Content Warnings &. Guidelines

TAGS    _{#Mythopoeia, #Dark Fantasy, #Lunar Mythology, #Divine Feminine, #Body Horror, #Blood Magic, #Prophecy,#Sacred Motherhood, #Cosmic Horror, #Alcyone, #Selinovryfoménos, #Fleshweavers, #Moonbrided, #Fengarófoto, #Cord-Singers, #Crimson Font, #Breachborn, #Theïká Láthi, #Womb Theology, #Eclipsed Light, #Pleiadian Lore, #Final Fantasy XIV Inspired, #Bloodborne Aesthetic, #Gothic Sci-Fi, #Miscarriage, #Pregnancy}

( I ) The Law of Harmonic Aether     _{All life on Alcyone is bound to a unique resonance of aether called Harmonics. This frequency is influenced by emotion, thought, and soul alignment. Magic is not cast—it is sung into existence by one's aetheric vibration. Discordant or corrupted emotions weaken a person's harmonic signature, causing "aetheric erosion." Only those with inner harmony can shape powerful spells. Emotional trauma may block or destabilize magic use. Music, poetry, or sacred chanting can restore equilibrium.}
   
   
Manifestation.    _{Harmonic aether glows with visible light and sound—magic resonates in a chord of color and tone.}

Localization.   

( II ) The Gravity of Purpose     _{Gravity is emotional on Alcyone. A being's conviction generates mass. Those with strong purpose are grounded and powerful; those lost or broken become "weightless" and may literally drift upward into the astral sea. This governs combat, architecture, and movement. Monks and priestesses channel intent to leap or fly. A mother's resolve could anchor a falling city. A dying warrior's last vow may stop a mountain from collapsing.}
   
   
Manifestation.    _{Emotions and convictions distort gravitational flow.}

Localization.   

( III ) Celestial Timekeeping     _{Alcyone orbits a trinary star system, and thus time is nonlinear. Instead of days and years, time flows in “light cycles”, aligned with the three stars: Avgí (dawn), Soúroupo (dusk), and Pnévma (an invisible, metaphysical star). Prophets and seers use the Pnévma cycle to “remember” the future. Some events can only occur under specific stellar alignments. Time travel isn’t mechanical but spiritual—achieved via astral projection or reincarnation into a previous or future self..}
   
   
Manifestation.    _{Time anomalies manifest as overlapping shadows, déjà vu, and reflective surfaces showing glimpses of other cycles. The three stars emit light that filters reality differently.}

Localization.   

( IV ) Blood as Memory     _{Pleiadians carry ancestral memory in their blood. With the right rituals, they can “awaken” past lives and borrow their wisdom, skills, or traumas. Blood magic is sacred, never corrupted, and passed down matrilineally. Deianira may carry echoes of a great healer or warrior. Pregnancy could amplify her ancestral magic. Wounds spill not just blood—but memory.}
   
   
Manifestation.    _{Blood exposed to ritual fire or sacred oils unfolds in symbols or scenes.}

Localization.   

( V ) Symbiotic Flora & Fuana     _{All native life forms are semi-sentient and spiritually linked. Trees dream, oceans remember, and beasts communicate through empathic waves. Alcyone’s biosphere is a planetary consciousness called Lampýrisma. Destroying nature is nearly impossible—wounds to the land cause spiritual backlash. Deianira might be able to communicate with rivers, befriend weather systems, or draw power from blooming fields.}
   
   
Manifestation.    _{Nature reacts empathically to presence and intention.}

Localization.   

( VI ) Sacrifice Equals Creation     _{Nothing can be created without offering something of equal or greater meaning. This is known as the Nómos tou isodýnamou synaisthímatos (Law of Equivalent Emotion). To heal, you must give up joy. To create life, you must offer pain or blood. Love is the only force that breaks this rule—but even it demands endurance. Deianira’s sacrifices to bear children, love Kasmir, or serve her gods are not weakness—but the foundation of miracles.}
   
   
Manifestation.    _{Every spell, structure, or miracle leaves an emotional residue.}

Localization.   

( I ) I Ànthisi tis Selestínis     _{Also known as the Celestine Bloom, it is a meteor-touched crater-forest where starlight lingers.}
   
Geography.    _{A massive, bowl-like crater spanning nearly 27 leagues across, its ridges lined with silver-laced cliffs and glassine waterfalls fed by underground glacial veins. At its center rises a slow-breathing forest of crystalline flora—trees with glass-petal leaves and violet bark that shimmer in moonlight. The terrain seems alien, with gentle floating stones, anti-gravity blooms, and rays of perpetual starlight that pierce the sky even in daylight. Numerous levitating islets drift near the crater’s heart, slowly circling a dormant Starcore Spire, the crystalline meteor at the crater’s center, believed to be an artifact of divine memory.}
   
Ecosystem.    _{The Bloom is semi-luminal, meaning its aetheric and biological systems operate between photonic and physical states. Organisms draw sustenance not from decay or predation, but from radiant light, memory frequencies, and gravitational symphonies.}

Ecosystem Cycles.   

Localized Phenomena.   

Climate.    _{Year-round mildness between 8–22°C (46–72°F).}

Flora &. Fauna.   

Natural Resources.   

History.    _{The Celestine Bloom is said to mark the spot where the first star that ever fell to Alcyone kissed the world into song. Early priestesses of the sky gathered here to commune with cosmic memory, and it is believed the first Song of Origin was sung on the Starcore Spire. The Bloom remained hidden until the Second Harmonic Age, when a great seer known as Therelé of the Glass Voice rediscovered it in a dreamwalk. Since then, it has become the site of yearly Stellaphoria Festivals, where moon-singers and star-weavers gather for rites of vision, grief, and rebirth.
   
It remains untouched by war, and those who seek violence here are gently cast out by the land itself. Only pilgrims, lovers, dreamers, and visionaries are permitted to tread the Bloom’s paths—though many leave changed, forgetting their names but remembering the stars.}

( II ) I Veloúdini Éktasi     _{Subtropical Bloomfields with rolling plains of deep violet grasses and pastel flora that bloom only under moonlight. Fields ripple like water under foot and nocturnal pollinators; bioluminescent deer-like creatures. It is favored by lunar rites and dreamwalkers.}
   
Geography.    _{A surreal grassland of rolling, velvet-like hills draped in deep violet and midnight-blue flora. The landscape ripples softly under movement and glows under moonlight. Rare moon-glass ponds—only visible after dusk—are fed by subterranean aquifers. Light mist settles each evening, twinkling with drifting bioluminescent pollen.}
   

Ecosystem.    _{A subtropical bloomfield biome, dependent on lunar phases and nocturnal life cycles. The Expanse houses both passive and reactive flora and fauna that respond to emotional aether, especially during nightfall.}

Ecosystem Cycles.   

Localized Phenomena.   

Climate.    _{Mildly subtropical, with humid warmth during the day and temperate coolness at night. Nights are dew-rich and saturated with aetheric resonance. Rain most often falls during twilight and ceases by moonrise.}

Natural Resources.   

History.    _{The Subtropical Blooomfields are said to be born from the goddess Menóra’s sorrow when she was exiled from the Third Moon. Her tears birthed the first night-blooming flora. They were nearly destroyed during a religious uprising by solar zealots. The plains, however, “resisted” with an uncanny fluidity, evading fire and war-sound. Declared Sentient Soil by the survivors.
   
The Dreamwalkers perform Soul-Seeding ceremonies—planting memories or names of the lost in hopes they bloom again.}

( III ) Oi Anapnéontes Ankyrovoloún     _{Also known as the Breathing Moors, Oi Anapnéontes Ankyrovoloún is a semi-sentient wetland of penance and purification..}
   
Geography.    _{A spongy, ever-undulating landscape that rises and falls like the breath of a sleeping god. Wide moss-latticed pools reflect a fog-blanketed sky, interspersed with hummocks of fragrant sedge and soulwood groves. Narrow stone causeways wind through the wetlands, crumbled and slick with time. The land pulses gently beneath one’s feet, with subtle heaving tides of sod and aetherwater forming a living, tidal rhythm.}
   

Ecosystem.    _{The terrain is semi-sentient, reacting to intent, breath, and spiritual alignment. Pilgrims walking in peace find dry footholds and clear paths, while the wrathful or deceptive often find the mire shifting, pulling their steps into still water or labyrinthine moss forests.}

Ecosystem Cycles.    _{The moors follow a Lunar Breathing Cycle. Every 28 nights, the wetlands inhale deeply, flooding and purging themselves in a mass tidal release, known as the Cleansing Exhale. During this time, creatures retreat to floating islets and tree-root hollows.}

Localized Phenomena.   

Climate.    _{Mild and humid, with perpetual fog and drizzle. Rain is rare, but condensation is constant, seeping from air to plant to skin in a continuous baptism. Temperatures rarely shift beyond 14–21°C (57–70°F), though chill winds from the Velvet Expanse can cause sudden cold sweeps.}

Natural Resources.   

History.    _{Long before recorded history, the Breathing Moors were said to be the dying place of a dreaming Titan, whose slow breath gave life to the sodden land. Ancient pilgrims walked its tide for weeks in search of spiritual clarity or ancestral communion.
   
During the Epoch of Cleansing Fires, many fled to the Moors to escape the solar purge, surviving within the fog for decades. The Order of Exhalation was founded soon after, formalizing penance pilgrimages and safeguarding the terrain’s moods.
   
Legends say that once every millennium, a Selinovryfoménos is born under the full exhale of the land, bearing within her the breath of the Titan.}

( IV ) Oi Koíloi Pagetónes of Kyníza     _{Also known as 'The Hollow Glaciers of Kyníza.' It is an Ice-Cavern Ecosystem of towering glacial structures with internal cave systems warmed by geothermal aether pockets. Inside, ecosystems thrive in secret. It preserves pre-cataclysmic flora; considered a living library by druids and scholars.}
   
Geography.    _{A sprawling field of massive glaciers shaped like inverted cathedrals, with winding ice towers and yawning tunnels that glow faintly from within. Deep beneath the surface, geothermal aether-pockets warm large caverns, forming a maze of mossy groves, crystalline lakes, and bioluminescent icefalls.}
   

Ecosystem.    _{The glaciers harbor a closed-loop ecosystem. Heat from aetheric vents creates a stable microclimate supporting flora long extinct elsewhere on Alcyone.}

Ecosystem Cycles.   

Localized Phenomena.   

