Aya

[align=center][/align] [align=center][Homecoming - Part Two][/align] The Airship always provides two things in bountiful plenty: scenery, and time for thought. While the Shroud rolled on beneath the billowing sails of the graceful wooden vessel, the Ayas thoughts were fraught with turmoil. To those who know her only as Momodi's bubbly barmaid, she would have seemed unrecognizable. Or those who saw her only as a poster girl, a glamour model. To those who only knew her as the face and figure of Gridanian fashion. Even to those who had seen her dance, and thus witnessed a brief, if clear, glimpse of her heart. It would not be fair to call the smiles facade: she loved every day's simple pleasures and company. But the warmth of her outward expression could not hope to penetrate the fullness of the heart within. She was simply human, after all. One sentiment had hung in the back of her mind: dereliction (manquement, trahison, she could never decide the fullest severity of it all). It had been there for more than days, more than weeks and moons. Years had passed since the fateful day of her irrevocable decision: immediate flight at all cost. It had meant freedom. Freedom to pursue her own happiness, to discover herself, and to explore the world around her: she had escaped the stone cage that was Ishgard, but at the cost of all that had been left behind. It was unlike her. She always let go. She focused on the here, the now, and the future, wasn't that right? The past was a millstone around the neck of those who failed to move on and adapt. In the rapidly changing landscape of Eorzea this seemed more important than ever. But this was different, wasn't it? This was family. Downcast eyes were accompanied with a feeble grip on the side-railing. Why did it always feel like this when she thought of home? She had rolled through the justifications so many times that they were now summoned forth with the summarized rapidity of a well-rehearsed argument. The dangers of her place in Ishgard seemed to be closing in around her. One too many enamored admirers, too many of whom were blessed with the very power of birthright and status that could make life for her or her family difficult, or worse. Parents insistent that she serve their familial expectations, and their concept of propriety and tradition. The deep-hewed contours of a society sculpted to prevent the rise and success of an outsider, and daughter of refugees. An endless winter that snuffed hope, happiness, and health with the same sureness with which it it smothered spring in its blanket of endless snow and frost. But no matter the justification, her heart ever returned to the same conclusion: dereliction. Abandonment of family, of friends, of home. She had left behind her brothers, Kael and Osvald, and their adoptive sister Enna. Mother was left without a daughter of her own. Father left bereaved of his very joy and purpose. Uncles, aunts, and cousins to whom she owed so much felt the sting of her sudden disappearance. The friends, patrons, and fellow performers whom she had left without word or farewell. To what, to whom, could she ever think herself loyal? Could there be a greater betrayal than that of blood and sororal bonds? Her eyes focused on the landscape passing beneath the ship. She had been here before. In this strange, darkened mood. With eyes cast uncharacteristically backward, brimming with self-criticism and doubt. Yes, father was overbearing. He insisted that she live the life he desired, rather than that which she had desired: but was that not his right? Had he not seen them all through the gravest of danger? And what had she done with it all? Just what had she accomplished to make her family proud? She let out a heavy sigh, eyes closing as she wondered whether this trip was just one more bad decision to compound the rest. Over the years this sense of betrayal had carved a hollowness in her heart. A hollowness that sought to undermine everything she loved in life. "I am happy," she would repeat to herself, as though the proof were in the words themselves. Yet, simple irresolution ever seemed to deny her peace. She could draw upon ample evidence of her failings. The violence of her days as a sell-sword, and the cowardice and cravenness that followed her departure from the Shroud. How could they even understand what life had been like for her in Ishgard, let alone Ul'dah? News from the Tower City did nothing to settle her. She had first learned of father's illness from V'aleera's letters, but it was Osvald who wrote to tell her of the despair into which he had sunk upon her flight - which they had all believed was her demise. Of course, she failed to reckon with her father's own story. With all the ghosts of the family history. These were not perfect men and women: all were failed in their own way. When faced with the decision to stand in brave defiance with his countrymen had he not turned and fled with his family? Just how deeply did he compromise in order to survive the reign of the King of Ruin? He had overseen the loss of everything they had once possessed. Betrayal, dereliction, it seems, runs in the family. When news reached the family that she was alive and well, it lifted a heavy burden, but father had simply never been the same. Once irascible, and full of energy, he had grown tired and morose. She wondered if he would even want to see her. If mother would. Aya could not but wonder what sort of welcome awaited her in the belly of frostbitten stone. The airship docked in the heights of Gridania's wood-craft skyline. Calmly, she gathered her belongings from below.

