indistinguishable behind sobbed tones of sorrow and fear. He kept low to the ground as he moved closer, peering around the trunk of a nearby tree to watch the scene from safety. It was Ahelissa, one of the missing teachers from the school — the one he saw being led into the forest. She was cowering against one of the trees, shielding a child in her arms despite their apathetic and distant stare at the grizzly scene before them. A man — her husband, Berwelf — was standing across from them, blood gushing from his lips as he gurgled nonsense, desperately trying to call out to his wife.

Rodarin’s eyes strained to look closer through the bleeding shadows, finally spotting the steadily growing branches that were breaking through the skin of his arms and torso, while trunk-like vines grew upward, constricting along his legs. He watched along in horror as a dark, twisted tree continued to sprout around, and through, poor Berwelf. Gentle creaks and groans of wood joined the popping of bone that was muted below layers of flesh and muscle as the branches dislocated them one by one while they continued to grow. He could see the small twig-like vines causing the veins beneath his skin to bulge as the tree continued to grow and fuse with its new host. Eventually, the coiling trunk closed around Berwelf, cutting their view from the horrid display as it continued to envelop until it reached a mature height, looking just like all the other trees nearby. Yes.. just like the tree he hid behind now, and the one Ahelissa cowered against.

Rodarin’s gaze swept along the area, studying the seemingly infinite sea of twisted trees that littered this gods-forsaken forest — and a sobering realization caused him to scramble away from the trunk he clung to. They were people.. Rodarin stood in place, stunned at this realization as the now-widowed woman sobbed uncontrollably. The child she had tried to shield began to giggle, slowly building into full, jovial laughter, bringing Rodarin out of his daze to focus back towards the pair. Creaking bark and rattling branches echoed along the tainted forest, swaying against a breeze that was completely absent — almost like a warning, or worse, a promise. The surrounding shadows grew thicker as glowing white eyes began to form within them, soon accompanied by sinister grins. Them. The shadowed children he saw in the school, moving to join the schoolboy in his laughter, as Ahelissa was left frozen with fear — her back pressing tighter against the tree.

One of the shadowed children placed a hand upon the boy’s shoulder, the darkness visibly seeping and spreading deeper along his skin like black ink upon paper. Their voices were impossible to ignore, speaking in unison in some abysmal mixture of childlike innocence and guttural growls — from their lips, from every direction, and even within his mind.

T҉̯̦̹̣̙͇̺h̶̩͉̳͍̮̬͙i͍̭s̟̗̤ ̢̗̻͓̮̣̰o̳͎n̼̼͉͖͔̪e̪̫̻͎̝ ̷̖̪̤w͡i̧̖̘̯̠̦̱l͏l̘̖͚̤̜̞̺ ̤͔̱̠͖͘m̝̪a̴̙̪̰̥k̻͟ȩ͚̠ͅ ̹̞̖ͅu̯̦̻̥s̷͍͖̝ ̟͇̬͔m͕͎o̟̖̳͍͚͞r̦͙̗̬͍͍ͅe͕͍ ̛͓̪̥̜̜to̘̝͙̜̠̺͉y̵s̖͚.͏̰ ͎͉̰̯̳S͖̱̜h̙̤̪̺̻͡e͈̜̰ ͔͜i̹s̫̟͕͚̼̜͈ ͈̦̫͔͇̕st̮̀i͖̭̺̼l͏̩̣͙̘l̳̝̯̱̰ ̹̻̰̞̫̙́f͔̭͠r̟̼̦͞e̡̞͈̥̯̜s͘h͙̕.̧

T̬ak͙͉̺͖̗͎e̛͈̭ ̣͡h͕̘̥͔̘̭̗e̬̗̟̲͓r̠̯̝ ̖̩̩̠̹̗̝d̠̫̲͔e͎̺̺e̶̘p̨̱͎̭e͍̬̣̞͞r,̦͠ ̣̬̜t͇̺o͕͉̠̤ ̖t͍̝̹̼̭̪̣h͏͙̰̣̭e̞̪ F̨̞͕̰̭ac̬̠̭̮̗ṱ̰̞o̲͇͓̻r͔̯̜͈͍y͍͎͖͔̞͍̹.̳̬̥̬͔̀