Climate.    _{Harsh and frigid on the surface with near-constant snowfall and howling winds. Subterranean climate is temperate, humid, and incredibly stable due to geothermal and aetheric regulation.}

Natural Resources.   

History.    _{Believed to be the first site to survive the Celestial Calamity, the Hollow Glaciers were sealed for centuries until rediscovered by the Aetherseed Circle. Legend holds it was once a sanctuary for the Ancients, who used the caverns to preserve flora and fauna in case of planetary extinction. Periodic pilgrimages are made by druids, seers, and expectant Pleiadian mothers seeking ancestral communion.}
   

(I) Calyx, the Moonbound Bride    _{Goddess of Sacred Union, Dream-Death, and the Pale Light of Affection.
She descends in bridal veils to claim her chosen lovers in dreams. Her worshippers offer silver tears and vows never spoken aloud.}

(II) Eilethyas, the Threadmother    _{Goddess of Fatewoven Flesh, Silk-born Destinies, and the Womb of Time.
Her priestesses spin star-thread from their skin. Children born under her rites are marked by prophecy.}

(III) Izyraeth, the Choir Unformed    _{Goddess of Shattered Harmony, Screams Made Holy, and Aetheric Song.
She once sang the stars into place, now her voice is broken and divine. Her cultists wear masks and speak only in hymns.}

(IV) Lylmorae, the Petal-Eyed Seer    _{Goddess of Time-Reversed, Petaled Sight, and Crystalline Memory.
She sees all that has not yet passed. Her oracles have no eyes, only blossoms.}

(V) Nytherra, the Root-Tongue    _{Goddess of Whispering Soil, Forbidden Language, and Plant-Memory.
Her roots listen. Her voice is heard in leaf and lichen. Her followers eat sacred bark to dream her will.}

(VI) Orrivar, the Cracked Crown    _{God of Forgotten Kings, Hollow Thrones, and the Madness of Memory.
An ancient ruler who lost his name. His clerics gouge their tongues to speak truth in riddles.}

(VII) Rhulkazar, the Crown of Bone    _{God of Ascension Through Death, the Ivory Throne, and the Last Thought.
Worshipped by necrosaints and scholars of divine entropy. Believed to sit at the end of all cycles.}

(VIII) Solithor, the Hanging Lantern    _{God of Cosmic Illumination, Burning Truth, and Astral Guilt.
He sees all that was and judges all that might be. His temples blind those who enter.}

(IX) Tethyra, the Blooming Wound    _{Goddess of Fertile Decay, Verdant Flesh, and the Sacrament of Growth.
Her garden is a grave, ever-flourishing with rot and renewal. Worshipped in rites of rebirth and sacrifice. She teaches that suffering feeds the soil.}

(X) Throsyx, the Maw Unending    _{God of Hunger Beyond the World, the Void-Mouth Beneath Ice.
His sermons are held in silence. Sacrifices are left at abyssal cracks in the earth. It is said his worshippers are devoured into communion.}

(XI) Thulicant, the Hound Beyond All Doors    _{God of Watchful Madness, Celestial Hunt, and Teeth in the Night.
Feared as the divine jailer. Worshipped by those who seek protection from the unknowable.}

(XII) Varuon, the Grieving Blade    _{God of Martyrs, Silent War, and Aetherial Blood.
A mourning warrior god, believed to have slain his own pantheon. Worshipped through duels and bone-offerings.}

(XIII) Zamael, the Architect of Dusk    _{God of Broken Cities, Twilight Geometry, and Ruined Wonders.
It is said he designed time. His temples defy physics and loop endlessly. His worship is mathematical.}

TAGS    _{#Mythopoeia, #Dark Fantasy, #Lunar Mythology, #Divine Feminine, #Body Horror, #Blood Magic, #Prophecy,#Sacred Motherhood, #Cosmic Horror, #Alcyone, #Selinovryfoménos, #Fleshweavers, #Moonbrided, #Fengarófoto, #Cord-Singers, #Crimson Font, #Breachborn, #Theïká Láthi, #Womb Theology, #Eclipsed Light, #Pleiadian Lore, #Final Fantasy XIV Inspired, #Bloodborne Aesthetic, #Gothic Sci-Fi, #Miscarriage, #Pregnancy, #Overt Violence/Conflict, #Mentions of Weapons/Violence, #Blood/Gore, #Mature/Sexual Themes}

Eurybia, Matriarch of the Moonweavers   _{(Whispered from her private sanctum within the Shrine of Aethermilk, to a silent statue of Nymira, goddess of Wombfire).
   
“She was never meant to cry. She was not made for grief or love or lullabies. My daughter was sculpted. Carved by a covenant older than language. And I—I am nothing more than the womb that bore the womb.”
   
Her skin is milk-pale, but not soft. It does not bruise. It sings.
   
When I first held her, she was warm with a heat I could not place. Not blood-warmth. Not breath.
Star-warmth.
   
As if she remembered galaxies I could never know.
   
I named her Deianira, after the weaver who birthed ruin into the river. Perhaps that was mistake enough.
   
I have six daughters. And yet the others… they played. They wept and screamed and bled with human things. Deianira never screamed.
She stared.
Straight into my soul with those lambent eyes like polished stormglass. She saw too much. She spoke too little.
   
They call her aftistikós, though we do not name such things aloud. The priests say it is her mind, ordered by celestial law. The druids say it is the silence of prophecy.
   
But I say— She is not my daughter. She is a blade hidden in a cradle. A riddle without answer. A gift wrapped in venom.
   
And I... I revere her, yes. I fear her too. There are days I cannot bring myself to look upon her, for I see my body in her shape, but my soul nowhere at all. What kind of mother worships her child? What kind of woman must kneel before her womb?
   
I gave her life. But she will birth eternity. And I—I will simply disappear beneath the weight of her shadow.}

Runerth, High Patriarch of the Aetherforged   _{(Spoken with cruel satisfaction in his war hall before loyal lords and blood-scrawled banners).
   
“Aye. She is mine. Flesh of my line. The Selinovryfoménos reborn from my blood. The womb that will unmake weakness. And forge an empire in its place.”
   
Deianira walks like mist. She does not bow. She does not raise her voice. But all who see her, tremble.
   
My council fears her. My enemies dream of her ruin. And yet—none may touch her. None may speak her name unbidden.
   
She is moonbrided, yes. But she is not beloved. She is used.
   
Her womb is a cathedral. Her blood, a relic. And I am its guardian.
   
The poets call her "delicate," but I know better. She is precision incarnate. Her stillness is calculation. Her silence, judgment.
   
She is what the planet needs. Not softness. Not mercy. Succession.
   
And she will bear the Bloodborn. If not for love, then for law.
   
For my name shall echo in the scream of her child. My legacy writ in flesh, not scroll. In heir, not hope.
   
Let the others weep. Let the priests tremble. She is mine. And I will see her gift harvested in full.}

"The Cage is Wrought of Selénidra and Moonlight" — Deianira's Soliloquy   _{(Private journal, found in her moon-silk codex, penned beneath candlelight)
   
There is a word in the old tongue: "selinos." It means both "womb" and "lantern." I was given it not as a name, but as a sentence. To bear. To burn. To become. And yet, I was not asked if I wished to glow.
   
My sisters sing in ways I cannot. They twine like ivy about banquet halls and wear their laughter like perfume. But I—I speak in patterns. I breathe in sequence. I order my world into shapes only I understand. A silver fork cannot touch the tea. The tea must cool seven minutes. No more. No less. My mind is the moon pulled taut.
   
The others call it my "veiled gift." A gentle lie. They mean: “She is touched. But not ruinously.” Not like Palenéa.
   
I am watched like the first snow of winter—Admired, yes, but never touched. Never approached for fear that I might dissolve, or worse: awaken.
   
The maids do not speak above a whisper around me. Not out of respect, but out of superstition. They say I hum when I sleep, and that the sound withers flowers.
   
Even now, in the velvet hush of my sanctum, With Selénidra oil in the walls and mooncrystal beneath my bed, I know the truth:
   
My body is not mine. My voice is owned by stars I have never seen. My fate was decided in a language I will never fully understand.
   
They say I will birth the next aeon. They say my womb is an aetheric bridge to the future of Pleiadian kind. But they never ask if I wish to walk that bridge. No one asks if the moon ever grows tired of glowing.}

_{Sometimes I dream of rebellion. Of fleeing to the I Veloúdini Éktasi, hiding among the phthalo fields, pressing my feet into the whispering grasses and not being known. Not being revered. Not being… seen only in parts—the womb, the omen, the weapon. But then I remember:
   
I am Fengarófoto. The Moonburned. I am not permitted to vanish.
   
I am not permitted to vanish. If I were to refuse… If I were to take this sacred burden and shatter it like glass—
   
The planet would rot. The sky would scream. And the blood of unborn legacies would soak the soil.
   
So I remain.
   
In my quietness, there is thunder. In my silence, prophecy. In my strangeness—divinity.
   
I do not understand love the way the others do. But I understand duty. And though my heart is shaped like a spiral and my soul burns with unnatural hues, I will give them their god-child.
   
Even if it is born from solitude.
   
Even if it is born from silence.
   
Let the world tremble at my womb, then. Let the heavens weep for what they’ve made of me.
   
I will bear it.
   
And I will do so… perfectly.}

(I) Beneath the Moon's Gaze.   
   
