Day 16 - Deiform

Arlanne believed in the divine. It was only natural for her, as so much of her life growing up had been spent in Ishgard's Holy See. While the Twelve were all important figures in Eorzea, none in Ishgard were held in higher regard than Halone, the Fury herself. A scholar might give thanks to Thaliak after a discovery, or a craftsman might pray to Byregot during a difficult night, but the nation took the warrior goddess as their divinity, hoping that her shield and spear would see them to victory in the Dragonsong War, and light the way to prosperity forevermore. Arlanne held this faith as well, though she held her own thoughts on how the Twelve might affect the lives of mortals.

Day 15 - Row

The Arcanist's Guild had eagerly taken Arlanne as their newest member, but her aptitude for the craft was somewhat lacking. It was not as if she lacked the aether or the magical know-how, but the runes within the grimoire simply did not fall into place for her. Even summoning a carbuncle, one of the most basic of arcanist spells, seemed to be beyond her, so after a trying session and some words of encouragement from her mentor, Arlanne decided to simply never go back.

Truth be told, conjury felt like a more natural fit for her. It was easier for her to picture the channeling of her aether through her arm and into the staff, rather than aspecting it to the sigil within a tome. It made more sense to her to simply stick with what she was good at, even if she had only learned the bare fundamentals during her time in Gridania. She would simply have to be her own teacher, and leaving her bow for a staff during her adventuring forays made for good experience. The restorative magicks coupled with elemental spells simply felt... natural. She had a difficult time explaining it to her adventuring fellows.

Day 14 - Attrition

A somber mood had settled over the Alphos manor as of late. News had come from the frontlines of some distant war; another child of the house had been killed on the battlefield. The information came from Toxaeus himself, relayed by some unseen messenger, and while the news was sad enough on its own, there had been a slew of similar messages. One by one, all Xalimir's siblings succumbed to an enemy, and whether it was by some unknown beastman or some violent savage they might never know, but each loss was felt keenly throughout the family.

“That makes seven,” said Xalimir to the empty room before him. It had been Behka's, a miqo'te girl with a bright smile and an infectious cheer. He would never hear her laughter again, nor enjoy her company. It was only him and Trachynwyda left at the manor now, with all their other eight siblings having joined the Empire's various legions, and save for one, their only return home had been in a wooden box. Only Vhanzhin had managed to avoid death's grim grip, and Xalimir thought perhaps it was due to his skill with a blade, or maybe his craftiness. While they never much got along, the last thing he wanted was for another body to be shipped back to Garlemald.