[align=center][/align] [align=center][Homecoming - Part One][/align] [align=center][/align] Home? They say it is where the heart is. But, in truth, how difficult it can be to define. To some, it is obvious. A place of birth, of coming-of-age. A place of loyalty and frustration - of every facet and exuberance of love. It can come naturally. With thoughts and memories: recollections of family, of friends. The place of timeless moments joyful and heart-breaking. For others it is more than remembrance: it is duty, obligation, and hope. What of Aya? An Ala Mhigan washed up on the shores of Thanalan's desert expanse by way of the Tower City. Her path unwound through the many roads and tracks of Eorzea. Could it be found at the beginning? She did not even know where to start. Where to begin. Opening her eyes she saw only the reflection of flickering candle-light off tile and the rippling surface of warm bathwater. This was her place of ultimate reflection. Of quiet solitude where only her thoughts could penetrate the steamy thickness of the air. The beginning? She could hear the tune - echoing through the hollow chambers of aural memory. The sounds of the manor - the family keep. She carried only the faintest sense of the place, the land over which once flew the crow banner of her ancestors. What of that heartland city? Ala Mhigo. To her it meant the sound of longing pipes echoing through the mountain pass. Could she recall the faint outline of the city's towers against the setting sun - or was that the effect of the tiny painted landscape that was the most prized possession left by Enna's doomed mother to her only daughter? The bonds of nostalgia did not connect Aya to these places, too strong with the scent of strangeness. What only infant eyes had spied could leave no strong impression. What of nostalgia? To what place could she attach such feelings? Was it really a place that could be nostalgic, she wondered? For her, a refugee child, the exactness stung with the certitude of loss. There could be no return to those places she remembered with sepia-toned heart. They were the transitory stopping-points of an itinerant family. Thanalan was grit. Vylbrand was sea-salt and the friends whose brief fraternity seemed a life-time in hindsight. The Shroud, the scent of pine and the gentle tones of the forest realm. Intermingled with all: family. Mother, father, brothers, and sister. The feeling of their voices, and the warmth of their proximity. While she was still too young to truly understand their hardship. Was she blessed? Others could not help but feel a longing for those places of their youth, when all still seemed fresh, warm, and whole. Many unknowingly sought to embrace their past, to dwell in the nostalgia of a home which they had never truly left behind. But even for them it could only be a faint facade of what once had been. She possessed the sure knowledge that hers could never be reached: no physical place could capture those feelings. Only a place and a time long since washed away by the intervening moons. All they were, all they could ever be, were in her mind. She closed her eyes. Submerged her thoughts in memory. And touched that home that no others could love.

Welcoooooome to the RPC and to Balmung!

Haha! Looks like you put them to good use! ♥♥♥

Aya believes in a whole host of folk lore, some of which (in FF) is admittedly based on reality, but she definitely prescribes to the veracity of almost all of it. She's not terribly well informed on the "revelations" of this expansion, and despite her hostility to Ishgardian Orthodoxy as an institution still holds most of its teachings to be truth. In other words, although nefarious inquisitors abused doctrine and the social iniquity of Ishgardian society for their own wicked ends, that in no way means that Heresy was any less dangerous than they claimed. Her beliefs regarding the Dragonsong War are more in-line with that ghost, than with the adventurers the OP meta-gamed down. And she is deeply cynical about the supposed change in Ishgard (since to her mind they have not thrown out the bad with the good, but instead thrown out the good (the faith) while keeping the bad (the social structure that enabled the wickedness, and more specifically the individuals who compose it)). In the end, its probably all a draconic trick made possible through heretical agents, and the Fury will not be pleased. She also believes the Ala Mhigan resistance is a romantic but wasteful effort, another belief likely to be annihilated by an expansion Though she will gladly lend them her moral support: may they have courage, for their cause is just! It is just that we'd probably all be better off if we focused that energy on improving our lives in the rest of Eorzea.

Same here, but wishing you luck! I like the Commander's advice

I love the letter!

Hiii good luck meeting people there! I think they have another site they use for their RP community as well but I can't remember it off the top of my head!

