Aya

Welcome to RP! I would give yourself only the most very, very basic outline for your character, then join in and try to RP! You'll learn more about your character as you go, and can fill in blanks and even change things as you figure it out! I would do your best to separate your character from yourself, conflating the two is called bleed-through. Its important to remember that players are play-acting their characters, its no different than an actor in a movie or show, or the writer of a character in a book - you should not take anything personally! That said, think here are a couple of quick questions to ask about your character: 1) What did his parents do? What was he raised to do? 2) What does he want to do with his life? 3) How does he have/make enough gil to get by day-to-day? Those all provide hooks to get going right away!

I say... do it! ^^

[align=center][/align] [align=center][Return to the Shroud - Crimes Against Nature Part One][/align] In those, long past, distant days of yore. When we learned , our songs of love, and lore Of Misty wood, and ancient timber, Of mighty boughs, untouched by cinder. Where heroes, beyond our ken, once stood, Within that dark, that black, that Mirk-wood. -Excerpt frow a Gyr Abanian Folk Song The legends of the Gyr Abanians are steeped in the depths of the great valley forests of their highland home. They speak of nearly impenetrable interiors the haunt of terrible other-worldly dangers, and sights of breath-taking beauty. The great forests are said to be home of mystcial creatures beynd the reckoning of man, and jealously protective of their mystery. Passage through these legendary wood for many stands as an allegory for the transition from this world to the next. The final steps of a life well lived, or one filled with contrition and fear of damnation. For others it marked the passage from one life to another: a great milestone from which they emerged forever altered. For all, it was to be touched by the unknowable. The ancient lyricists who put these tales to song may have been aware of that greatest Mirk-wood: the Black Shroud of Eorzea. There the depths of the wood stretch deeper than imagination. The shadows darker than night. The secrets more terrible and fantastic. A forest alive, and possessed of an unknowable will. So, was Aya born into this tradition. She heard the songs, and clung raptly to the stories she heard as a child. She passed through the great wood as her family trod the path of refugees. And as a teenager she dreamed of the great expanse of the forest as a realm of freedom; she heard the call and gazed longingly upon the distant green canopy from trespassed rooftops of far-away spires. And so, as she made her great escape, giving up all she all she had known, she sought to make her own journey through this Mirk-wood. She embraced the howling call, and, like those before, she emerged forever changed. Those days she spent wrapped within the forest as a wandering home stayed with her in undeniable ways. And, though the ways of the world had conspired to flush her from it and back out into open spaces, she still felt that same longing for the full lushness of its enrapturing green that had entranced her teenage dreams. The rather sudden offer of work in Gridania seemed as though it could not have come at a more opportune time. Monsieur Vann's (as she called him) assistant had surprised her near the end of an evening shift at the Quicksand. She had been tasked, the diminutive Au Ra woman stated, with hiring a model for a new line of Vann clothing marketed specifically to the forest city of Gridania. It seemed an offer tha Aya simply could not refuse. Due to her growing Freelance work, Madam Momodi had kindly extended her some flexibility in her scheduling. And, the next thing she knew, she found herself leaning over the railing of an airship as it made it's way effortlessly and serenely over the edge of the Shroud. She let out a quiet breath. Her mind wondered over those memories of the not-too-distant past. Of the paths and ways that she had learned. Of the faces of the friends she had made—and of some she had lost. Of the good times and the bad. And those one could not tell from the other. Of those she sometimes wished she had never known. Those moments that forever change a person. And of regret. She leaned a little further over scanning the sights below. The Sun was setting; the fiery hue of its departing rays illuminated the fading wild flowers of a forest meadow below. She remembered some of the stories she had been told. The forest Miqo'te seemed to know the wood better than all others and they told stories of equal wonder and terror. They told of such splendor and trickery that one came away convinced only that a life-time was not enough to learn the full ways of the Shroud. She sighed softly as the day's last rays lapped high clouds a brilliant shade of pink. She remembered those forest gatherings. Friends, comrades, pitched in a circle. Those times had slipped away: forever gone, as surely as the light of the sun would too. A porter met her at the hanger, and with considerable swiftness she made her way from the lower-level platform out onto the cobblestone pathways of what counted for avenues in the forest city. The Carline Canopy held memories of its own: her first workplace outside of Ishgard. The site of so many friendships and of her eventual recruitment. But, there was still the issue with Miounne and some six months of long past-due rent. The matronly Elezen was known for her kindness, but underneath it all Aya knew she was a business woman well aware of the bottom-line. It was the sort of trouble that Aya took no chances with. No, their destination was a small boarding house in the northern neighborhood of the city. A spot where those who wished for more personal attention than the Canopy could offer often chose to stay. A quiet spot to stay while she waited for word from her employer, Monsieur Vann, or his retainer. And that is what she told all who asked her about her reason for visiting Gridania. Unspoken, in her heart, she knew it was otherwise. That first night she carefully slipped off the clothing of a fashionable Ul'dahn. She looked, with a smirk upon the freshly manicured fingers that would serve her well as a fashion model. She strapped on a pair of what she considered to be more practical forest boots (of the heeled and buckled sort they used to tease her for during her days in the Shroud—perhaps she had not changed as much as she thought). She escaped quietly out of the house and skirted the lit street lamps in town. She passed through the gate, within the disbelieving sight of the posted guards. She stepped into the woods, and with a confidence born of experience, she took off at a run into the moonlit forest. She was stronger than she had been. And soon she found, faster too. Years of additional training had seen to that. The rigors of training and rehearsing amongst Ul'dah's Miqo'te dancing girls had done its share too. She beamed a silent, brilliant grin that none but the forest itself could appreciate. Home at last. Free again.