_{A silver light bathed the deck of the Silver Ghost, the great vessel rocking gently against the midnight tide. The moon hung high, its radiance kissing the waves with an eerie serenity, yet the tension between the two figures standing at the ship’s bow was anything but peaceful. Deianira stood with her arms crossed, the fine embroidery of her noble attire catching in the sea breeze. Her pointed, silken ears twitched as her icy blue eyes remained fixed on the endless horizon. Though her celestial blessings shielded her in ways few could comprehend, she was not untouchable. She had made a deal, after all.Kasmir loomed beside her, his powerful frame shadowed beneath the moonlight. His fur was damp with salt, the scent of the ocean clinging to him as fiercely as the possession in his stare. He was a storm contained within flesh—calculated, merciless, and unyielding. Yet his greatest prize was not gold, nor plunder, nor victory, but her."You've been avoiding me," he rumbled, his voice low, edged with warning. Deianira’s jaw tensed, but she did not turn to face him. "I have been busy," she corrected. "There are matters beyond this ship, beyond your—""Beyond my what?" Kasmir stepped closer, his presence a weight against her back. His clawed fingers brushed the edge of her sleeve, a subtle reminder of the chains she had willingly donned. "Protection?" His voice held no mockery, only certainty. "Or perhaps my claim?"At that, she did turn, her sharp gaze meeting his with defiance. "Our arrangement is mutual," she reminded him, her voice a whisper of steel. "I offer my service, my gifts—not my freedom."Kasmir's expression did not change, though something flickered in his mismatched golden eyes—something possessive, something dark. "You think the world will offer you better?" he asked, leaning in, his breath warm against her cheek. "You think the gods you pray to will keep you safer than I do?"Deianira held her ground, though her fingers curled against her own arms. "The gods do not demand payment in flesh and loyalty," she countered. Kasmir chuckled, low and mirthless. "No, they just demand devotion—and in that, we are no different." His hand lifted, a single claw tracing the air beside her cheek, never quite touching, but close enough to make her heart pound. "You belong to no god, Deianira. You belong to me."Her breath hitched—not in fear, but in fury. "I belong to myself."For a moment, silence stretched between them, taut as a drawn bowstring. Then Kasmir exhaled through his nose, a sharp smirk tugging at his lips. "Keep telling yourself that," he murmured, stepping back. "But remember our deal. Your gifts—your power—are not without a price." His smirk faded, his voice dropping to something quieter, something colder. "And if you ever forget it, I will remind you." Deianira watched him turn, his silhouette fading into the shadows of the ship’s mast. The ocean whispered secrets beneath them, the moon bearing witness to the unspoken battle of wills between a noble blessed by divinity and the pirate who would dare claim a star as his own.}

(IV) Blood in the Water.   
   
_{The Drowning Wench was alive with drunken laughter, the clatter of tankards, and the low hum of sea shanties half-sung and half-forgotten. Pirates, mercenaries, and opportunists filled the tavern, all drawn to Limsa Lominsa’s most notorious watering hole to drown their coin in ale and their sins in pleasure.
   
Kasmir Lievsch sat at the heart of it all.
   
He was draped across the worn leather of his chair like a king on a throne, a tankard in one hand and his other resting possessively on the curve of Deianira’s thigh. The spoils of his latest raid had bought enough drink to keep the wenches circling like sharks, their laughter coy, their hands daring to linger on his shoulders, his chest, anywhere they thought they could tempt.
   
And Kasmir, ever the arrogant bastard, let them.
   
He was indulging himself tonight, basking in victory, his mismatched golden eyes half-lidded with drink and satisfaction. A pirate with full pockets and an untouchable prize at his side—what more could he ask for?
   
Deianira, for her part, remained poised, untouched by the revelry. She was used to this—used to him. The way he played with others but never truly strayed. She knew it was a game, a performance meant to remind the world that he took what he wanted, when he wanted. And if the way his fingers idly traced over her silk-clad leg was any sign, he had no intention of letting his attention wander too far.
   
But then, the mood shifted.
   
At first, it was subtle. A prickle at the back of Kasmir’s neck, an itch beneath his skin. Something off.
   
Then he saw him.
   
An Elezen warrior stood across the room, tall and lean, dressed in the well-worn leathers of a man who had seen battle. His eyes were locked onto Deianira. Not in passing admiration. Not in fleeting curiosity.
   
No—this was something else. Something hungry.
   
Kasmir’s grip on his tankard tightened. He watched, unmoving, as the Elezen drifted closer, his smirk sharp with confidence, his intentions clear.
   
The fool thought he could take.
   
Deianira, blissfully unaware of the growing tension, only noticed when the Elezen was suddenly too close. He leaned against the bar beside her, his gaze drinking her in as though she were another treasure to claim.
   
"You don’t belong here," the Elezen murmured, voice smooth, practiced. "A woman as fine as you should not be left among wolves."
   
Kasmir went still.
   
Deianira barely had time to open her mouth before the Elezen touched her—just the barest brush of fingers against her arm.
   
A mistake.
   
A deadly one.
   
There was no warning. No chance for retreat.
   
One moment, Kasmir was lounging, half-drunk and entertained.
   
The next, his tankard shattered against the Elezen’s face.
   
Chaos erupted.
   
The Elezen staggered back, blood pouring from a gash across his cheek, his expression twisting from shock to rage. But Kasmir was already on him. He moved like a beast unchained, his claws catching the Elezen’s collar and slamming him into the bar with bone-cracking force.
   
The room stilled. Conversations died. The music faltered.
   
And then came the first scream.
   
Kasmir was relentless. He didn’t just fight—he devoured. His fists met flesh with sickening impact, his claws tearing through the Elezen’s fine leathers, through skin. The warrior fought back—he was skilled, trained—but it did not matter. Kasmir was a storm, wild and merciless, a predator tearing apart his kill.
   
A dagger flashed—desperate, foolish. Kasmir caught the Elezen’s wrist and twisted. A snap. A howl.
   
Then, the killing blow.
   
Kasmir drove the broken tankard into the Elezen’s throat.
   
Blood gushed, dark and violent. The Elezen choked, eyes wide in horror as his hands clawed at his own neck, his body sagging against the bar before finally crumpling to the floor.
   
Silence.
   
The Drowning Wench held its breath.
   
Kasmir straightened, his chest heaving, his hands slick with blood. His golden eyes burned through the onlookers, a silent warning that turned the tension ice-cold. Try me. I dare you.
   
No one moved. No one dared.
   
Satisfied, Kasmir turned back to Deianira, wiping the blood from his claws against his coat as though this had been nothing more than an inconvenience.
   
She was staring at him, wide-eyed, shaken—but unharmed.
   
That was all that mattered.
   
Kasmir leaned in, his fingers tipping her chin up, his voice low, possessive, unchallenged.
   
"You are mine," he murmured, his tone dark with promise, with warning. "And no man touches what’s mine."
   
Then, with a smirk still edged with violence, he gestured to the barmaid.
   
"Another drink."
   
And just like that, the night carried on, with blood staining the floor and no one foolish enough to look at Deianira again.}

(IX) Crimson and Moonlight: A Blade to Match Her Grace.   
   
_{Beneath the crystalline glow of Ishgard’s Firmament, Deianira sat within the grand observatory of the Athenaeum Astrologicum, the scent of aged parchment and ink swirling with the faintest traces of incense. The great orrery in the center of the chamber spun ever so slowly, its golden rings tracing the movements of the heavens as constellations shimmered within the domed ceiling above.
   
Her fingers traced the delicate filigree of her star globe—an instrument of celestial divination, its framework of silver and lapis in constant motion, mimicking the sky’s eternal dance. This was no idle fascination; it was devotion, a sacred communion between herself and the forces that shaped the realm. Each constellation held meaning, each card within her Arcana deck whispered of fate’s design.
   
Tonight’s lesson was one of precision and mastery—how the alignment of the stars dictated the ebb and flow of aether. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to listen, to feel the pulse of the heavens within her very soul. The power she wielded was not solely from study but from something deeper, something innate. The moonlight that bathed her form was not just light; it was a conduit, a promise.
   
The moment she called upon her magic, the chamber seemed to hush. A faint, luminous glow wrapped around her hands as she drew the Balance card, the golden scales etched upon its surface pulsing with unseen energy. The Arcana hummed against her fingertips, the magic threading into the aetherial weave surrounding her. With a slow exhale, she let the magic flow outward—a golden radiance suffusing the air, strengthening those who stood within its reach.
   
A voice interrupted the sacred silence.
   
“A delicate touch, but you could wield so much more,” Kasmir’s deep timbre echoed through the chamber, his heavy presence disrupting the serenity. He stepped forward, his sharp gaze sweeping over her, noting the way the light of her spell lingered, the way her expression softened in its wake. “Healing is a noble art, one you’ve perfected, but tell me, little moon—why be content with shielding your allies when you could strike down those who would harm them?”
   
She did not flinch, though she knew where this conversation would lead. It was not the first time he had posed such a question, nor would it be the last. Kasmir valued her nurturing nature, but he saw no reason why she could not wield destruction alongside it. To him, mercy and violence were not opposites—they were merely two facets of the same power.
   
Before her, he set down a crimson-plumed hat and a rapier, its hilt adorned with silver embroidery.
   
“Red Mage,” he continued, folding his arms. “A balance of aether, a dance between restoration and devastation. It suits you, more than you know.”
   
Deianira’s hands tightened around her star globe. She had no aversion to battle, nor to defending those she loved, but she had long found solace in her healing arts. The thought of wielding a blade—of channeling destruction as effortlessly as she channeled light—unsettled her. Yet, Kasmir was patient. He knew better than to force her hand.
   
She lifted her gaze, meeting his with quiet resolve. “The stars do not call me to war,” she murmured, her voice gentle yet firm.
   
Kasmir smirked, unbothered. “The stars only tell part of the story. The rest? That’s for you to decide.”
   
And so the lesson continued—beneath the watchful gaze of the heavens, between the pull of destiny and the weight of expectation.}

(V) Blood and Moonlight.   
   
_{The door to Kasmir’s quarters slammed shut behind them, the force rattling the lanterns hanging from the wooden beams above. The cabin smelled of salt and steel, of spiced rum and something darker—the iron tang of blood that clung to Kasmir’s skin like a second layer.
   
Deianira barely had time to take a breath before he was on her.
   
His hands found her waist, rough and unyielding, his grip bruising as he pulled her into him. His body was hot, his clothes soaked with the spoils of his violence, the crimson streaks smearing across the delicate silk of her gown.
   
She gasped. Not in fear. Never in fear.
   
But in something else. Something sharp and breathless.
   
"Kýrios," she started, hands pressing against his chest. But he didn’t give her the space to speak.
   
His lips crashed against hers, desperate and claiming, tasting of rum and salt, of victory and possession. His kiss was rough, consuming, his sharp teeth grazing her lower lip as though he needed to remind her of what he had done, what he would always do for her.
   
For what was his.
   
His hands roamed, greedy, sliding up the silk-covered curve of her back, tangling in the fragile gold chains that draped over her shoulders. The ruined fabric clung to her, damp with sweat and blood, a testament to the violence he had left behind.
   
A growl rumbled in his chest as he pulled back just enough to see her, to drink her in. The white silk was ruined, stained with dark smears of another man’s life. His kill.
   
His offering.
   
Kasmir exhaled heavily, his breath hot against her kiss-swollen lips. Then, slowly, deliberately, his fingers found her throat, his claws just barely pressing into the delicate skin there.
   
"Do you understand now?" His voice was low, dangerous, golden eyes burning into hers with something both feral and reverent. "Do you finally see what I am?"
   
