Aya

This game totally doesn't have too many pirates. You shouldn't feel at all apprehensive about playing one! They're also entirely thematically appropriate and all of that :-]

From tonight's Hot Spring party!

I've had the good fortune to RP with a similar character, and he is a lot of fun! [in other words, I think its a good and interesting character concept!] Good luck and welcome to Balmung :-]

I give these guys a big thumbs up!

It's mentioned once or twice, but there's an actual FATE in South Shroud at Buscarron's Druthers that starts off this concept, I believe. Its mentioned in the wiki too! Midlanders like to joke that Highlanders are part Roegadyn. Knife-Ears is my favorite. I've only had rare occasion to use it IC, since Aya usually keeps her cool (and her facade). But it came out in a conversation when an Ishgardian friend really wanted to get into it about Ishgardian politics. Something felt really cathartic about having Aya let loose with it!

(I have heavily re-written the preceding story. My original version did not live up to my inspiration. I really felt like this was a special concept, and I wanted to do it justice. Hopefully that's now been done I'd like to thank Berrod, Reiner and others for inspiring the ideas behind it, and for introducing me fully to the King of Ruin and the Crusade against the Fists of Rhalgar. They've added an intriguing and dramatic layer to the life and character of Thule, Aya's father (who, like Aya herself, is nameless in this story). )

Hahaha! That Edda! That goes so well with the portrait just posted for Edda as well, you draw very lovely "princesses"! And Goony.. Oh Goony... :-D

Those lands physically represented in the game are at best a loose abstraction of the "reality of Eorzea". You could write entire novels in areas, villages, and perhaps even towns that we cannot enter Just use your imagination!

Honestly, the "Code" strikes me as an excuse for the Thieves Guild to mess with other organized crime groups and otherwise cause trouble. I wouldn't give it too much credence any way you go about it.

I think you can transfer on too! Otherwise, I wish you the best of luck :-]

Those are some loooovely dooodles!! Character name: Aya Foxheart Personality: Outwardly sweet, fun, and something of a stereotypical blonde. Rather more reflective and serious in moments of quiet and solitude. Her true passion in life is dancing and performance, followed closely by just having a good time. Pictures/screenshots: Wiki Profile! For Eorzea, Screen Shot Project

Terrific thread!

Looooovely sketches, especially of Siren!