Wh҉̞͈̳̰̗e͍͡ṋ̪̺̠ ̙͎͎̦̠ͅs̴͔h̬͎̱̼e̘̬͓͡ ̖c͈̫̪a̷̻̹̥͖̠͎͇n̠̱'̡̠͓̫͍͙̩͓t m̦̻͓̻a̛k͉̻̮̼̥e̬͚̼̳̙̖ ̖a̼̱͕̬͝n͏͙̤͚̞͕y͔̪͢m̢̩̫͔̣͍ͅͅo̲̻͕̙̯ͅr͍̲̮͈e͠,̧̟̟̳ ̶͙̗̦̣̜w̩͞e'҉l̯͎̼̜̳̲l̫ ̢͕̖̖͖̦p̯̫̟ḷ͙̜̠̞ͅa̶̳̙̯͓̬̪ͅy̨̳̜̟̪̣̲̻ ̙͎͘w̦̱̦̗̮ì̳̩͖ţ̫̣̯ẖ͝ ẖ̢͈̜͕̱͉e̖̫̯̥͔̬r͓̗̤ ͉͎̗i͕̻̫̝͕̘̰n̯̕s̥͎͇̹͚̳͕t̗͔̩̭̳̹e͔̟̠̠̲̦ͅa̹͙̤͉d̖̼.̙̩͈͟ .

The shadows had nearly swallowed the boy whole by now, one eye bulging wide open as it shifted into a milky white, his lips trickling blood down his untainted jaw while the shadows steadily pried them into a monstrously wide grin — obviously too wide for his lips to endure. The boy obliged in a sing-song voice before he grabbed for Ahelissa’s legs, attempting to drag her deeper into the forest. She kicked and screamed, pleading to the Twelve to save her — instead, the boy grabbed a nearby rock to savagely beat at her shins and knees. It took Rodarin all he had to keep himself from vomiting at the display. Playful giggles, screams of agony, crunching bones, and the squelch of flayed flesh filled his ears as his eyes were forced to look away. Her legs were left in mangled tatters, Ahelissa having already passed out from shock. The boy dragged her along with a skip in his step, the other Children slowly turning their heads towards Rodarin’s direction. His heart jumped into his chest, jumping to his feet to sprint off in the opposite direction.

Wind whistled against his ears as he poured every ounce of effort into his legs, heavy panting escaping his lips. He didn’t dare turn to look back, he just needed to leave. He would not die here. He needed to get back to Sarina — to the kids. He would not let them become like these abominations. He needed to protect the children. Childish laughter echoed throughout the forest, growing louder and clearer as they closed the distance. He felt the ground beneath his feet quaking, and was nearly sent toppling over as a dark hand burst from the ground to swipe at his feet. A crack along the ground shot ahead of him, the soil shattering and shifting as dark limbs and glowing smiles were unearthed, ready to reach for him. He managed to weave through this horrid obstacle course, or cleaving through otherwise impassable blockades of dark limbs and twisted branches with his enchanted blade. The limbs only brought on more laughter from the Children — but the branches.. Cutting through them seem to send a wave of foreign emotions racking at his mind with enough force to blur his vision. Thoughts and feelings that didn’t belong to him, slamming at the walls of his mind with each cut of his blade through twisted bark.