Deianira swallowed, her pulse fluttering beneath his grip. But she did not look away. She never had.
   
"I have always seen you," she whispered.
   
Something flickered in his expression. Something dark. Something soft.
   
His fingers loosened, his thumb brushing along her jaw. He could break her so easily, and yet, he never did. Not her. Never her.
   
The rage in him was spent, burned out in the blood he had spilled. Now, all that remained was this—his need to remind himself that she was here, that she was his, untouched by the filth that had dared to reach for her.
   
Gently—almost hesitantly—Kasmir slid his hands lower, to the ruined silk of her gown. He let out a displeased sound as he traced the stains, his lips curling in distaste.
   
"This won’t do," he muttered, his voice still thick with drink, with possession. "You should only wear gold and moonlight. Not another man’s death."
   
Before she could reply, he was already lifting her, carrying her effortlessly toward the bathing chamber at the back of his quarters. The large basin was already filled—his crew knew him too well, knew he would return soaked in blood.
   
Kasmir lowered her into the warm water, his movements surprisingly tender as he peeled the ruined silk from her skin. His fingers brushed over her shoulders, the curve of her spine, his touch softer than she expected, given the storm that had raged in him mere moments ago.
   
Deianira shivered as the water lapped at her skin, the heat sinking into her bones. But Kasmir did not join her immediately.
   
He stood above her, undoing the clasps of his coat, peeling the blood-stiffened fabric away. The flickering lanterns cast his shadow against the wooden walls, highlighting the ridges of his scars, the muscle that tensed beneath his ashen skin.
   
His eyes never left her.
   
Then, without a word, he stepped into the water behind her, pulling her back against his chest. His arms circled her, holding her there, his breath slow, steadying.
   
Deianira let herself relax against him, surprised by this side of him—this quiet, almost reverent need to touch her without taking.
   
Kasmir’s lips brushed against the shell of her ear, his voice a low murmur against her damp skin.
   
"You are mine," he said, but there was no threat in it now. Only certainty. Only devotion."
   
Deianira turned in his grasp, looking up at him, her fingers tracing the dried blood still smeared along his jaw. And though she had seen him drenched in carnage before, it had never been for her sake.
   
Tonight, he had spilled blood for her.
   
She lifted her hand, cupping his face, and for once, he was the one holding still, waiting, as if she were the one who had conquered him.
   
Deianira pressed her lips to his, slow, deliberate.
   
And Kasmir shuddered.
   
Not from rage.
   
Not from possession.
   
But from her.
   
Kasmir’s hands moved with surprising care, fingers trailing through the warm water as he poured it over Deianira’s shoulders. The heat soaked into her skin, easing away the tension that still lingered from the chaos of the Drowning Wench, from the bloodshed he had left in his wake.
   
She did not flinch as he touched her. He had never been gentle with anyone—but with her, there was restraint. An awareness of the way his claws could cut, the way his strength could bruise.He was possessive, unrelenting, obsessive—but not careless.
   
Deianira allowed him to touch her, to smooth his calloused hands down her back, over her arms, as he poured water over her skin. The act was reverent, almost ceremonial, as though he was cleansing her of the filth that had dared to touch his.
   
Kasmir exhaled, his breath hot against her shoulder, his fingers tightening for just a moment before he spoke, voice low, gruff.
   
"You are too soft for places like this," he murmured, watching as the last of the bloodstained water swirled down the drain. "Too fine to be ruined by filth like him."
   
Deianira tilted her head slightly, glancing back at him. "You say that," she said softly, "yet I find myself here. With you."
   
He let out a quiet huff, something between amusement and frustration. He did not argue.
   
She turned then, shifting so that she faced him, the water sloshing between them. His mismatched golden eyes flickered, drinking her in—the way the water clung to her skin, the way the lamplight cast a warm glow against her bare shoulders.
   
Deianira reached for him, her fingers trailing along his jaw, down the line of his throat, over the dried blood that marred his ashen skin. Kasmir stilled beneath her touch, his body going rigid in a way that was not from tension, but from something else.
   
Something unspoken.
   
"You’ve washed me," she murmured, dipping a cloth into the warm water. "Now, let me return the favor."
   
Kasmir’s ears flattened slightly, a flicker of unease flashing in his expression. No one touched him like this. Not his crew. Not his lovers. Not even those he called allies.
   
But Deianira—
   
She had always been different.
   
His lips curled in something between a growl and a smirk. "You would tend to a beast?"
   
Deianira smiled, wringing out the cloth before pressing it to his chest, wiping away the blood streaked over his skin. "You are no beast, Kýrios," she whispered. "Not with me."
   
He inhaled sharply through his nose, his hands clenching at his sides, as if warring with the instinct to pull away. But he did not stop her.
   
She worked in slow, deliberate strokes, cleansing away the remnants of his violence. The blood of the Elezen. The sweat of the fight. The salt of the sea air that clung to his fur.
   
Deianira moved to his face next, cupping his jaw as she wiped away the smudges of red that had settled into his mustache, the streaks along his cheekbones. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, his breath steady but deep, as if the act itself was something he was forcing himself to endure.
   
It was difficult for him, she knew. To be tended to. To be touched with something other than greed or reverence, than fear or submission.
   
Kasmir Lievsch took care of himself.
   
But here, now, she was the one tending to him.
   
Once his face was clean, she set the cloth aside, reaching for the thick, damp strands of his mane. His long hair was heavy with water, the braids coming undone from the heat of the bath, from the battle that had preceded it.
   
Carefully, gently, Deianira ran her fingers through it, untangling the strands with patient strokes.
   
Kasmir made a low sound in his throat, his ears twitching as he shifted slightly beneath her touch. Not in discomfort.
   
No, this was something else.
   
"You endure this too easily," she teased, beginning to separate the damp strands to rebraid them. "And yet, you act as though it is an offense."
   
Kasmir let out a slow exhale. "It is… not an offense."
   
"Then what is it?"
   
He was silent for a long moment, letting her work, letting her fingers move through his hair in careful, practiced motions. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before, stripped of its usual arrogance.
   
"It is difficult," he admitted, his claws lightly tapping against the rim of the bath. "To be touched without taking. To be given something, rather than demanding it."
   
Deianira’s hands stilled for a fraction of a second before she resumed braiding. "Then you should practice," she murmured, smiling against his damp skin as she pressed a kiss to his temple. "You have all the time in the world to learn."
   
Kasmir chuckled then, low and deep, his arms sliding around her waist, pulling her against him once more. His lips brushed against her jaw, his breath warm.
   
"I prefer when you are the one teaching me," he muttered.
   
And for once, the storm inside him stilled.}

(VI) The Moon in the Ruby Sea.   
   
_{The air in Kugane smelled of incense and the tang of the sea, thick with the hush of secrets exchanged in alleyways and the steady clatter of wooden sandals against polished stone. The city gleamed in the lantern-light, a place of golden rooftops and crimson bridges, where courtiers and cutthroats walked the same roads, their words veiled in silk and steel.
   
From the moment they arrived, The Silver Ghost docking beneath the vigilant gaze of the Sekiseigumi, Kasmir had fallen effortlessly back into his element. He prowled the markets and the dens with the swagger of a king returning to his throne, his name still carrying weight among the underworld of Othard. The somnus trade was as lucrative as ever, and while the war in the West had tightened Hingashi’s ports, coin still turned hands in the shadows.
   
Deianira, however, had stepped into a world entirely unknown to her.
   
She had been dressed to Kasmir’s tastes upon their arrival—draped in diaphanous silks embroidered with foreign flowers, her wrists weighted with gold and rubies, her hair pinned with lacquered combs. She knew well the game of being adorned, but here, in this strange land of rigid customs and unspoken rules, she was more doll than woman. Her own traditions—Hellenistic, sun-drenched and full of laughter and music—felt garish in the delicate stillness of Hingashi.
   
Her first lesson came at a tea house where Kasmir conducted his dealings, sprawled across silk cushions with the air of a man who owned the place. Deianira, as ever, sat at his side, silent, listening. The Hingans spoke in measured tones, their words layered with meaning, never saying too much nor too little. Kasmir, brute though he was, matched their cadence with ease, bartering poison with poetry.
   
When Deianira reached for her cup before their host, the room stilled.
   
She felt it at once—the shift, the weight of eyes upon her. The teapot’s delicate spout hovered over porcelain, waiting. Kasmir’s fingers pressed to her knee, a silent warning. Wait.
   
It was a dance, she realized, one of deference and quiet power. She bowed her head, fingers curling into her lap, and let their host drink first.
   
Her next lesson came in the weight of a name. Hingashi did not favor titles of grandeur. They did not call Kasmir “lord” or “master” as his men did in the West. Here, names were sharp as knives, honorifics a display of respect—or the lack thereof. When the merchants addressed her, it was as "Kasmir-dono’s lady," though they never quite met her gaze.
   
She spoke little at first, studying the way Kasmir moved through the world here. He did not bellow or boast as he did in Lominsa. No, here he was precise, his arrogance sheathed in restraint. He bowed, but only as deep as necessary. He spoke, but never more than was required.
   
When she asked about these things in the quiet of their chamber, he only smirked and pulled her into his lap, threading his fingers through the gold chains at her throat.
   
"Words are weapons, little moon," he murmured against her ear, his breath warm. "You must learn to sharpen yours."
   
Her true lessons came at the hands of women. The geiko moved like drifting petals, their painted faces unreadable, their laughter a thing of art. Kasmir had called upon one in particular, a woman with ink-dark hair and a voice like a whisper of wind through bamboo.
   
“She will teach you,” Kasmir said, lazy with sake, his arm draped over Deianira’s shoulders. “You need to learn.”
   
It was not a request.
   
The geiko—called Tomoe—watched Deianira with careful eyes before kneeling beside her, arranging the folds of Deianira’s silken sleeves with delicate precision.
   
"A lady must know when to be seen and when to disappear," she said, her words slow, deliberate.
   
She taught Deianira how to bow—not as a noble would in Alcyone, but as a woman of Hingashi must. She showed her the way a single glance could command a room, how the placement of her hands, the tilt of her head, could speak volumes without a word.
   
Deianira watched, listened, learned.
   
And in the days that followed, when she walked at Kasmir’s side through the bustling markets of Kugane, she did not fumble. She did not stare too long or speak out of turn. She did not drink before she was bid to.
   
Kasmir noticed. He always noticed.
   
And when he tipped her chin up that night, his thumb stroking over her lower lip, he grinned like a beast well pleased.
   