Ohki described Aya with an amazing song in that other thread :-D

Osvald nodded along, "Of course, Aya... well... she knows what she loves better than just about anyone, I think." He helped V'aleera to her seat, while the brown-haired young woman made sure the Dragoon was set with bread, cheese, and if she wished, porridge to enjoy. The bread was rather meager, but freshly baked with a hint of the oven's warmth still within. The cheese, meanwhile, was modest, but reminiscent of Ishgard's famous flavorful nature. "Oh, yes, allow me to introduce Enna. She is also a dear friend to Aya." he motioned to the brown-haired woman, who bowed gracefully. "If you were Aya's friend, I am sure you two must have met... but it was so long ago!" he grinned in amusement. "Oh! Do excuse me for a moment!" A sudden thought had the smith turning and moving quickly to his shop. As Enna smiled warmly, Osvald slipped through the door and into the house. A few minutes later he re-emerged, somewhat ostentatiously carrying a bottle of wine and a set of four glasses into the office. "This!," he proclaimed, "Calls for celebration! I have informed the Master of our illustrious guest, he shall join us if he can... but..." He rather abruptly opened the red wine, and poured a glass before V'aleera. "First, you just must tell me... does she still dance?" he peered at her with an earnest curiosity.

Osvald's wide-eyed expression did not fade in the least. He listened, looking more excited by the moment as he tried to take in all of the news. The little Dragoon discoursing on the finer side of Ul'dahn culture while firmly held between Osvald's hands made for quite a sight for the young brown-haired woman who covered her mouth and let out an excited laugh. The smith seemed to snap out of it, suddenly releasing V'aleera as a broad grin covered his lips. "Ah! I am just so heartened to hear she is well! Its just the second time we've heard of her over these years." He gently urged V'aleera to turn around, and toward the table that was being set for lunch. "Come, come, sit down you'll have to tell us everything."

Osvald never fully trusted smiles. They could conceal everything from barbs, to ill-intent. But, this was not a smile, it was a grin and an altogether natural one. His muscles, silently taut, released in a wave of relief. He closed his eyes as an audible exhale escaped. She was alright. It was only a moment later that he realized what the Miqo'te was saying in her excitement. Unceremoniously he grasped her. Powerful hands able to easily take full hold of her diminutive feminine shoulders. He looked at her with eyes wide, a sudden excitement upon his face, so stark the contrast from a moment before. "You have seen Aya?!" he asked in disbelief.

Osvald nodded at the assent. She may find the materials easy to acquire, things were harder down here, especially without the Master able to pull his usual strings to acquire them himself. These were challenging times. Despite the lack of emotion in his expression he could not quite hide the surprise at hearing his sister's name spoken upon the lips of a Dragoon. She did not seem the miscreant sort. She did not seem so, but you can never be sure. He swallowed; his jaw tensed. Hints of worry graced his features. "Yes. Of what import, is that to you?" he asked with steady voice. His eyebrows raised almost imperceptibly. She suddenly seemed familiar.

