What is one thing in your character's possessions that has special significance to them? It can be as magical or mundane as you like.
Long-fingered, elegant hands took each book down from the bookshelf, dusting off the binding and edges with care. For a moment, the Duskwight paused in her work, looking at the ruin of those hands; each finger slightly twisted and misshapen, the knuckles bulbous and inflamed. Flashfire memories drifted across her mind -- Lifting the rock to smash it against her hands time and again, leaving them as mangled, bloody messes. I never wanted to wield a bow again... Not after what I did to her... A pang of regret rippled through her, not for what she did back then, but for how it affected her now. Still, though she couldn't hold a bow, Ree had shown and taught her that it wasn't altogether different to use a rifle. A smile crossed her features then and she set the book back on the shelf with equal care before moving onward to dust off the shelves of the curio cabinet.
Flumph. As she neared it, one of the stuffed animals that resided there had fallen onto the floor. It was a tattered, stained stuffed Chocobo that looked as if it had seen better days. She knelt, collecting the small toy up in both of her ruined hands before cradling it to her chest as if it were a living thing. "Sorry," she murmured, gentle fingers brushing the dirt and rug fibers from the top of the tiny doll's head. She kissed its soft forehead, its pale, Nophica Green head feathers waggling with the exhalation of her breath. The stitching of its seams was thinning and it had one small patched area where it had sprung a leak a few years ago. Still, even as battered and war-torn as the toy was, it soldiered onward with her through life.
"Remember, Syra..." Her mother said, her tone quite serious for the normally merry weaver. "A chocobo is a lifelong companion; they are steadfastly loyal to their riders and you'll nary find a better friend." They stood together at the pen where the family's one chocobo, Yohan, paced around in the hard-packed dirt. He turned his head and piped a glad-sounding, "Kweh!" before running over to meet them. Her mother laughed, smiling fondly at the large bird.
"Now, hold still a minute, Yohan." Vivienne raised a hand to caress the chocobo's noble head before abruptly plucking a couple of crest feathers. "Wark!" Yohan yelped in protest, shuffling his feet against the ground. He made no other move, nor did he snap at the woman who so offended his plumage. Syra's mother dipped her head courteously to the chocobo. "Sorry, Yohan, but I need these for a project." She reached into a pocket, producing a Krakka Root which she gave over to the chocobo. It seemed to mollify him as he wolfed it down.
Mother and daughter carried on back to their modest cottage; that's when Vivenne set to work. It was such a small thing, but it took her a good day and a half to create because she wanted it to be as perfect as possible. Once she was done, she called Syra into the room with her and presented her with the hand-sewn stuffed chocobo doll. Yohan's feathers, it seemed, were used to create the doll's crest feathers on top of its head. From the moment Syra laid eyes on it, she loved the toy instantly.
"Until you're old enough to manage Yohan on your own, this will have to do." Her mother chuckled.
It was one of the few things Syra had managed to keep all these years; one of the very few reminders and remnants of a life that felt so distant from where she was now. She was the daughter of a weaver and a thief; humble beginnings for someone who now rode into battle against Garleans and Dravanians and whatever else Eorzea had to throw at them. Yet, it served to keep her grounded, to remind her that life was more than endless war and waging of these monumental battles. There was life and the living of it, too.
She set the toy back on the shelf where it belonged. "Thank you, Mother. I miss you..."
Long-fingered, elegant hands took each book down from the bookshelf, dusting off the binding and edges with care. For a moment, the Duskwight paused in her work, looking at the ruin of those hands; each finger slightly twisted and misshapen, the knuckles bulbous and inflamed. Flashfire memories drifted across her mind -- Lifting the rock to smash it against her hands time and again, leaving them as mangled, bloody messes. I never wanted to wield a bow again... Not after what I did to her... A pang of regret rippled through her, not for what she did back then, but for how it affected her now. Still, though she couldn't hold a bow, Ree had shown and taught her that it wasn't altogether different to use a rifle. A smile crossed her features then and she set the book back on the shelf with equal care before moving onward to dust off the shelves of the curio cabinet.
Flumph. As she neared it, one of the stuffed animals that resided there had fallen onto the floor. It was a tattered, stained stuffed Chocobo that looked as if it had seen better days. She knelt, collecting the small toy up in both of her ruined hands before cradling it to her chest as if it were a living thing. "Sorry," she murmured, gentle fingers brushing the dirt and rug fibers from the top of the tiny doll's head. She kissed its soft forehead, its pale, Nophica Green head feathers waggling with the exhalation of her breath. The stitching of its seams was thinning and it had one small patched area where it had sprung a leak a few years ago. Still, even as battered and war-torn as the toy was, it soldiered onward with her through life.
"Remember, Syra..." Her mother said, her tone quite serious for the normally merry weaver. "A chocobo is a lifelong companion; they are steadfastly loyal to their riders and you'll nary find a better friend." They stood together at the pen where the family's one chocobo, Yohan, paced around in the hard-packed dirt. He turned his head and piped a glad-sounding, "Kweh!" before running over to meet them. Her mother laughed, smiling fondly at the large bird.
"Now, hold still a minute, Yohan." Vivienne raised a hand to caress the chocobo's noble head before abruptly plucking a couple of crest feathers. "Wark!" Yohan yelped in protest, shuffling his feet against the ground. He made no other move, nor did he snap at the woman who so offended his plumage. Syra's mother dipped her head courteously to the chocobo. "Sorry, Yohan, but I need these for a project." She reached into a pocket, producing a Krakka Root which she gave over to the chocobo. It seemed to mollify him as he wolfed it down.
Mother and daughter carried on back to their modest cottage; that's when Vivenne set to work. It was such a small thing, but it took her a good day and a half to create because she wanted it to be as perfect as possible. Once she was done, she called Syra into the room with her and presented her with the hand-sewn stuffed chocobo doll. Yohan's feathers, it seemed, were used to create the doll's crest feathers on top of its head. From the moment Syra laid eyes on it, she loved the toy instantly.
"Until you're old enough to manage Yohan on your own, this will have to do." Her mother chuckled.
It was one of the few things Syra had managed to keep all these years; one of the very few reminders and remnants of a life that felt so distant from where she was now. She was the daughter of a weaver and a thief; humble beginnings for someone who now rode into battle against Garleans and Dravanians and whatever else Eorzea had to throw at them. Yet, it served to keep her grounded, to remind her that life was more than endless war and waging of these monumental battles. There was life and the living of it, too.
She set the toy back on the shelf where it belonged. "Thank you, Mother. I miss you..."
![[Image: the-chroniclers-2.jpg]](https://writerholic.files.wordpress.com/2016/09/the-chroniclers-2.jpg)