[align=center][/align] [align=center][A Long Summer][/align] The orange rays of the setting sun settled gently upon the sandy shores of Vylbrand's eastern coast. The day had been spent in such simple pleasure stretched out beneath the day's warmth, strolling, reading, and relaxing with the sound of surf and the gentle relief of the sea breeze ever in the background. She felt so far from the frigid cold of the Tower-City and its prison-like grip. The shadows of the Shroud retreated from view. Even the bustling energy of the Desert Jewel, with the Quicksand at its heart, seemed distant and silent. There lay Aya, bikini clad, mistress of little more than a towel and a small day bag. "What more could a girl want?" she asked herself in a playful hushed tone. The rhetorical note belied the thoughtful nature that hovered just beneath the bubbly-blonde exterior. What more indeed... Poetess? That was one of the stranger titles among the many she had worn in her young life; but it was hard to deny when she was living off the proceeds of one of her poems. The Alliance, too, had chipped in their own contribution. The success of her poster series had been undeniable, and when there came a request for another recruitment poster (this to celebrate the admission of its newest member) she came away a woman of some means. Besideds the gil it had made for a strange if gratifying time. It was her first time truly feeling welcomed in Coerthas, since the flight to freedom several years before. The cold was ever worse than she remembered, and colder yet in the scant lingerie she was asked to wear for the piece. There was something about it, though, posing for her home country. At least, the closest thing she had ever really felt was home. She smiled with a genuine pride, at last: a poster girl for the home team. Then, from atop the hill she spied the spires of the city in the distance: the air clear with the crystal sharpness of a cold winter day, while freshly lit lanterns heralded looming night. It was all so close, but still so far away... The gil couldn't last, and besides it just wasn't enough. Would it ever be enough? Her debts in Gridania had been handsomely paid back (a story for another time), but it seemed the more coin she possessed the more everything she liked decided to cost. Her tiny room in the Quicksand, once a simple domicile, swelled with new belongings all carefully packed and cared for. Dresses, outfits, shoes, boots, jewelry, and a growing collection of fragrances, many of the last had been offered to her free if only she would wear them in public. She loved the Quicksand. Momodi is the one who had given her a chance when she really needed it. It was just the opportunity she had needed, at a time when she had scarcely been so needy. Debts had chased her from Gridania, and she arrived in the desert with little more than the clothes on her back: friendless, gil-less. The wily proprietress had taken a deep look at the girl's smile, which strove against the forlorn and nearly desperate expression of her features, and offered her the barmaid position that had come to mean food and shelter: life itself, and the opportunity to thrive. It might be too much to say that Momodi had believed in her then, but she had at least seen reason for hope. The hours were few now, far fewer than her old regulars would have liked, but those that she worked remained delightful. The tell-tale swish of a little skirt, the sound of hollow heels upon the tiled floor, and an energetic laughter that filled the dome of the tavern during its most quiet hours, all told of the presence of a woman who loved the place ever, even as she saw less of it... The sun filtered through a high leafy canopy to spread its gentle illumination upon the manicured clearing below. A lattice arch, a deep mahogany crafted in a seamless, flowing fashion by the unequaled artisans of this leafy abode, provided the firmament for the growth of an ivy vine whose path wound it as if following a preconceived design. Beneath this stood Aya Foxheart at her elegant best: adorned in high-fashion with the finest dress, jewelry and accoutrements available to the costumiers of Otto Vann's Fine Fashion's Gridania line. Her long tresses were braided in an intricate fashion to accent the ivy latticework of the garden. No strand dare stray upon her feminine shoulders, left bare by the dress that otherwise snugged to her figure. The fabric was a mesh of gentle earthy tones, and natural fibers of plant and leather that defied ready description. Deeply colored wooden heels put the finishing touch upon a look that sought to emulate the very best of the city it represented: the beauty of nature subtly harnessed and shaped by master craftsmen fully in tune with the primal woodland in which they made their home. A handsomely dressed Lalafel, possessed of an outrageous mustache that accented his out-sized manner, stood beside her as they greeted the gathering guests. This was the so-called Yoyomundi, the hand-picked designer who had done much to master and move the market for Gridanian fashion in the year since he arrived, and a regular client for Aya's modelling talents. At last, with a smile that spoke of his genuine gratification, he turned to his premier model. "My dear," he said with a twirl of his mustache, "I must say, that the dress compliments the lady. But, not, I dare say, as much as the lady compliments the dress." He offered a brief and exaggerated bow to accentuate the compliment. From a man as taciturn to his employees as he was dedicated to his craft, the words came as something between a shock and a surprise to her. She could not hide a grin, nor the flushing of cheeks as she turned back toward the small