Osvald listened silently. The brown-haired woman let out a breath of relief. As V'aleera described the problem she faced, Osvald narrowed his eyes a bit and glanced away. It was an odd request: why this forge, when she could have requisitioned access to one in an official capacity. Perhaps it was the... yes... "A foreign smith," he stated flatly. He took in a breath, and glanced back toward the closed door that lead to the attached house, where Master Dunois recuperated. It was the sort of decision that he should defer to the Master. He looked back down to V'aleera, not moving an ilm. "Building materials. Steel. Iron rod, at least. Half tonze. Three thousand board-fulm of lumber. And mortar-clay." He lifted his right hand, drawing fingers along his jaw. "Your smith shall not interrupt our business. And shall work only under supervision. He will assist in our efforts to rebuild. On a one-to-one basis." "Satisfactory?" he asked, with the slightest tilt of his head.

The imposing smith strode closer before stopping a few fulm from the pair of steps that lead down into the office. Blue eyes studied the Miqo'te, as she imagined they must his work. She was a strange sight, terribly imposing in her own right despite her diminutive size. Only the slightest cant of his head revealed a hint of communication from the man, who had not made out what the woman had shouted amidst the sound of his work. Neither broke the silence; both seemed satisfied to spend the long moment of awkwardness in quiet observation. It was the young brown-haired woman who at last broke the stillness. Unable to bear what she perceived as tension she blurted out in a rapid voice, "Osvald, Madame Dragoon is here in search of Master Dunois. I informed her that he was indisposed, and that you were handling his business affairs." Osvald turned his head enough to look upon the woman. His jaw shifting as he looked back to V'aleera. "That is truth. If you are here on a business matter, Master Dunois is indisposed." His voice was deep, and as solid as his form. There was a hint of brogue upon it, despite the naturalness of the Ishgardian tongue, it seemed clear that it had not been his first.

The young woman's eyes opened with surprise as V'aleera shouted to Osvald. A look of concern and worry crossed her features before she quickly drew the plate away, bowing her head as she set it back upon the table. What business,would bring a Dragoon to this shop, one who knew his name so well... The Smith lifted the nail-rod in tongs, slipping the shaped metal into the forming slot fixed to the anvil he worked. He lifted his hammer to prepare for the four quick strikes that would form the rosehead, and finish the nail. But, he paused. He lifted his head and looked toward the office, he thought he had heard something. He spied the unusual sight. He didn't quite recognize her as a Dragoon, but her import must have seemed obvious—he had heard something after all. His serious expression showed no hint of change. He nodded toward her, and raised the index finger of his empty, heavily gloved hand to ask for just a moment more. He turned his attention back to the nail, it must be struck while hot. He lifted the hammer, driving it against the flattening end of the rod with four successive shots of force. With the final blow landed he grasped the tongs once more, lifting the nail and adding it to the bath. He turned to inspect the other nail-rods awaiting their turn for the hammer in the heat of the forge, and stepped away to lay hammer and tongs upon a workbench. He removed the thick cloth gloves that protected his hands. Massive hands; long powerful fingers, large even for his size. They lifted the tinted goggles that protected his vision, and set them aside. Bright blue eyes ringed by scorch-black. He wiped his brow with a cloth, and stepped slowly, voicelessly toward the office, floorboards creaked beneath his weight. Shoots of curly, blonde hair escaped the wound cloth bandanna that protected his head. He was shaven, but long-since, and a fair, ruddy stubble mingled with soot and black dust upon his broad, angular features. Why is it that Highlanders always seem so stoic?

The young woman remained frozen in place for a moment as V'aleera cast her smile. Something seemed amiss. Dragoons didn't often venture to this neighborhood. As she was addressed she finally seemed to snap out of it. The young apprentice scurried back into the shop, while the young woman returned the ladle to the porridge and bowed her head politely. "Fury bless you, madame," she said in a strong but quiet voice, a slight accent upon the words. "I fear that Master Dunois was injured in the attack, and has been unable to return to his work. His apprentice, Osvald," she says with a nod toward the shop just as the sound of hammering returns, "has been attending to his business." As she spoke she removed a piece of bread from her basket and placed it upon a small plate. She then sliced a small piece of cheese off of a modestly small block to add atop the bread, before offering V'aleera the plate. "You must have walked far, please, here Madame, I am sure you must be hungry."

