Finally (slowly) getting around to decorating Ibakha’s private house, starting with her bedroom. Here’s to hoping my ambition for the rest of the house doesn’t outstrip my ability.

If Tal wants the floaty cat couch, he gets it.

this is still the face of all time

straight guy geologist describing a vertically oriented igneous intrusion to his buddy: it’s a . well. i’m not sure i can reclaim this one just get over here

champion - for the single-word fic prompt!

Thank you! Mostly because this got me out of my writing funk I've been sitting in for the past month.

Can also be read on ao3 here

Of Champions and Tragedies

Ysayle kissed her like her lips held an inescapable sin. Her white knight, her little dragon, with mother’s gift and taken in and turned champion by her enemies before she could find her. Turned into a weapon. Godslayer. Now a temptation she couldn’t quite resist even if it led to her death. (It did lead to her death, but not the way she anticipated.)

Cyella kissed her like she could find absolution in her lips. A century of answered prayers sent to reveal the truth hidden beneath a veil of light. An angel of death sent to extract retribution and instead choosing forgiveness. And, if she kept chasing those lips, she might even find it.

Khutulun the blacksmith claimed she was no such profound or holy thing. She was just a woman at the wrong place at the wrong time (the right place at the right time) who, after all that had transpired, would never be able to go home again. Champions had a cause, she maintained, a higher sense of purpose. All she had was a desire to test her mettle against what the world had to offer and escape the expectations shackled to her name, and maybe get to kiss a pretty girl or two if she was lucky.

“Is that not, little dragon,” Ysayle had said to her so long ago during a quiet night on their pilgrimage to Hraesvelgr, “how all champions start?”

“Your actions, my dear,” Cyella said to her now, during a quiet night in the Crystarium, “speak otherwise. Far louder than any of your protestations.”

And then they kissed her again.

“Champions,” Khutulun pointed out to each of them, when she could speak again, “are far better people than I. I am bloodthirsty, full of rage. When my shield broke, people died. Instead of reforging it stronger, I forged it into a weapon so it could never fail me again.”

“Little knight,” Ysayle chided, “you forget you’re speaking to a heretic.”

“Little warrior,” Cyella chided, “you forget you’re speaking to the Shadowkeeper.”

“Retribution is a righteous motivation for a champion to have,” Ysayle had said, back then.

“Rage is a powerful emotion,” Cyella said to her, now, “all champions have those. How else would they keep going against all odds?”

And then they kissed her again.

Khutulun the blacksmith was not a champion. She was a woman running from destiny even as it kept showing up at her door. Champions were better people, braver people (not that she wasn’t brave) than she. People who stood for a cause because they believed in it, not because they didn’t have a choice. She was just a blacksmith with a sword and a gift, dragged into this because the temptation of testing her mettle against “impossible” foes was too much for her to resist. Champions, she’d protest, have cleaner hands and cleaner consciouses than her. There was neither sin nor absolution to be found on her lips. She was a godslayer, not a god. Champions were holy things, and she was not.

“I don’t think,” Ysayle said to her, “champions don’t get to choose what they are. That is their tragedy.”

“A self-proclaimed champion is no champion at all,” Cyella echoed, years later, “Trust me, I would know.”

And then they kissed her again.

Champions, Khutulun lamented, had far too many people die for them. Left far too many people behind. She was not worth the trail of bodies left in her wake.

The Ysayle in her dreams smiled. “I’d do it again,” that smile said even as memory faded away.

“That is,” Cyella sighed, “the champion’s other tragedy. It is not up to you to decide if you’re worth it.”

And then she kissed her again.

Khutulun the blacksmith would never consider herself a champion. She was far too foolish for that. But for others? She would play the part, after all they had long ago decided without her that that’s what she was. And perhaps, she decided, that was actually her tragedy.

champion - for the single-word fic prompt!

Thank you! Mostly because this got me out of my writing funk I've been sitting in for the past month.

Can also be read on ao3 here

Of Champions and Tragedies

Ysayle kissed her like her lips held an inescapable sin. Her white knight, her little dragon, with mother’s gift and taken in and turned champion by her enemies before she could find her. Turned into a weapon. Godslayer. Now a temptation she couldn’t quite resist even if it led to her death. (It did lead to her death, but not the way she anticipated.)

Cyella kissed her like she could find absolution in her lips. A century of answered prayers sent to reveal the truth hidden beneath a veil of light. An angel of death sent to extract retribution and instead choosing forgiveness. And, if she kept chasing those lips, she might even find it.

Khutulun the blacksmith claimed she was no such profound or holy thing. She was just a woman at the wrong place at the wrong time (the right place at the right time) who, after all that had transpired, would never be able to go home again. Champions had a cause, she maintained, a higher sense of purpose. All she had was a desire to test her mettle against what the world had to offer and escape the expectations shackled to her name, and maybe get to kiss a pretty girl or two if she was lucky.

“Is that not, little dragon,” Ysayle had said to her so long ago during a quiet night on their pilgrimage to Hraesvelgr, “how all champions start?”