crowd that had taken their seats in anticipation of the show. It was a wonderful day... As the wind picked up it struck her mostly exposed skin with an abrasive blast. She let out a shout, as a fresh wound upon her upper arm caught the worst of this arid menace. "You can cry, missy, I won't tell anyone! Promise!" The man laughed a grisly laugh, before taking a long drink from an ancient flask. He was watching from a reclined position, shielded from the wind by the large rock upon which he lay. Old and tattered clothing matched the grizzled appearance of the man. His hair hidden beneath a ratty turban, his beard a mixture of matted gray and brown with the slow-growing stubble that came with age. Aya grimaced, shielding her face with her left hand. Her right knee rest upon the rocky ground, a beaten wooden sword rest in her right hand. She fought back the urge to shout again with as the searing pain coursed through her. "I'm... alright!" she hollered back in a less than convincing tone, before struggling back to her feet, while the observer laughed. A massive highlander stood in front of her. Fully clad in leather and cloth he was preserved from the elements in stark contrast to her. The larger wooden instrument in his hand bore the sign of quickly drying blood. "Uh.. I'm sorry Aya! I didna... I mean I didna mean ta..." "Shuttup, lunk!" Hollered the old man, interrupting the stammering apology. "You're not here to talk! I said to make her cry, and you haven't done it yet!" His expression was one of frustration, if not outright anger toward the young swordsman. Aya reached her feet, breathing heavily. With difficulty she drew the sword back and crouched into a ready position. The old man's smile returned with a laugh, "Eh! Maybe we'll make something of her yet. Lunk! Make her cry and its a two-steak dinner on the old man!" Lunk nodded before taking a moment to adjust the mask that guarded his face. A precaution not, apparently, given the girl. He'd get his steak before the night were done... She stood bare before her mirror. Eyes passed from one injury to the next. She'd never really appreciated mother's tutelage so much before. The salves and tinctures did their job. Even wooden blades wound, but with time and care they healed. Cosmetic could often hide those still fresh. In the "real game" healers stood by to aid the combatants. But, that wasn't the way Samuel operated. No one operated like Samuel--not any more. She shuddered, rubbing both arms up and down as she recalled the old man's words of warning: "I don't teach up-and-comers. The sands isn't what it was." The voice was gritty and earnest. "We used to kill. That was the sport. Now? They're not fighters. None of 'em! And I don't take anyone new. I'm done. Done! They want to make a show, and that I can't teach." He had waved both hands dismissively. "Besides, what are you? A delicate little flower of a girl? I know where ya work! And this is a lil' more dangerous than gettin' yer ass slapped by a handsy costumer drunk on Momodi's swill. You just don't get it do you?! I'm not teaching you, missy! I'm not." A purse-full of gil seemed to change his mind, but not before a final warning, "You're going to regret this." And how she did... She turned from the mirror with a sigh as her eyes fell upon the open letter resting precariously upon the tiny table that doubles as her desk. It had arrived in unusual double-monographed form. One was more than familiar, as dubious as any, the other was unfamiliar but bore the elegant design of an Ishgardian house. This was even more dubious than the first. The letter began, "You are most cordially invited..." and ended, "Dubiously Yours, Verad Deauxbois". An even stranger name for a strange, yet endearing man. Who happened to have the dubious habit of stumbling into every form of honor that Aya despised. Still... he was Verad, and she had never declined an invitation of his before. But this was in... Ishgard. She sighed again. A deeper, remorseful sound that coursed through her. She shook her hair, running fingers through the wetness of her freshly-cleaned locks. She pretended to think about something else, but her gaze fell upon the small ribbon-bound bundle of papers she kept more carefully than any other: the correspondence of her brothers in Ishgard. Her eyes followed a well practiced route from the bundle: to the wrought iron weather-crow hung above her door, to the small family portrait that was the only decoration upon otherwise barren walls. It bore an empty seat--the only sign of a missing sister, and daughter. The Inquisition had fallen. The gates were free. The streets were open. Orrin Halgren, the dragoon had assured her of all this. V'aleera had implored her. Osvald had invited her, in his always too-gentle way. Perhaps it was time...

I love the hair!

Aaaaaah so much goodness in one place!!

I guess I'm up for some haunting!

Thanks! I can toss you an invite if you have room/space for it but it probably wont be until this evening! Internet where I am is too spazzy for me to log on at the moment @_@ I won't be on game until at least this evening anyway! And will have to see about the space thing.. hopefully have room :-D

Are we finally making the armored high heels? :lol: May need a whole set of performing armor! :-D

Weeeeeeelcooooooooome to Balmung!!!!

This sounds great!!

Aya may have a fun job for Chachan before long! :-D

This made me laugh, Aya.... hahahahahahaha Lol! I am consistently amazed... I really am! I love these!

Wow!

Weeeeelcome to the totally best server!

that Chaaachan!

Wow those are really lovely!

Hiya from Aya Yaya and Yaya, ayayayayaya... it'll never be confusing!

The Chibi is adorable!

This thread is amazing! :-D