A Father's Duty - A Daughter's Dance Lord of the Keep. Protector of his Lands. Latest of the line. Scion of glory: the glory of the Crow Banner. Victor. Vanquisher. Conqueror. The mantle hung heavy upon broad shoulders. The weight of history. Of name. Of traditions steeped in the mists of time. His father had known. His grandfather. The great forebears, the giants upon whose shoulders all stands. They knew. They, alone, understood. Candles burned low upon either side of the simple wooden desk: workmanlike and practical. He sat tired and still. A deep grimace creased his face as he sat in thought throughout the full-dark of long night. Tired eyes studied parchment splayed across ancient wood. They trailed line by line along the words of the command once more. There was no need; he had no doubt about the master's will. The King's summons was unmistakable; as was the bloodshed that was his purpose. War was his duty. Duty his purpose. Purpose his honor. Honor his very meaning. A meaning to be found in the tenets of tradition undying. His gaze shifted to the unfurled map, dim in flickering candlelight. He studied it with resigned purpose. He considered the road before him. A road to hell marked by crosses of fratricidal blood. A purpose that opened fresh wounds, summoning visions of destruction from across the planes of contemplation. The King had unsheathed his sword, and planted his banner firmly upon the intersection of Duty, Faith, and Purpose. He brooked no opposition. No discontent. No hesitation. A King that would stand against Rhalgar, a King that would tear his land asunder for proof of loyalty. A King that would put each and every one's loyalty to the most heinous of tests. A test that lay as torment before the Lord of the Crow Banner, who silently studied his fate. Fingers curled, clutching as empty balled fists, biting nails tearing palms to draw blood. He had sensed the moment would come. For months the machinations had brewed; news and rumor had spread. The designs held the taint of malice. The Fists of Rhalgar were loyal to naught but the very precepts that motivated the people of this land. The Destroyer's Faithful were Gyr Abania's finest martial talent, and its most dedicated spiritualists. As his father's before him, he had been bred to honor the god above all others. Now Duty obligated he tear him down. The silence broke at last. A name softly escaped his lips: Adalberd; he called for his assistant.. Leaning forward the soldier-Lord, reached across the desk to coat pen-tip in ink. He looked once more upon the order, readied for the sign of his name. With a staid purpose, he drew the wetted pen-blade across the parchment. Declaring—reaffirming—his Loyalty to the King. He would commit to the order. To safeguard my House. No Duty can come before it. ...He could not have foreseen a distant time, when under flicking dressing lights, far below the spires of the Tower City, a young daughter would draw the powdered brush along her cheeks, applying the finishing touches of a light blush. For years she had been trying to learn to dance, at last she had found a teacher willing to take her. A stroke of good fortune. And now the two of them grinned at one-another with the cherubic expression of excited school girls. Her parents fought hard against the challenges and temptation of the children's life on the deep streets of the Foundation. Mother tutored her, as her own governess had once. Proper manners, proper speech and forms of address. How to dress, ho<w to behave, how to walk and carry oneself as a lady. To read, and to write. And how to obey. Perhaps they had not all stuck, not when confronted daily with the realities of life. A refugee girl living in a public house, trying to adapt to the streets deep within the stone city. Most days she wandered for sight of shining sun, but, here she found herself with an opportunity to pursue what both mother and daughter dreamed. To dance, and what's more, to dance amongst the children of high society. As a proper young Lady ought. Her teacher leaned closer to inspect the makeup, and with a few more touches of the brush she declared it performance-ready. The two continued the exchange of ebullient grins, and a giggle of excitement that her teacher could not help but share. If only my parents could see me! The Lord exchanged a grip of hands with the Royal Officer. He had accepted the order without hesitation. Reports were clear. The Protectors of the Temple would not back down, and the King had ordered an immediate assault. The morning sun had yet to rise over the camp, but the men would soon muster. He had agreed to answer the call of duty, and the moment of conviction was upon him. An order for the indiscriminate bloodshed of Rhalgar's faithful. To put an end to this once proud, once heralded temple. He knew naught but horror that could await. He closed his eyes, and saw once more the temple in better times. In those days when the Destroyer was honored, and the glory of Ala Mhigan bravery exalted before the heavens. Rhalgar's faithful provided not only the boon of the Destroyer in times of war, but also the realm's greatest weapons: The Fists, the martial spiritualists who turned their bodies into weapons of destruction. He grimaced. The alternatives assaulted him in battering waves of doubt. He had committed to join the bloodletting. To do this duty—could this really be his duty? Would this slaughter mean Honor? Tradition? What effect could these