The young lad was clothed in what barely passed as clothing in this thread-bare winter age. The forge-fire was a blessing, searing the entire shop with an overbearing heat that made one soon long for the exterior chill. He stammered for a moment at the strange sight of a full-fledged Dragoon, hesitantly drawing scraggly arms up to gesture toward the shop itself. The young Highlander woman V'aleera had seen enter, watched motionless just a few feet away. The small office was crammed with a pair of chairs and a table. Poorly sorted paperwork was strewn about an opened desk. The woman grasped a ladle, stopped mid-motion as she was filling a bowl with meager porridge. Her long brown hair was covered by a scarf, and she wore a colorless dress of undistinguished quality. Nonetheless, her features bore the quiet, staid pride that seemed the hallmark of her countrymen. Through the office door was the workshop itself, filled with the searing, hot-orange of forge-light. A massive Highlander stood within, at work upon an anvil. He stood more than a head taller than most men, with a wide barrel-chest and powerful arms that were the hard-earned hallmark of his trade. He dropped the hammer with a loud peel that rung near-deafeningly through the office. A second, a third, then a fourth time. Tongs lifted the result of his work, a perfectly shaped rosehead upon an angled shaft a few ilms in length: a nail. With the sizzle of steam it joined a host of brothers within a cooling bath. Sweat dripped from his brow. Tinted goggles covered tired eyes. His arms were dark, seared and soot-covered. He turned his upper body and reached with tongs to grasp the next prepared nail-rod. He laid it against the flat of the anvil, and raised his hammer once more.

Some would say that the heart of Ishgard cannot be found amongst Cathedral spires. Nor, even amongst her military barracks. No, the heart lies deeper within the body. Within the very firmament of the foundation. Through the tunnels and chambers opened by generations of labor beneath the feet of the tower-city above. There toils the working industry of the city. There fires are stoked, stone cut, wood carved, metal forged and shaped. From there the masses are drawn that feed the armies of the Dragonsong War, the fuel and fodder of a generations-long crusade for the very survival of the city. In a wide chamber sat a row of commercial buildings. Built of crude-cut stone and mortar they had well weathered the tumultuous Dravanian assault now moons past. One building in particular stood for attention: a squat split-level, bearing a masonry stack that belched rich black smoke that rose through grating toward the sun-lit heavens in the distance above. The workshop's metal roof had weathered a beating of debris which had littered the avenue outside, now swept into squalid piles against its rough-hewn, but stout walls. A hum of activity consumed the entire area, but there the peal of hammers rung again and again, evidence of the industry within. A young boy darted from an open door, moving quickly into the street, dodging several crates of goods as he hurried about an errand. A young low-born woman, carrying a basket smiled at the boy, before ducking into the building herself. It was where the Dragoon's journey into the tunnels of her youth had brought her. Like a journey back through the mists of time... not that there was any time for reflection.

(I was waiting for this one )

Close enough to a song ^_~

Zarek! A little mysterious but friendly! I'd like to RP with him sometime!

Th lyrics, in a way, refer to the destructive Crow that is Aya's family banner. Though in my mind I like to replace the references to Morrigan with the Destroyer ^^ Over hills and over meadows see the crow fly, feel its shadow Over woods and over mountains searching for a war Its wings embrace each strife and battle where swords they clash and chariots rattle Seeking out the one whose time has come to take the blade Destroyer ancient god of war I see your face, I'll cry no more Destroyer ancient god of war come lift me on your wings Destroyer ancient god of war I hear your voice, I'll breathe no more Destroyer ancient god of war of war come set my spirit free Kill for Rhalgar, Maim for Rhalgar, Fight for Rhalgar and you will, Slay for Rhalgar, Die for Rhalgar, Rhalgar God of War. And the Viking theme (Fever Ray - If I had a heart) is what I have been listening to lately to get into the mood to write about the King of Ruin.

That War Siren, wow! I still think that it is unfair to call these doodles! You're really talented

This is not exactly a lore-response, but a more general one. There are many areas where an RP character can be designed in ways that feel implausible. It is not strictly verboten (nor should it be in my opinion), but such instances can effect how both the character and the player are viewed. Such instances of imagination-stretching should not necessarily just be avoided, but should be carefully considered. What does it add the the character? What is the player trying to accomplish? Is it adding to the tapestry of the character such that it makes her more interesting or more engaging? Or is it simply being done to make her more powerful, seem more accomplished, or feel rarer and thus "more special"?

"Drink... or fight... drink.... or fight... hell its Limsa lets do both" *ever the slightest smile*

It has been a while since I have posted anything, so here are some more Out Takes! They will probably mostly look kind of familiar, since they were taken at the same time as other shots, but hopefully still enjoyable! ^^

Welcome again out of the shadows! I am curious to see what a vagrant woodsman gets up to in Eorzea!

There are times when things become a little stale, and you just have to open them up a little! It happens to everyone and I can very easily remember some of the times I have felt that way! The good news is that there are many people here looking for RP, so your chance of finding something good are quite high