“You’re learning, little moon,” he murmured, voice dark with approval.
   
And Deianira, still adrift in this strange land, let herself bask in the warmth of it.
   
The Rokuyari estate was nestled in the quieter quarters of Kugane, a place untouched by the raucous nightlife and bustling trade that defined the city’s heart. Here, within the walls of the clan’s compound, there was a stillness that reminded Deianira of temples long forgotten. Paper lanterns swayed in the evening breeze, casting amber light over the lacquered wood and stone paths that wound through manicured gardens. The air smelled of jasmine and sandalwood, tinged with the salt of the bay beyond.
   
Kasmir walked ahead, his gait confident, his presence impossible to ignore even among men who held status far beyond his. He had slipped back into his old role with ease—one of cunning, of quiet menace, of absolute loyalty to the man he called Lord. Hirokore Rokuyari stood at the threshold of the main house, clad in layered robes of muted indigo, his expression unreadable beneath the dim light. The former Garlean lapdog had long since cast off his ties to the Empire, but Deianira knew that betrayal clung to him like a second skin.
   
Even so, when his gaze swept to Kasmir, there was no tension—only the understanding of men who had fought, bled, and thrived together.
   
“Kasmir,” Hirokore greeted, voice smooth as still water.
   
Kasmir inclined his head in respect, but his smirk remained. “Lord Rokuyari.”
   
Deianira remained silent, knowing her place in this particular dance. She bowed, elegant and deliberate, as Kasmir had taught her. Hirokore’s sharp eyes lingered on her for a moment, but he said nothing before motioning them inside.
   
And there, waiting in the flickering candlelight, was Tsuruhime. Tsuruhime’s beauty was like a blade: sharp, dangerous, mesmerizing. She was draped in robes of obsidian silk embroidered with silver cranes, the deep V of her neckline accentuated by the dark expanse of her throat. But it was her eyes that held Deianira’s attention—the iridescent gold of a fox’s gaze with one lone violet glare brimming with amusement and something far older, far hungrier.
   
“You’re learning,” Tsuruhime mused, tipping her chin as she gestured for Deianira to sit beside her. “Kasmir has trained you well.”
   
Deianira’s lips curled faintly. “I am a fast study.”
   
Kasmir huffed a laugh and made himself comfortable beside his Lord, already reaching for the sake that had been prepared for them. The men would talk of business, of piracy and trade, of the slow, calculated work of rebuilding Doma in the shadows of war. But the women—oh, the women had their own ways of shaping the world.
   
Deianira had always respected Tsuruhime. The void-touched woman was a contradiction of elegance and brutality, a reminder that power was not solely a thing of men. But they did not always agree. Tsuruhime’s methods—deceptive, ruthless, and often drenched in blood—were a sharp contrast to Deianira’s softer approach. Where Deianira coaxed and wove her influence like a gentle tide, Tsuruhime struck like a storm, merciless and unapologetic.
   
Yet, there was a bond between them, unspoken but present.
   
“You’re adjusting well to Hingashi,” Tsuruhime noted, her claws tracing the rim of her cup. “And to Kasmir’s world.”
   
Deianira lowered her gaze, her fingers brushing over the silk of her sleeve. “I am trying.”
   
Tsuruhime smirked, leaning in just enough for her words to ghost over Deianira’s skin. “Trying is not enough. Here, you must become.”
   
Deianira did not flinch beneath the weight of her stare. Instead, she held it, meeting her gaze with the quiet, stubborn resolve that had carried her this far. “I will.”
   
And Tsuruhime, ever the predator, merely smiled.}

(VIII) Lessons in Larceny: A Rogue’s Refinement.   
   
_{The night air of Gridania was thick with the scent of moss and damp wood, the hush of the Twelveswood broken only by the furious shouts of the Wood Wailers and the quick, panicked footsteps of their elusive quarry. X’Sulfo darted through the shadowed alleys, her heart hammering against her ribs. The stolen gil jingled in the pouch at her hip, a prize too tempting to ignore, and yet, as always, the thrill of the theft had been cut short by the reality of the chase.
   
“Stop, thief!” one of the Wailers bellowed, their voices laced with frustration.
   
“Catch me if you can, boys!” X’Sulfo cackled, vaulting over a fence with an agility that only a lifetime of mischief could bestow.
   
She had been caught before. Many times, in fact. But she had always found a way to wriggle free—either through sheer wit, a well-placed punch, or an ally willing to bail her out. This time, she was running out of luck. She rounded a corner and found herself face to face with a dead end. Her tail lashed in frustration. “Oh, come on,” she hissed under her breath.
   
Heavy boots pounded against the earth behind her. She turned on her heel, ready to fight her way out, when a shadow fell over the alleyway’s entrance.
   
“X’Sulfo,” a calm, almost amused voice murmured.
   
Deianira stepped into the dim light, the moon catching on the gold filigree of her bracelets. Draped in the soft silks of Kugane’s finest artisans, she was the very image of refinement—so entirely opposite of the wild-eyed Miqo’te standing before her. Yet, despite her gentle appearance, there was an undeniable steel in her gaze.
   
X’Sulfo let out a breathy chuckle, relieved and wary all at once. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite star come to pluck me from the jaws of disaster.”
   
Deianira sighed, shaking her head as the Wood Wailers closed in. “Again, X’Sulfo?”
   
“This one wasn’t my fault! Mostly.”
   
The guards bristled at the sight of Deianira stepping between them and their target. “Lady Deianira, I would advise you to step aside,” one of the Wailers warned. “This criminal has been caught red-handed. She’ll answer for her crimes.”
   
Deianira’s expression did not waver. “I will pay her bond.”
   
The lead Wailer, a hardened Elezen with a scar running across his brow, scoffed. “And next time? And the time after that? This one’s a menace.”
   
“I will handle her,” Deianira said, her voice carrying the weight of someone who was not asking for permission.
   
X’Sulfo blinked, stunned. “Wait, what?”
   
Deianira ignored her, reaching into her sash and pulling out a heavy coin purse, tossing it toward the Wailer without ceremony. The man caught it, his scowl deepening before he finally relented with a begrudging nod. “See that you do. She’s out of second chances.”
   
As the guards turned and stalked off, X’Sulfo let out a low whistle. “You just have money to throw at my problems, huh?”
   
Deianira turned to her, eyes narrowing. “Your problems are becoming my problems, and that is not something I intend to make a habit of.”
   
X’Sulfo grinned, stretching like a cat freed from a cage. “Yeah, yeah, you love me.”
   
Deianira sighed, but there was no real frustration in her gaze. She reached out, brushing a stray leaf from X’Sulfo’s hair. “Come. You will stay with Kyríos and I tonight. You need shelter, and I will not have you sleeping in the alleyways.”
   
X’Sulfo tilted her head. “What’s the catch?”
   
Deianira smiled faintly. “No more stealing. At least for tonight.”
   
X’Sulfo groaned but let herself be led away, Deianira’s presence a strange balm against the chaos she constantly invited. Perhaps, for tonight, she would behave.
   
As the evening mist rolled through Kugane’s streets, Deianira watched with a carefully concealed frown as Kasmir and X’Sulfo stood beneath the red lanterns of a secluded alley. The Hrothgar’s massive frame loomed over the smaller Miqo’te, his mismatched golden eyes sharp as they studied her posture, the way she held herself—ready to run, ready to fight. He exhaled, low and steady, before gesturing for her to watch.
   
“You’re quick,” Kasmir rumbled, his voice rough but devoid of reprimand. “But you’re sloppy. You rely too much on instinct, not enough on planning. That’s how the Wailers catch you.”
   
X’Sulfo scoffed, tail flicking behind her. “I didn’t see them coming this time. That’s all.”
   
Kasmir’s mouth twitched, the closest thing to amusement he ever allowed himself. He pulled a small coin purse from his belt, tossing it lightly between his hands before suddenly flicking it toward her. X’Sulfo’s ears twitched, but her hands fumbled, and the purse tumbled to the ground with a dull clink of gil against stone.
   
“Too slow.”
   
X’Sulfo hissed under her breath, scooping up the purse with a glower. “I wasn’t ready!”
   
“Then you’ll never be.” Kasmir folded his arms, his voice dropping into something dangerously smooth. “A thief is always ready, always watching. You don’t wait for the right moment. You make it.” He crouched, drawing a clawed finger through the dirt to mark out the movements of a typical merchant in the city. “Observe. Learn their habits. Where their hands go, where their eyes don’t. The best marks are the ones who never realize they’re a mark at all.”
   
X’Sulfo narrowed her eyes, her stubborn pride warring with an undeniable hunger to learn. Slowly, she nodded, mimicking Kasmir’s stance.
   
Deianira stood just beyond the lanternlight, her fingers tightening around the silk of her sleeve. She hated this. Hated the way Kasmir fostered X’Sulfo’s recklessness instead of discouraging it. But her disapproval was a silent weight on her tongue. Kasmir had made it clear—her opinions on his teachings were neither welcomed nor needed.
   
Instead, she let out a slow breath and folded her hands before her. “And if she is caught again?” she asked, voice even. “Will you be there to pull her from the gallows?”
   
Kasmir tilted his head, regarding Deianira with that unreadable expression of his. “She won’t be.”
   
X’Sulfo smirked, rolling her shoulders. “Not with what I’m learning now.”
   
Deianira said nothing. Just watched as Kasmir continued his lesson, shaping X’Sulfo not into a common thief, but into something far more dangerous—something refined, something careful. Something that, whether she liked it or not, would survive.
   
And survival, in Kasmir’s world, was the only thing that mattered.}

(X) Whispers of Fate in the Lanternlight.   
   
_{The air within Deianira’s tea room was thick with the scent of warm spices and dried flowers, the flickering lanterns casting soft, golden light upon the lacquered floor. The delicate clink of porcelain echoed as she poured fragrant tea into three finely crafted cups, steam curling like celestial wisps above the amber liquid.
   
Lady Rokuyari sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, her silken robes a cascade of lavender and silver. Despite her usual air of quiet authority, there was a rare softness to her tonight—a moment of respite from the expectations that loomed over her. Across from her, X’Sulfo fidgeted in her seat, tail twitching with barely contained excitement, her mismatched eyes gleaming with anticipation.
   
Deianira placed the teapot down and adjusted the astral deck resting at her side, its gilded edges gleaming in the lanternlight. "It has been too long since we have indulged in a reading together," she mused, swirling the tea within her cup before setting it down. "Shall we see what the stars whisper of your fates tonight?"
   