One such assault broke his concentration, a Child rising from the growing fissure to grab at Rodarin’s feet, causing him tumble forward before a branch pierced his shoulder to hoist him into the air. The Child giggled wildly, and began to speak — but he couldn’t listen. As the branch dug deeper into his shoulder, his mind was assaulted by emotions and visions of blood and death, rage and murder. His eyes rolled back into his skull, silent gasps of pain croaking through his throat as his mind shattered and drowned within these visions. These Children weren’t going to stop. They couldn’t be stopped. They were going to use anyone they could to ‘make more toys’. The thought of more parents being forced to watch their children turn into abominations. The thought of them being killed by, or being forced to kill, their own children. And the thought of him having to do the same with his own kids... His mind held onto the last sane notion it had — and something responded.

I have to protect my children.

You have to protect the children.

I have to protect the children.

You have to save the parents.

Because the children kill them.

Or the parents kill the children.

They kill each other.

But Children don’t kill children.

They are spared.

Parents kill Children.

And themselves.

Save the parents.

From themselves.

Save the Children.

From the parents.

Rodarin’s ears began to ring loudly, a wet warmth trickling from them to drip along his jawline as the scent of blood filled his nostrils. His hand wiped at the warm liquid pooling against his lip, smearing his hand in crimson. He now found himself standing at the edge of the Cedarwood in Lower La Noscea, the gates to the Mists straight ahead along the path forward. His head was swimming, his body swaying and staggering like a drunkard as he made his way forward. Sarina’s sister lived in the outskirts of one of the Mists’ wards — he needed to get there, quickly. They may have been turned — and if they did, the guards may attack them as monsters. He needed to save them — to protect them. He needed to protect the C̶̭̤͖h͏̦͕̰̗i̴̞̱̱̙ļ̗͈̻̯d͏̠r̦̮͈̫͓e͍̥̼͜n͚̗̘͓.̶͕̗̣̼̖̥ .

̓̽ͨ ̦̥̮̼̰͐ ̹̲̳͕̣̈́̓t̻̣̤͐́ō̴̜̙̖̺̖̖̽ ̬̟̖̥͎̬̩̀ͯ͐̎ͫͬb͙͉̗͓̝̼͇ͨ̊̓͋̅̔ḛ̰̥͍̳̩̱̏̍ͣ̊ͨ̈̔͞ ̒ͦ̍ͪ͞ç͎̝͇̱ő̦̟̿ͅn̴͉̯̣̘̹͔̍̾t̥͊͐̎͊ͭ̏̐́i͙̦̘͚̝͙̍͛̊ͭ͠n̨̞̖͇͙̞̲̰̑̏̓ų̗̘̹̼ͫ̈̚e̢̍͆͂̔͗ͫ̄d͖̥̋͋̄ͮͫ͛̚ ̥ .

#The Children #Rodarin Calrise #Westmoore #It's time again #Origins #FFXIV RP #Crystal LFRP #Mateus RP #Balmung RP

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the-children · 3 years

Text

The Westmoore Tragedies | Chapter 3

[ TW: Mentions of Gore ]

The weight of his sword was immensely comforting to Rodarin—not only in case of another bizarre happening, but in fondness of his days of adventure. His trusted short sword hung within its sheath by his side, still humming with old enchantments he had woven himself in the past. “Everyone’s on edge—people are fuckin’ terrified” said Ahldmhas, the Captain who awoke Rodarin with grave news. “They wanna know what th’fuck’s happenin’.” “We all do..” Rodarin murmured in return, his brow knitting in frustration as worry, fatigue, and dread all gnawed at his core once the schoolhouse came into view against the grey overcast. A crowd had already gathered, theories and panic murmured amongst one another as a line of privateers blocked their entry, only shifting to the side to allow the pair through. Their footsteps echoed along the main hall as they made for the staircase dead ahead. The school had been emptied once the Maelstrom arrived—it felt so lonely inside these halls without the staff, without the children. For a brief moment his vision flickered, the sickening crimson taint flashing before Rodarin’s eyes to paint the surreal emptiness with a nightmarish foreboding, causing a spike of panic to chill his veins, and his stride to falter.

