Karra Emberblood's
Gallery and Written Works

Written Works

Of Fireflies and Embered Blood

"Have you ever wondered what would remain of a fire that's been soaked in blood? The answer is fireflies.For a bit of history, my family has called the boughs of the Shroud home for many generations, stretching as far back to the people of Gelmorra if my grandfather was to be believed. Regardless of if our lineage goes back that far, my family had been in the carpentry business for at least a few generations. It was a successful trade, and one that proved fruitful in establishing us within the Shroud.Growing up in the Shroud is no small feat, even within a successful family. Hard days of work in the woods, gathering the necessary supplies to make it to the end of the week, while being mindful to not take too much to honor the agreements with the Elementals. Much of my early life was filled with these days. All things considered though, it was a fine way to live.I struggle to remember those early days now, much to my own disappointment. Although, there was one story that my Grandfather regularly told during the autumn season that has always stuck with me. It was nothing too grand, and always seemed like the idle musings of an old man to me, however I enjoyed it every time he’d tell it.He’d gather us children on the front porch of the house, sitting in his rocking chair, looking out amongst the dancing fireflies that called the cool evening air home. He’d point a few of them out with that hearty laugh of his, saying that they were his favorite creature. Inevitably one of the children would ask why, falling right into the old man’s trap.He explained that while it was known that all life is given aether from the Lifestream, and that when someone died they’d return to the Lifestream, he always liked to imagine that those that left us would leave some of their essence or soul behind prior to their return.When asked why he brought that up when talking about why he loved fireflies, he’d always feign deep thought before explaining that the light the fireflies gave off were those remnants. Lights of the souls of those that have left; lighting the way in the cold night. It was almost as if on queue that the fireflies would gather closer at this, illuminating the big smile he always had.If I am to be honest, in recent days I find myself missing that smile dearly…It was many years after my grandfather passed that the Autumn War began. The war was only a year long, but within that year Gridania suffered terribly at the hands of Ala Mhigo. My brother and I joined the ranks of Gridania’s forces after the battle of the Firesand Banks. We were under the command of a lancer known as Vainchelon, although he fell ill shortly after we joined.
A man by the name of Osbern took over command for Vainchelon, and gave the order for a frontal assault of the Ala Mhigan forces. Devastation, the likes of which I have never seen, ensued later that day.The battle went well into the night, and many good Gridanias were lost; including my brother. I was severely injured, and left to survey the destruction of the battlefield propped against a rock until I was found many hours later. I don’t remember much about that night. Although, I remember when the sounds of warfare faded to silence. The roar of the fires, the smell of burning blood, and crimson light flooding into the stars above were the only things left.While likely due to my injuries in retrospect, I remember seeing lights flickering peacefully around the fallen. To this day, I can remember those glowing lights clear as crystals, and I can’t help but recall that story my grandfather told us children years ago. Flying from the fires and gracing the remains of those on the battlefield as if saying goodbye, those lights looked so much like fireflies.I can only hope they were.Within the following weeks of returning to Gridania, it was revealed the heroic role my brother played in the battle before falling. He was given an honored place amongst the history of Gridania, and our family took up the title of Emberblood; both as an homage to my brother and that terrible night.Since then I have returned to the simple life of a carpenter. I have two sons and a daughter, and I find myself writing more often. Recording idle thoughts, and memories on pages such as the one I write now.It was a bittersweet moment, but I recently found myself in that same rocking chair my grandfather claimed on many nights; pointing out the autumn fireflies to my children. Much in the same way my brother and I did, they asked why I loved fireflies so.I couldn’t help but let out a hearty laugh, and greet their question with a smile."- Varin Emberblood, 8th Sun of the Sixth Astral Moon, 1521

Wrath of the Wood

In the Shroud, the passage of time from spring to autumn always was a bittersweet sight. The color change of the leaves from green to orange; the morning dew replaced by the crisp cold air. The howling wind would often whistle through the boughs, leaving the cold evenings more haunting than what they ought to have been.Those within that mosaic labyrinthine cityscape of waterways and gracefully constructed great wooden structures often would be gathered together during this time of year. Late year festivals, rituals to give thanks to the Elementals, and other things with an emphasis on natural harmony were prevalent in the weeks of autumn. It was a time of joyous celebration, and wondrous stories of Gridanian history.However, this time of year bore ill tidings for those near the outskirts of the Shroud, by the barrier known as the Hedge. Or at least, that’s what some of the elders would say; stories of the ever present “woodwrath” being used to scare the younger generations as part of the festivities.Many outside of the canopy of the woods never put much stock into these stories, brushing them off like the falling leaves of the late autumn season. The mentions of those having been taken by the fury of the Elementals left to pass into the realm of far fetched horror. Even some of those who called the boughs of the trees home had begun to become skeptical; the peace brokered with the Elementals through the seedseers often being enough to lay to rest any worries they had.One such individual was an Elezen man by the name of Jaffeaux, a member within the ranks of the Wood Wailers. He knew of the fabled Elementals' fury, but having grown complacent within the peace, he often brushed it off as an idle threat. To him the idea of anyone, especially those amongst the peoples of Gridania, being subject to such a fate was pure fiction.It wasn’t until one day when a number of Wood Wailers came upon the remnants of a Garlean patrol from Castrum Oriens that the threat of the “woodwrath”, and the respect it demanded, crystalized for Jaffeaux.There was a single surviving member of the patrol, left broken and battered, slumped against one of the trees. A dark blanket of ash covered the forest floor near the man, as he looked ahead dazed. Jaffeaux could see that any semblance of light, even hope, had clearly left the soldier’s eyes. As the Wood Wailers questioned the Garlean, they asked as to where the rest of the patrol was, and all the man could do was gesture to the ash on the forest floor.The Wood Wailers were taken aback in surprise, and so they questioned further as to what the patrol was doing. They found that the patrol was clearing the forest, in an attempt to make way for the Empire’s magitek devices, when they were attacked by an entity wreathed in flame. The Garlean man was the only member of the patrol to survive. Once the questioning was over, the Wood Wailers determined it would be best to return to the city with the Garlean soldier.As the Wood Wailers made their way home, Jaffeaux was greeted by a small voice carried on the wind, and while the words were unintelligible, the cadence matched that of a floating ember. He took a glance around, and found that it appeared as if he was the only one who heard it. Taking a moment to steel himself, Jaffeaux stepped away from the other Wood Wailers to listen closer to the voice.Following the voice led the Elezen closer to the Hedge, to where he no longer could see or hear the others. In this moment, shadowed by the boughs above, Jaffeaux was onslaught by a fierce gale. On this howling wind came a gust as hot as fire, biting and blistering through even his thick armor.This roar of white hot air bore a voice, cascading in volume like the flickering flames of a bonfire, searing the words, “By our grief is the Wrath wakened, by its keening is our deliverance wrought,” into Jaffeaux’s mind.Jaffeaux nearly collapsed in terror before rushing back to his fellow Wood Wailers. When questioned as to what he was doing, or what had scared him so much, all Jaffeaux did was shake his head in silence.In a daze whilst returning home, all Jaffeux could do was wonder. If a single voice on the wind could sear his skin, and mere words could brand his memories, is what the elders called the “woodwrath” what decimated the Garlean patrol? Jaffeaux would find little solace in what answers he found from the seedseers.From then on, and well into his years as an elder, Jaffeaux joined in the warnings of the Hedge and the danger it harbored to others in the autumn festivities; praying that none would have the same fate befall them as what befell the Garlean patrol that day.