X’Sulfo grinned, leaning forward. "I already know what mine will say," she declared. "The stars will tell me that I am meant to catch the elusive beast that has haunted my dreams—my white whale!"
   
Lady Rokuyari chuckled softly, shaking her head. "A fish consumes your thoughts more than the politics of Hingashi, little one?"
   
"You don’t understand, my lady," X’Sulfo said dramatically, placing a hand over her heart. "This is no ordinary fish. It is the Shonisaurus, a beauty with scales like a thousand flints of obsidian. It has eluded me at every turn! I swear it mocks me each time I cast my line."
   
Deianira smiled as she shuffled her deck, the cards whispering against each other like leaves in the wind. She let her fingers guide her, drawing a single card before laying it upon the silk-covered table. The celestial imagery glowed faintly, the moon’s light from the window caressing the golden ink.
   
"The Spinner," Deianira announced with a knowing tilt of her head. "The Fates weave a tangled web, but fortune favors the persistent. Your quarry will not elude you much longer, X’Sulfo. There is a great patience required to reel in what is truly meant to be yours."
   
X’Sulfo gasped, gripping the edge of the table. "So you’re telling me… I will finally catch it?"
   
Deianira inclined her head. "Yes, but only if you respect the whims of the tide. The Shonisaurus is not merely a prize, but a test of your resolve. Be too hasty, and it will slip through your fingers once more."
   
X’Sulfo groaned dramatically but nodded. "Fine, fine! I will try to be patient. But if I have to wait another moon, I swear I’ll—"
   
"You’ll do what?" Lady Rokuyari teased. "Swim after it yourself?"
   
X’Sulfo huffed, crossing her arms, though her smile betrayed her amusement.
   
Deianira turned her attention to Lady Rokuyari now, shuffling the deck once more before drawing a card. She laid it gently upon the table, studying the delicate constellations that graced its face. A small, knowing smile graced her lips.
   
"The Bounty," she murmured. "A time of abundance and prosperity is upon you. Your efforts shall bear fruit—quite literally. Your lavender garden will flourish beyond expectation."
   
Lady Rokuyari’s eyes brightened, her fingers delicately tracing the rim of her teacup. "Truly?" she asked, her voice laced with cautious hope.
   
Deianira nodded. "Not only will it thrive, but its bounty will extend far beyond mere blossoms. I see a path unfolding—one that leads to a perfumery of great renown. The essence of your lavender shall become something cherished, sought after by nobles and merchants alike."
   
Lady Rokuyari exhaled a breath she had not realized she was holding, a rare, genuine smile gracing her lips. "I have long dreamed of crafting perfumes, but with all the duties I must uphold, I feared it was nothing more than a frivolous fantasy."
   
"A dream is only frivolous if one does not reach for it," Deianira said gently. "The stars do not speak in falsehoods. This path is yours if you dare to walk it."
   
Lady Rokuyari looked down at the swirling tea in her cup, lost in thought for a moment before nodding. "Then I shall walk it," she declared, a newfound determination lighting her gaze.
   
X’Sulfo clapped her hands together. "A legendary catch and a future perfumery—this is the best fortune reading I’ve ever had!"
   
Deianira laughed softly, gathering her cards once more. "The night is young, and the stars are ever watchful. Let us enjoy this rare evening together."
   
For once, there were no men demanding their time, no expectations looming over them. Just laughter, warm tea, and the quiet promise of futures yet to come.}

(XII) The Whispering Pages of Ouranó Máti.   
   
_{The Great Gubal Library was a monument to knowledge—its towering shelves stood like ancient sentinels, rows upon rows of forgotten wisdom stretching into the darkness above. Dust and silence clung to the air, broken only by the distant sound of flickering lanterns and the occasional rustling of parchment.
   
Deianira stepped through the grand archway, her robes trailing behind her like the gossamer threads of the night sky. At her side, X'Sulfo padded lightly, ears twitching at every creak and groan of the ancient structure.
   
“Not a single soul in sight,” X’Sulfo murmured, her tail flicking behind her. “Either we’re the first ones in ages to care about this place, or it’s haunted.”
   
Deianira chuckled, though her gaze was already sweeping the labyrinthine halls. “Perhaps it is both.”
   
They ventured deeper, their footsteps swallowed by the vastness of the library. Deianira’s fingers trailed over the spines of forgotten tomes, each one brimming with secrets older than the stars. And yet, none of these held what she sought.
   
Then, a whisper—soft as a sigh, yet clear as a chime.
   
She froze. X'Sulfo noticed immediately. "What is it?"
   
Deianira tilted her head, eyes narrowing. It was faint, like the hush of wind through leaves, but it called to her. Beckoning. Leading.
   
She turned sharply, weaving through the shelves with newfound purpose. X’Sulfo followed, grumbling under her breath. “I hate when you do this. Makes me feel like I’m missing something important.”
   
They reached a secluded alcove, a forgotten corner of the library where the dust lay thick and undisturbed. It was here, upon a solitary pedestal, that she found it—a tome unlike any other.
   
The book was bound in darkened silver, the cover smooth as polished moonstone. An iridescent eye, carved with precision beyond mortal means, rested at its center, pulsing faintly with ethereal light. Deianira’s breath caught.
   
Ouranó Máti.
   
The eye blinked.
   
X’Sulfo took a step back. “That’s unsettling.”
   
Deianira extended her hands, palms trembling as she brushed the cover. The moment her fingers made contact, a brilliant shimmer coursed through the book’s surface. The air vibrated. A gentle hum resonated in her bones.
   
Then, as if the universe itself had been holding its breath, the book opened.
   
Golden pages fluttered like wings, glowing with an otherworldly light. Strange symbols, familiar yet foreign, danced across the parchment, shifting, aligning—reshaping themselves into meaning only she could comprehend.
   
And then it spoke.
   
“Daughter of the Pleiades... You have returned.”
   
Deianira gasped, her vision swimming as images unfurled before her—planets adrift in the cosmos, silver-clad figures walking among the stars, temples wreathed in celestial fire.
   
She saw them.
   
Her people.
   
Their history spilled before her like an endless tapestry, woven in constellations and stardust. She saw their triumphs, their sorrows. She saw their wars, their peace, their ascension beyond the reach of mortal understanding.
   
And she saw her father.
   
Runerth, the Pleiadian who bore the weight of the heavens. His form was eternal, bound in celestial chains, his hands bracing the very fabric of existence. His shoulders never faltered, his back never bowed—an unyielding force against the tides of oblivion.
   
Tears welled in Deianira’s eyes.
   
“Why?” she whispered. “Why did you never return?”
   
The book did not answer. Instead, the pages shifted once more.
   
Her sister Elysen's handwriting bloomed before her, delicate and precise. A diary entry, untouched by time.
   
“Deianira, if you ever find this… know that I loved you. The stars called us home, but they will never call you, and the path you chose led you to our ruin. I have accepted it, but I grieve it all the same.”
   
Deianira clutched the edges of the book, her breath shuddering.
   
X’Sulfo, still standing beside her, frowned. “Deianira? What’s wrong?”
   
She turned to her companion, the book clutched to her chest. “You… you don’t see it?”
   
X’Sulfo squinted at the empty pedestal. “See what?”
   
Deianira looked down. The book was still there, still pulsing with celestial light. But X’Sulfo’s gaze passed right through it, as if it were nothing but air.
   
The realization struck her like a bolt of lightning.
   
This book—it was meant only for her. A relic of a forgotten people, proof of a civilization lost to myth. It was the last fragment of the Pleiades.
   
And she was the only one who could bear witness to it.
   
The halls of the Great Gubal Library had long since been left behind, yet Ouranó Máti remained a constant weight in Deianira’s arms. She cradled it like a lifeline, the silver eye upon its cover blinking with slow, rhythmic awareness. It had been days—perhaps a week—since she had first touched the tome, yet the glow had not faded, the whispers had not ceased.
   
It followed her. Or perhaps, she followed it.
   
X’Sulfo had begun to watch her with wary curiosity, though she never pried. Still, Deianira saw the way her ears twitched when the book would flip open of its own volition, the way her tail flicked when Deianira lingered too long in thought, sifting through entries penned by hands long since turned to dust.
   
The knowledge was endless—history unfurled in constellations, voices long silent murmuring their truths to her and her alone. Deianira had poured over the passages detailing the Pleiades, the people of her bloodline, tracing every star chart, committing every diary entry to heart.
   
It was all she had left of them.
   
And it frustrated her.
   
Not because she had found the truth, but because no one else could share in it.
   
No one else could see it.
   
Not X’Sulfo, not Lord Rokuyari or Lady Rokuyari, and not Kasmir.
   
Deianira sat in her chambers at the Rokuyari estate, fingers hovering over a page that flickered between forms—one moment filled with shimmering script, the next blank, as if the universe itself mocked her solitude.
   
She longed to tell Kasmir. To show him.
   
If anyone would understand the weight of legacy, of a people who stood at the precipice of time itself, it would be him.
   
And yet, when she held the book aloft before him, he did not so much as glance at it.
   
His golden eyes had swept over her instead, calculating, assessing—not dismissive, no, but considering. Always considering.
   
“What troubles you, my moonlight?” he had asked, voice like smooth, aged silk.
   
Deianira gripped the book tighter. “It is… difficult to explain.”
   
“Try.”
   
And so she did. She spoke of the book, of the voices within, of the secrets it whispered only to her. Of her father, her sister, the civilization lost to time. She spoke, and spoke, until the words blurred together like ink in the rain.
   
Kasmir listened, expression unreadable. Then, after a pause, he reached for her.
   
Gloved fingers tipped her chin upward, forcing her gaze to meet his. “You are slipping.”
   
Her breath hitched. “I—I don’t—”
   
“You do,” he interrupted, gaze sharp. “Your form wavers. You walk with one foot in the stars, and one upon this earth. It will not last.”
   
Deianira opened her mouth to protest, but hesitated. Hadn’t she felt it? The way her body sometimes felt weightless, untethered? The way her reflection blurred in still water, like ripples across the void?
   
Kasmir saw it too. And Kasmir—Kasmir did not lie.
   
“…Then what do I do?” she whispered.
   
Kasmir studied her for a long moment before answering. “We will bind you.”
   
The words sent a shiver down her spine. “Bind?”
   
He traced a single clawed finger along her collarbone, trailing lower, past the delicate curve of her sternum before stopping just above her navel.
   
“There is a way,” he murmured, “to keep you whole. To anchor you here.”
   