Within the next blink of an eye, it was gone—an armored hand placed on Rodarin’s shoulder as Ahldmhas turned to him with concern. “Aye, you alright? Yer shakin’..” Rodarin steeled his nerves, offering a rapid nod to shake his panic and steady his pulse. “Yeah, sorry.. Just remembered something..” I’m not there anymore. I’m here—he told himself. They proceeded up the staircase, the sense of dread clawing deeper into his spine, a slight nausea settling in his stomach—not over the growing smell of blood and viscera, but in anticipation for what he would see. Reaching the top of his stairs, he was confronted with what he had hoped had been a lie—the blood trail, dragged from the first open room to the last at the end of the hall. The tiny shoe prints dotting within, only a handful of larger prints off to the side, likely of the first privateers to arrive at the scene.

As they stepped into the first classroom, his vision flashed once more—the tainted crimson washing over the scene of mangled chairs and corpses. Just like yesterday. Rodarin flinched and shuddered, his right hand darting to clasp over his eyes while his left pressed to the wall to keep himself balanced. A ragged exhale barely escaped clenched teeth. I’m not there anymore. I’m here—he repeated, slowly dragging his hand down to look again. The crimson taint was gone, but the scene was the same. Exactly the same. Ahldmhas gave Rodarin a light pat on the back. “It’s fuckin’ disgustin’, I know.. But that’s not all. C’mon.” The Captain made off for the next room, following alongside the drag marks in the hall. Yes, there was more, and Rodarin was sure he knew what was left. This couldn’t be possible.

Standing within the doorway of the last classroom, a sense of despair grasped at his heart, steadily dragging it to the pits of his stomach. As he suspected—the same bodies were scattered around the room in pools of their blood, tiny shoes and hands printed throughout the room. Their corpses were just as mutilated as the last, and some of the skin-bound crafts still littered the room. A couple of removed eyes were left lying in a pile, and various crafts of bloodied, pulled teeth glued to dark papers were hung among the display board–a twisted comparison to the macaroni pieces nearby. He remembered the victims squirming and twitching in the crimson shadows—it must have been agonizing. Even Ahldmhas’ expression was soured—the usually stoic man averting his gaze from the carnage. “It’s like a buncha’ fuckin’ kids did this, Rodarin. What th’fuck is goin’ on?.. Y’think they made ‘em watch while they did all this? Forced ‘em to play with this shit? What kind’a sick fucks..”

Kids did do this–Rodarin mentally replied, his heart sinking further at the mere prospect. His gaze slowly fell to the mangled corpse near his right—Melrin, that poor bastard.. He always wanted children of his own, but he was pronounced infertile. He had planned to adopt before the Orphanage Massacre. And to have been slaughtered by children so soon after?.. Yes—despair. It was hopeless. They were all going to die. His hand lifted to brush through his hair once more, tugging sharply at his dark locks to sting some sense back into himself. No, focus. Rodarin released a shaky exhale before he began to speak to the other investigators. The older children—the teens, were confirmed to have been told to stay home by an anonymous source. That, apparently, there was no school today. There weren’t enough bodies to account for every staff member—some were missing along with the children. This was by far the largest murder-kidnapping connected to these events to date. Thirteen dead and mutilated. Over sixty children, missing. There had to be a clue—a sane clue.

Rodarin began to pace between the classrooms, studying meticulously. It was his own comfort, in a way—to distract himself with work from this damned madness. Between his own investigation and the staff records, Rodarin was finally able to piece something together, despite the occasional inconsistency. Of the staff, only the young were missing. The inconsistencies were a few young male teachers—such as Merlin, and a single twenty-three year old female teacher—Ms. Belise. Aside from that, every single young, female teacher was missing, along with a small handful of young male teachers. They were all in their twenties. Why was this the connection? Why were some of the young killed anyway? And why all this to take children? Rodarin’s jaw popped from the pressure of his clenched teeth that deep thought had strained upon them—he needed some air.