words have when blades and hands were stained with the blood of a sacrilegious slaughter. Some said the King was mad. Mad with power. Mad with blood. But how can one question an oath? He tried to summon forth the presence of his father—his steady advice. Could he yet make father proud? All he could remember were these words: "It is you who wield the blade. And not the other way around." There could be no denying the implication, or his father's meaning. He would own the bloodshed. He would own every last cut and thrust. Every last life ended. Every life lost There could be no escaping this responsibility. Could it be worth it? Was it the right thing to do? And how responsibility weighed heavy upon him. To family. To ancestors. To King and Country. To the multitude who looked to him for protection. To honor Rhalgar, was to betray the King. To betray the King was to betray those he had sworn to protect. How could he betray their loyalty? How could he abandon them to the same fate as this temple? How could he become responsible for exposing his innocent wards to the bloody servants of the King of Ruin? He could not. No—he would do his duty. Stand firm. Protect his wards. The Crow Banner would yet fly over this field of battle. He would lend his sword arm, and do right by his King. He called for Adalberd. Prepared to don his armor. The servant joined his Lord, who in that very moment prepared to approach the Gates of Hell to shield him from the King's wrath. He positioned the first piece against his Lord's outstretched arm, and pulled the straps tight. Forgive me, father. The girl let out a little yelp of objection at the tug, as her teacher pulled the straps of her costume bindings. Teacher laughed as she finished tying them off. "You wouldn't want this coming loose, trust me!" she grinned, offering words of encouragement. But the girl's excitement was rapidly fading to a sense of nervousness and impending anxiety. Teacher offered a comforting grasp, fingers pressing gently upon bare shoulders. She summoned the warmest smile she could offer, and reminded her ward of how hard she had worked. Of the countless hours of rehearsal and practice. How she had joined the class years older than the other girls, but how she out-worked all of them. Of the talent she displayed. Of how beautifully she danced, and of the many crowd-stunning performances that awaited her once she learned her way around the stage. Some day, she said, the city of Ishgard would all know her name. She smiled once more, offering a final encouraging nod before turning the girl around and hurrying her out of the small dressing room. From the edge of the stage the young girl beheld the crowd for the first time. A real crowd. A real crowd. She gasped, she couldn't help it. For a moment she held her breath, eyes wide with a heart-pounding flurry of nerves. She felt the comforting hands of her teacher once more. She felt the encouragement. Then she heard the applause erupt for the previous act. The energy, and exultant joy that filled the hall in that brief moment. It was her very first taste, and she imagined what it must be like to hear others applaud for you. A few moments later she felt a little push from behind. She hadn't realized how she had been frozen in place, how she'd not been able to hear the instructions. It was her turn. They were waiting for her! It was not much more than a gentle nudge, but it was enough to send her slightly stumbling out upon the stage. For a moment she just stared in shocked amazement at the crowd. Her teacher held her breath, contemplating a hundred disasters, but then collected herself, and quickly encouraged the musicians to begin. As the music started with the sound of soft drums and then playful flute, the young girl moved, taking a few quick steps to her starting position. The audience murmured: the performance was begun! There are so many people watching me! The muster had begun as groups of men became formation. The air was filled with the heady sound of looming battle. Heavy drums tolled the cadence; trumpets and pipes filled the air with martial tune. The sound of clattering equipment and moving feet surrounded them. The Lord of the Crow Banner turned back to face his men. His head was held high, chin upturned and proud. His dark beard in full glory. Blue eyes burned bright beneath long blonde hair. His armor glistened in the first glimmers of rising sun. Cloak of red velvet fell from strong shoulders; a sign of station and of wealth. His heart gave him pause—and wavered amid the moral confusion that was his irresolution. But he could give no outward sign; not before his men. They would depend upon his resolve. They were his responsibility. He strode beside the standard bearer who held the Crow Banner high above their heads. He drew his ancestral blade: sharp, victorious, proud. With a single motion he thrust the blade skyward, eliciting a deep-throated cry from his retinue. He extolled their bravery. Their skill at arms. He reminded them in deep, powerful voice, of their shared victories upon the fields of battle. He summoned forth memories of the generations that went before. Of fathers, grand fathers, and ancestors who stood firm no matter the threat. Of those who gave it all. Of those who we remember upon the eve of each battle, and honor upon the don of every fresh living day. Of the power of the Crow Banner. Of the honor of a good death. He urged them to glory. To victory. He lifted