Deianira’s breath trembled as he withdrew, leaving an invisible mark where his touch had been. “You mean magic.”
   
“A seal,” he corrected. “Arcane in nature. Ancient, but effective.”
   
She knew better than to question him. Kasmir did not make idle suggestions—every action had purpose, every decision calculated. If he believed this was necessary, then she had no reason to doubt him.
   
And yet…
   
Something in her hesitated.
   
She did not fear him. Not truly. Kasmir had never hurt her—not in ways that did not serve a purpose. He had shaped her, molded her into something that belonged to him, and in that belonging, she had found solace.
   
She trusted him. Perhaps too much.
   
Still, her fingers drifted to the space just above her navel, where he had traced his path.
   
A seal.
   
An anchor.
   
A tether to this world, so that she would not fade into the next.
   
She exhaled, lowering her hands to her lap.
   
“…When?”
   
A slow, knowing smile curved Kasmir’s lips. “Soon, my little moon. Very soon.”}

(XIII) A Brute's First Glance.   
   
_{The air in the Rokuyari estate was thick with incense and candle smoke, the scent of sugared ume and fragrant camphor curling through the rafters in ghostly tendrils. It was a night of revelry, of matrimony, and for those with less noble intentions—a night of opportunity. Kasmir stood at the periphery of the great hall, a shadow amidst the gathered nobility, his presence felt rather than seen, a figure that belonged neither among the gilded nor the meek. He had never been one for grand affairs, though he had attended his fair share under his lord’s command.
   
His gaze roved over the guests with a soldier’s discipline, cataloging faces, calculating intent, discarding most as unworthy of his notice. That was, until he saw her.
   
A creature bathed in moonlight, or so it seemed—Deianira moved through the crowd like something out of myth, pale silks whispering over the lacquered floors, her hair gleaming with silvered hues that caught the flickering lantern light. He had heard of her before. A favored companion of Lady Rokuyari, a foreign beauty with an air of mystery.
   
But nothing had prepared him for the sight of her in the flesh.
   
A slow, creeping heat coiled in his gut, something not unlike rage—only, it was not anger that set his teeth on edge, nor was it desire in any familiar sense. It was possession. The realization was instant, absolute. This woman, this delicate thing wrapped in gossamer and moonstone, was meant to be his.
   
Kasmir did not believe in fate. He believed in power, in action, in taking. And he would take her.
   
She was speaking with Lady Rokuyari, her lips forming soft words he could not hear, but it did not matter. He was fixated on her mouth, the shape of it, the way it parted just so in laughter, revealing a glimpse of pearl-white teeth. Her laughter was an unfamiliar melody in his ears—too bright for a man like him, too unburdened.
   
For a moment, he despised her for it.
   
And yet, it was that very brightness that called to the darkest parts of him.
   
She did not yet notice him watching, but she would. They all did, in time.
   
He would make sure of it.
   
With measured steps, Kasmir moved through the throng of revelers, each pace deliberate, a silent promise of inevitability. When he was close enough to feel the warmth of her presence, to catch the delicate trace of something floral on her skin, he spoke, his voice a low rumble beneath the din of the celebration.
   
“You look lost.”
   
Deianira turned.
   
And the moment their eyes met, Kasmir knew—this would be the start of her undoing.
   
She had never seen a Hrothgar before. Not truly. She had heard of them, of course, in passing tales and whispered warnings, stories told by wandering traders and well-meaning scholars. Brutes. Beasts. Mercenaries of ill repute, their kind more suited to war than to civilization. Yet, none of those words prepared her for the man standing before her now.
   
Kasmir loomed, a tower of muscle and fur and barely restrained menace. His frame was impossibly large, broad enough that the very space around him seemed to shrink in protest. His fur was dark, nearly black, save for the faintest hints of tawny gold where the candlelight kissed his shoulders. And his eyes—Menphina’s mercy, his eyes—were mismatched smoldering embers, burning with something far too intense for polite company.
   
He was staring at her.
   
And he was close. Too close.
   
The sharp scent of leather and steel clung to him, tinged with something richer, darker. Somnus? No, something stronger. Something uniquely his. It was an intrusion, a blatant violation of the unspoken rules of nobility and decorum. A lesser woman might have taken a step back, might have shrank beneath his scrutiny.
   
But Deianira was not lesser.
   
"I am not lost," she said, lifting her chin with an air of quiet defiance.
   
Kasmir’s mouth curved—not quite a smirk, not quite a sneer. More a baring of teeth, the sort of expression a predator wears when it has found something particularly entertaining to toy with.
   
"Then why do you look it?"
   
His voice was low, rough, the kind that scraped against the edges of civility like a blade against whetstone. It unsettled her, and yet… there was a strange pull to it, a weight that sank deep into her bones. She should have been disgusted. He was crude. Uncouth. A creature of sweat and violence, of war and wicked dealings.
   
And yet, against all reason, intrigue curled within her like a newly lit flame.
   
She had spent her days surrounded by noblemen and scholars, men who measured their words with precision, who hid their intentions beneath layers of etiquette and feigned charm. Kasmir did not bother with such things. He was not refined. He was not gentle.
   
And perhaps that was why she found herself utterly fascinated by him.
   
Not that she would ever admit it.
   
“I was merely admiring the décor,” she said smoothly, folding her hands before her, forcing herself to appear unaffected. “This estate is quite beautiful.”
   
Kasmir tilted his head slightly, a slow, deliberate motion. Studying her.
   
“Mm. Beautiful things are often fragile,” he murmured, his gaze dragging over her as if he were already imagining how she might break beneath his hands. “Best be careful where you tread, starlight.”
   
The words sent a shiver down her spine, though she masked it well.
   
Lady Rokuyari called her name then, breaking whatever strange spell had settled between them. Deianira turned without hesitation, unwilling to grant him the satisfaction of lingering.
   
But as she stepped away, she felt his eyes on her still.
   
And she would continue to feel them in the days and weeks that followed.
   
Wherever she went, there was a presence at the edges of her world, unseen but never absent. When she walked the streets of Gridania, she could sense the weight of a gaze from the shadows, from the rooftops, from the alleyways between the towering trees. When she tended to her White Mage duties, there was always a moment—a fleeting second—where she swore she caught the scent of leather and steel on the wind.
   
She told herself it was paranoia. A foolish fancy.
   
Yet deep down, she knew the truth.
   
Kasmir had set his sights on her.
   
And he was never one to leave a hunt unfinished.}

Argos Panoptes: The Moon’s Gilded Watcher.   
   
_{Argos Panoptes was more than a mere mount; he was a symbol, a celestial gift draped in silk-feathered splendor. His alabaster plumage gleamed beneath the light of sun and moon alike, each delicate quill dusted with an opalescent sheen that shimmered with hues of pearl, ivory, and faintest rose-gold. His long, trailing train was adorned with iridescent, watchful "eyes," each feathered marking a silent sentinel, ever-vigilant, ever-seeing—fitting for a creature named after the hundred-eyed giant of legend.
   
He had come to Deianira through Kasmir’s hands, not as a trinket, not as a token, but as a claim. A rare, impossible creature—like her, like them—taken from the vaults of some Othardian noble who had never deserved him in the first place. The peafowl was a creature meant for royalty, meant to be worshipped as a living treasure. It only made sense that he should belong to her.
   
At first, Argos had been wary, haughty in the way that only such a divine beast could be, his keen silver eyes measuring her as if determining her worth. But Deianira had not tamed him through force, nor through bribery, nor through the simple hand of ownership. No, it was through patience, through understanding—the knowledge that a creature stolen was not the same as a creature claimed.
   
And so, Argos had come to choose her.
   
His powerful wings carried her across the skies with effortless grace, his vast wingspan unfurling like a tapestry of spun moonlight. Where lesser peafowl were bound to the earth, Argos defied it, his geomantically-enhanced form slicing through the heavens as if he had been sculpted from stardust itself.
   
And when they landed, when his gilded talons touched the ground, he walked with the poise of an emperor, his long tail fanning behind him in a dazzling display of ghostly iridescence. He was a marvel to all who beheld him, an omen of power and untouchable elegance—a reflection of Deianira herself.
   
Yet, for all his grandeur, Argos was not merely a beast of burden, nor a trophy to be paraded. He was a guardian, a steadfast companion whose watchful eyes missed nothing. Those who dared to approach Deianira too boldly often found themselves faced with a sharp, trilling cry—a sound that sent even the most confident men second-guessing.
   
But to her, to his chosen rider, Argos was gentler. He bowed only for her hand, let only her fingers smooth down his silk-soft feathers. When Kasmir’s possessiveness turned razor-sharp, Argos stood unmoved, unafraid—perhaps the only other being Kasmir allowed at Deianira’s side without question.
   
After all, Argos, like Deianira, was his. And Kasmir did not share what was his.}

Items of Interest: Deianira’s Most Treasured Possessions.   
   
_{• Tear of the Firmament – A Moonstone of Celestial Origin
   
A smooth, polished moonstone that glows faintly even in darkness, this gem was the only thing found clutched in Deianira’s hand when she first fell from the heavens. Legends say that such stones are born from falling stars, crystallized remnants of the firmament itself. Whether it is truth or mere fancy, Deianira holds it dear, a tangible piece of the past she can no longer fully remember.
   
• The Ruby Sea’s Heart – A Pearl of Impossible Beauty
   
This radiant, blood-red pearl was discovered within an ancient clam resting at the very depths of the Ruby Sea, its luster untouched by time. Said to have been formed from the essence of the sea’s most sacred tides, it is believed to bestow luck upon those who keep it close. A gift from Kasmir, he claimed it as a prize from his early pirating days, an unspoken promise that even amidst his plundering, something of true beauty was meant for her alone.
   
• Kardiá Kyríou & Kýrio Kleidí – The Lord’s Lock and Key
   
Exquisitely crafted by Othard’s finest blacksmiths, these golden bindings—adorned with rubies and luxurious red ribbons—serve as both ornament and restraint. The lock, Kardiá Kyríou, is masterfully intricate, ensuring that only one key, Kýrio Kleidí, can unfasten it. More than mere chains, they are a declaration of possession, a symbol of Kasmir’s dominion over Deianira, as inescapable as the ties that bind them.
   
• The Silk of Shishu – A Gown Woven from the Threads of the East
   
Commissioned from the finest weavers of Shishu, this flowing silk garment is embroidered with golden thread, its delicate patterns depicting the tale of a celestial maiden who descended from the heavens and was forever entwined with mortal fate. Soft as a whisper, it was gifted to Deianira upon her arrival in Hingashi, a token of welcome from Lady Rokuyari. Though extravagant, it is one of the few gifts she cherishes for its sentiment rather than its worth.
   