The cool touch of stone kissed against the exposed skin of Rodarin’s arms, a long and deep inhale slowly filling his lungs to the brim with clear air. It was a night and day difference here behind the schoolyard, although the now-abandoned playground equipment gave it a slightly solemn appearance. Compared to the thick, choking carnage upstairs—this was much needed tranquility. His fingers brushed and massaged at his forehead as it throbbed painfully—he still couldn’t make any sense of it. Something sinister was happening, that much was obvious. But if he had really seen the act as it unfolded, and a day earlier on top of that—if the children were really behind the atrocious killings and mutilations.. What the hells did that mean?

A sudden blur in the corner of his vision averted his attention to the treeline of the nearby forest. It was fairly shaded within, thanks for the overbearing clouds that thickened the sky in a depressing grey—so it was hard to tell. But as Rodarin focused more intensely, he could see it—the shadow-coated child standing at the edge, staring upon him with its wide eyes of pure glowing white, and a similarly wide smile to match. With a slow wave, the child beckoned him to follow before disappearing into the forest. It was one of them. Those dreadful shadowed children that watched from the corner—that clawed at his leg. Rodarin broke from the wall he leaned upon, frantically sprinting for the treeline to follow the path the child had taken. If there were any answers to find, those shades would have them.

Gentle wind rushed against his ear to join the beating of his heart as he raced through the slowly but steadily thickening trees. Huffs of breath escaped his lips, his boots kicking up dirt and grass behind the urgency of his pace. Where did it go? A soft voice caused him to grind to a halt, sending him toppling onto his knees as he searched each direction for the source. There, to the west—one of the missing teachers, holding the hand of two school children as they seemed to lead her forward! They were ushering her forward, though their exact words were too soft to hear from this distance. “Hey! Stop!” He cried, though it seemed to fall upon deaf ears. Grunting in frustration, Rodarin scrambled to his feet and broke into another sprint as their figures disappeared behind trunks and foliage of the forest. Reaching the area they disappeared behind, he found them further up ahead. They turned, facing the right, and simply stared—seemingly beyond a nearby tree. Rodarin turned to look in the same direction, desperate to follow their gaze to something, anything—but all he saw was more forest. He turned back to the trio, watching as they began to walk forward. A tree blocked them as they moved behind it.....and then, nothing. They never reappeared. Were they hiding behind it?

A brisk jog brought Rodarin closer—and the closer he came, the darker the forest seemed to become. No, not again.. His pace slowed, an all-too-familiar sense of dread filling the air between each soft crunch of grass beneath his feet. This is just like the school from before–just like the staircase. His gaze continued to shoot off towards the right, but nothing ever seemed to appear. What had they been staring at? The answer came soon, as Rodarin turned to gaze behind the same tree they vanished behind. It was a pathway, trees tightly lining the sides, like some naturally formed tunnel. The darkness grew thicker as the path progressed, and towards the very end he could see that damned crimson taint slowly bleeding into the darkness. He stepped back, looking around the other side of the tree—there was nothing but dark, open forest. Stepping back again, the path of trees returned. What sort of illusion was this? What kind of twisted game was being played here? His right hand came to rest upon the hilt of his sword, squeezing tightly as the leather bindings stretched in his palm. He wasn’t sure what awaited beyond the darkness—but this time, he was prepared. With a metallic ring, Rodarin drew his sword from its sheath—flames bursting to life and licking across the steel against the old runes he left years ago. Blade steady, he moved forward into the bleeding dark.

͔͙͡ ̹̰̣ ̮̰ ̡ ̤t̥̭͝o҉̳͉̹ ̝̣͞ḅe̗͟ ̬͈͙̞̯̦͝ͅc͈̠͍̣̣̤̕ͅo̧n͍̜̳̪̙ţ͎̳̼i̙͉̻̗̬n̰u̸e͟d̝̱̻̭̜͙ ̭̫͈͈ͅ .

#The Children #Rodarin Calrise #Westmoore #It's time again #Origins #FFXIV RP #Crystal LFRP #Mateus RP #Balmung RP

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