“Your actions, my dear,” Cyella said to her now, during a quiet night in the Crystarium, “speak otherwise. Far louder than any of your protestations.”

And then they kissed her again.

“Champions,” Khutulun pointed out to each of them, when she could speak again, “are far better people than I. I am bloodthirsty, full of rage. When my shield broke, people died. Instead of reforging it stronger, I forged it into a weapon so it could never fail me again.”

“Little knight,” Ysayle chided, “you forget you’re speaking to a heretic.”

“Little warrior,” Cyella chided, “you forget you’re speaking to the Shadowkeeper.”

“Retribution is a righteous motivation for a champion to have,” Ysayle had said, back then.

“Rage is a powerful emotion,” Cyella said to her, now, “all champions have those. How else would they keep going against all odds?”

And then they kissed her again.

Khutulun the blacksmith was not a champion. She was a woman running from destiny even as it kept showing up at her door. Champions were better people, braver people (not that she wasn’t brave) than she. People who stood for a cause because they believed in it, not because they didn’t have a choice. She was just a blacksmith with a sword and a gift, dragged into this because the temptation of testing her mettle against “impossible” foes was too much for her to resist. Champions, she’d protest, have cleaner hands and cleaner consciouses than her. There was neither sin nor absolution to be found on her lips. She was a godslayer, not a god. Champions were holy things, and she was not.

“I don’t think,” Ysayle said to her, “champions don’t get to choose what they are. That is their tragedy.”

“A self-proclaimed champion is no champion at all,” Cyella echoed, years later, “Trust me, I would know.”

And then they kissed her again.

Champions, Khutulun lamented, had far too many people die for them. Left far too many people behind. She was not worth the trail of bodies left in her wake.

The Ysayle in her dreams smiled. “I’d do it again,” that smile said even as memory faded away.

“That is,” Cyella sighed, “the champion’s other tragedy. It is not up to you to decide if you’re worth it.”

And then she kissed her again.

Khutulun the blacksmith would never consider herself a champion. She was far too foolish for that. But for others? She would play the part, after all they had long ago decided without her that that’s what she was. And perhaps, she decided, that was actually her tragedy.

I just love them both a lot (and hrothgar hugs are the best hugs).

ok so like. imagine. you're a high-ranking government official and one of your colleagues has announced his decision to step down and retire, and named his successor, so you and your coworker-bestie-husband(™️) go on an official administrative business trip to go meet said guy. and then you arrive and you find A Cat in the bushes outside the office. it's in poor shape but its microchip says it actually belongs to your other colleague-and-friend. you are bullied into taking the cat to the vet AND letting it tag along despite your protests. and you finally find the guy you were supposed to meet and the cat is like. staying in the room. where you are supposed to conduct aforementioned highly confidential job interview. and you try to shoo it away but the guy you're trying to interview is like No i want the cat to be there. Because i'm nervous. About the job interview. Let the cat stay. I trust him because my pet bird loves him :). so the cat gets to stay. and then you keep going and you bump into yet another old acquaintance of yours (now retired and living her best hippie life) (which is highly frowned upon) and she goes Oooooh! Is that my cat you've found? :) and you're like, what the fuck is the deal with this goddamn cat, but you can't say that outright because you are a government official on a very important mission, so you go "i wasn't aware you even had a cat? also the microchip says it belongs to our other colleague" and she goes "oh well no i don't but clearly this cat is wearing the collar i give to all my pets so it must mean he's come from the future :) where i will own this specific cat :) hi little kitty! pspspsp!" and you're like, what the fuck is wrong with everyone today? and then the cat looks at you and says "she's right. i come from the future. where everyone has been turned into cats since the world ended. also i will kill you in about twelve thousand years from now. fucker."

Magitek Maintenance

ARR Replay: 2 - Tam-Tara Deepcroft

AKA what the Fuck is wrong with Eorzenas. Like, mentally, are you guys okay?

ARR Replay: 3 - Scion

They seem... Friendly. An odd bunch to be sure, but friendly enough.

Y'shtola Rhul

One day she’ll learn to stop opening strange boxes that weird things come out of. Today was not that day.

One of my favorite parts of Endwalker is Emet-Selch seeing the Ghost WoL, immediately clocking it as Azem Something and going No, Not Today Satan while Hythlodaeus is sitting down beside the Ghost WoL and making pspspspsp noises at them and offering them free hugs and Emet's Aether and giving Emet the biggest wettest puppy dog eyes of Can We Keep Them?

Meanwhile WoL is having some emotional whiplash and an existential crisis.

she loves you so much more than her own life (x)

hey you know who i realized i never saw in clive's getup when everyone was going around putting every NPC in clive's getup

My entry for the FanFest EU 2023 art contest! I had the idea somewhere in my mind ever since I finished Endwalker... wanted to show the winding journey through the Aitiascope dungeon

I made it as a finalist, which I'm still so blown away and happy about...