• Ouranó Máti – The Lost Pleiadian Relic
   
A forgotten artifact of an ancient and celestial lineage, Ouranó Máti is a font of arcane knowledge and history, accessible only to those of true Pleiadian nobility. Acting as both a chronicle of her people and a personal diary, the relic bears witness to Deianira’s thoughts, fears, and memories, safeguarding them within its mystical pages. Though it has remained sealed for centuries, it calls to her—a reminder that some doors, once opened, can never be closed again.}

Items of Interest: Kasmir’s Most Treasured Possessions.   
   
_{• Llymlaen’s Favor – A Tarnished Compass of the Navigator
   
Once a pristine instrument of brass and pearl, this compass has long since lost its luster, the glass cracked and the needle trembling as if uncertain of its path. A relic of Kasmir’s earliest days at sea, it is said to have been blessed by Llymlaen herself, guiding sailors through the most treacherous waters. Though he swears it no longer works, he keeps it close, perhaps out of habit… or perhaps because some part of him still trusts in the Navigator’s unseen hand.
   
• The Ivory Serpent – A Pipe of Carved Bone and Gold
   
An exquisite pipe, crafted from the polished ivory of a beast hunted in the Azim Steppe, its length wrapped in delicate gold filigree. The bowl is shaped like a coiled serpent, its fanged maw open to hold the smoldering somnus within. Kasmir rarely smokes in the presence of others, yet when he does, the sweet, cloying scent of his vice lingers like a ghost—half invitation, half warning.
   
• Higanbana-no-Okite – A Katana of Crimson and Moonlight
   
Forged in the heart of Doma and bestowed upon him by Lord Hirokore Rokuyari himself, this katana bears a name that whispers of fleeting beauty and inevitable death—the Law of the Red Spider Lily. Its blade is folded steel, dark as the night, yet when drawn beneath the moon, it gleams with a ghostly silver sheen. Though Kasmir wields many weapons, this one is reserved only for those worthy of its bite—a final courtesy before the end.
   
• Kogarashi’s Last Coin – A Pirate’s Blood Price
   
A single, heavily worn coin from the coffers of the infamous pirate Kogarashi, the man Kasmir slew to claim his own infamy. Stamped with the crest of an old Hingan merchant family long since erased from history, the coin is said to carry a curse—that he who possesses it will never know peace on land or sea. Whether he keeps it as a trophy or a reminder, Kasmir never parts with it, rolling it between his fingers when deep in thought… or when deciding whether a man lives or dies.
   
• The Silk Redolence – A Perfumed Ribbon from a Lost Love
   
A length of crimson silk, impossibly soft, its scent laced with a perfume that no longer exists in this age. Some say it belonged to a lover lost to the sea, others whisper that it was taken from a noblewoman whose husband now lies at the bottom of the Ruby Tide. Kasmir has never confirmed nor denied either tale, but when the wind catches the fabric, he watches it with an expression that borders on longing—just for a moment.}

Ouranó Máti: The Eye of the Heavens.   
   
_{Lost to time, whispered of in only the most esoteric of circles, Ouranó Máti—the Eye of the Heavens—is a relic of the fallen Pleiades, a fragment of celestial wisdom hidden upon Eorzea’s soil. Crafted in an age before reckoning, it is more than mere artifact; it is a font of arcana, a vessel of memory, a testament to the lineage that once watched over the cosmos itself. Its form is ever-shifting, fluid as the constellations, appearing at times as a gilded tome with pages that shimmer like nebulae, and at others as a great crystalline sphere, its core pulsing with the light of dying stars.
   
Yet Ouranó Máti is not a relic to be claimed by mortal hands. Bound by the blood of the Pleiadian nobility, it will not yield its secrets to any but those of divine heritage. To them, it is both history and confessor, a sanctum of celestial knowledge inscribed in tongues long since lost to the world below. It chronicles the rise and fall of Alcyone, the weavings of fate that led to its unraveling, and the cosmic forces that still stir in its wake. But more than this, it is hers—Deianira’s. It opens for her touch alone, allowing her to inscribe her thoughts, her griefs, her quiet yearnings in its pages. It is the only remnant of her past that does not fade, the last unbroken tether to the life she can never return to.
   
Hidden within its depths are truths too great for the unworthy to bear—prophecies yet to unfold, the lingering voices of those long turned to dust, and the final echoes of Eurybia herself. But as time wanes and Deianira drifts further from the heavens that bore her, even Ouranó Máti begins to change. The stars that once danced across its pages flicker unsteadily, as if uncertain whether they belong to the sky or to the abyss. And in its heart, locked away beyond even her reach, lies a single, harrowing question: When the last daughter of the Pleiades fades, will the heavens remember her at all?}

Selênê's Samothracia: The Moonborne Vessel.   
   
_{Suspended in the firmament like a celestial dream, Selênê’s Samothracia was more than a mere magicked gondola—it was a piece of the cosmos itself, sculpted in the image of the twin crescent moons that once graced Deianira’s homeworld, Alcyone. Unlike the meticulous, sterile craftsmanship of Sharlayan airships, her vessel did not belong to logic or reason; it was a relic of something far older, something woven from the fabric of divinity itself.
   
The gondola’s hull was a masterpiece of luminous argent, sculpted to resemble the silvered arc of a waning moon, its edges kissed with veins of stardust that pulsed faintly with an inner glow. The surface shimmered with an ethereal radiance, shifting between hues of pale sapphire, dusky lilac, and soft periwinkle—as though it reflected the ever-changing tides of the heavens above. It left a trail of soft, twinkling motes in its wake, like the remnants of falling stars dissolving into the night.
   
But the heart of Selênê’s Samothracia was not its artistry, nor its effortless flight—it was the fragment it housed.
   
Embedded deep within the gondola’s core was a shard of Stella Crinita, Deianira’s own star, the celestial remnant of a home she had long since left behind. It pulsed faintly beneath her fingertips whenever she touched the gondola’s frame, a silent, eternal heartbeat—a reminder that no matter how far she traveled, no matter the distance between herself and the sky that had once cradled her, Alcyone still lived within her.
   
The automaton that accompanied the vessel—crafted in the likeness of a Pleiadian moon fairy—was an enigma of its own, an ever-watchful warden that tended to the gondola’s delicate magicks. It whispered in soft, harmonic chimes, responding only to Deianira’s voice, ensuring that only she could command the vessel’s course among the heavens.
   
Where Argos Panoptes was strength and vigilance, Selênê’s Samothracia was grace and solitude—a drifting sanctuary where Deianira could retreat when the world below became too suffocating, when she longed for the cold, distant beauty of the stars.
   
And yet, despite its celestial origin, there was always one tether that bound it to the world below.
   
Kasmir.
   
He despised that the vessel allowed her to slip away so easily, that it granted her the freedom to wander the heavens beyond his reach. Yet even he, for all his possessive nature, could not deny her this. He had stolen treasures beyond counting, but he had never taken a piece of the cosmos itself—not until Deianira, not until this.
   
So he let her have it. Because Selênê’s Samothracia was hers, just as she was his.}

The Moon’s Forgotten Children.   
   
_{Long before the stars whispered the names of heroes, before the tides of the Source ebbed and flowed to Hydaelyn’s song, there was a people unseen—woven from light and dusk, their feet treading paths carved by gods themselves. These were the Pleiadians, a lost branch of the Keepers of the Moon, yet something more, something different. Though they bore the ears and tails that should have marked them feline, theirs were not the keen slits of nocturnal hunters nor the nimble, silent steps of their kin. No, theirs was a lineage far older, shaped not by the prowling night but by the howling call of the divine.
   
It was Menphina, the Lover, who first turned her gaze upon them—her ever-loyal hound, Dalamud, by her side. He was the moon’s guardian, an unwavering sentinel to the goddess of love, and in his shadow, her favored children took shape. Hydaelyn, too, bestowed her blessing, and with it came Argos, the Celestial Hound, her radiant companion, a beast of purest light that roamed the aetherial flows between stars. In them, the Pleiadians found their image. Their bodies bore the sleek, compact strength of wolves rather than the languid grace of cats. Their tails curled in devotion, their ears pricked not to stalk but to listen—to the call of the moon, to the hymns of the gods.
   
Theirs was a people meant to guide. To endure. To stand at the threshold of fate and hold fast against the tide. Yet for all their divine heritage, for all their closeness to Menphina and Hydaelyn, they were not invincible to the cruelty of mortals.
   
The hunt began with Orien, a man of iron ambition and a blade slick with celestial blood. He chased the sisters of Deianira, felling them one by one, until only she and her mother, Eurybia, remained. But Orien did not hunt alone. At his side ran Maera, his ever-loyal hunting dog—a Shiba Inu of uncanny intelligence, a creature who knew no rest, no hesitation. Together, they were the unrelenting tide that crashed upon the last of the Pleiadians, a force as inevitable as the turning of the heavens.
   
Eurybia’s blood soaked the ground beneath the open sky, her final breath exhaled beneath the light of Menphina’s moon. Deianira fled, her heart pounding with the echoes of her ancestors, the howls of Dalamud, the silent watch of Argos. She was the last now—the last thread in a tapestry woven by gods and severed by man. But as Orien loomed, sword in hand, Maera hesitated. The great hunting dog, who had chased her sisters across worlds, did not strike.
   
Perhaps it was the will of the gods. Perhaps it was mercy, or something deeper—an understanding passed between celestial beasts and their wayward kin. Whatever it was, Orien fell that night, and Maera disappeared into the dark. But her legend did not end. For the gods do not forget their faithful.
   
In the heavens, she was reborn—a starbound hound, immortalized among the constellations, forever chasing, never stopping. Menphina placed her alongside Dalamud, a tribute to the endless pursuit of fate, while Hydaelyn granted her a place near Argos, a reminder that even those forged in pursuit could find their place among the divine.
   
And so, Deianira carries this history in her very form. She is the last daughter of a people forged not in the image of the shroud-stalking Miqo’te, but in the reflection of divine hounds—loyal, unyielding, ever bound to the stars. She is a child of Menphina’s moon and Hydaelyn’s light, her curled tail a testament to devotion, her spirit a reflection of the celestial beasts who have watched over the world since the dawn of time.
   
Even as the memory of her people fades into obscurity, the heavens remember. The stars know her name.}