his arm once more above his head. He turned his eyes forward, to the field of approaching battle, and to the opponents against whom they would meet. Have strength. They rely on me. She lifted her arms above her head as she leapt lightly across the stage, drawing her arms back down as she completed the turning movement as one graceful motion. As her hands fell smoothly back towards her sides, she looked out upon the audience, with smiling blue eyes that dared not reveal the depths of her focus. Once the music had begun her thought had mostly flitted away, replaced by an encompassing sense of life and energy. She felt the music flow through her, eliciting her body to move and obey its every whim. She felt the rhythm and the tune, and knew they would guide her through the well practiced motions of the routine. She listened to and heard in its voice each turn and bend. She heard how the music, in its energetic and word-less way, called for each leg lift and every elegant kick. How it begged her to leave the very ground itself, and escape in long athletic leaps of breath-catching audacity. Each step she took and every motion of her body flowed in graceful continuity from the one before, and blended effortlessly into the next in a harmonious union with the energetic play of the musicians. She allowed nary an excess sound as soft-soled shoe graced the floor, nor an excess of motion as each movement matched precisely with what was necessary. The full expression of her form a near perfection of balance and poise. She was just a young girl, twelve years of age, but blossoming already in her youth. Yet, she cut a figure comfortably exquisite—sublime. An unexpected newcomer to the program. A sudden and prized pupil of a well-regarded instructor. The other children knew not of where she'd come, and their mothers whispered that she did not belong. She was not lowborn, but foreign. The beautiful white dress that lent an ethereal air to her performance was borrowed. She did not belong; but in those happy, enthralling moments all that mattered was the beauty of her performance. Not the accent upon her voice. Not the means of a fallen family. Not the tavern she called a home. Just her display: delightful beyond her age. I wish this could last forever. As the army began its advance, all eyes came to focus upon the display of Ala Mhigo's martial monks. They had emerged in quiet, perfect discipline from the opened gates of the ancient temple. Ordered in exacting formation: row upon row of men and women who had dedicated their lives to Rhalgar and the art of personal combat. The display itself was something of a performance—there really could be no other word for it. It was performed for the effect it would have upon the enemy, as much as the impact it would have upon themselves: those rows of unarmed fighters adorned in the unforgettable, bright, ritual attire of their profession. Their entire formation moved at once, with complete precision through the sequence of ritualistic motions. Each one designed to center the mind, and free the flow of the body's wellspring of aetheric energy. But, there was more yet. The silence of the display lent a pallor and chill to the air. Amidst the blast of horns and the beat of drums, the monks made no noise, and allowed no clamour beyond the nearly inaudible whoosh of fabric breaking through still, morning air. What the King's men did not see was the preparation that had begun the night before. The ritual cleansing. The dawning of ancient, powerful symbols. The making of final peace between man and god; man and man. The setting of final words upon parchment, they knew would never reach their intended recipients. The recitation of final poems. The chanting of final rites. The closing motions of their ritual were not a preparation to fight: but a preparation to die. Before this army of the doomed faithful, the King's marshal approached. He recited aloud the King's charges against the Temple. He repeated the King's order of destruction. These were not words that mattered to them. At last he ordered the King's soldiers forward, to claim what the King believed was his by right. The Crow Standard flew high amongst the fore of the right flank. They would meet the enemy head-on. They advanced with steady pace; the monks stood motionless and still. As the forward ranks closed, the monks adopted their defensive stance as a unit, flowing from the front rank to the back. All as one. The horns sounded the charge. The men answered with a cry, and quickened their pace to a run. The Crow banner snapped in the wind of advance. The men beneath, threw themselves forward with a powerful surge. I have arrived; the very Gates of Hell. The performance approached its climax, as she threw herself across the stage in a long and high forward leap. Her left foot, pointed, lead as she seemed to hover suspended in mid-air. It was the most challenging moment of the entire routine, one she had never fully mastered it practice. She could still see teacher impressing upon her the need for consistency, for a balance of posture and momentum. Every departure must be the same, every landing precise in its execution. Though she had lost herself in the music, she could not banish all inhibition. The thought of failure crept into her mind as she approached this penultimate moment. She imagined all of the slips, all of the falls of practice. She remembered the bruises and the wounded pride. The stern looks, the exasperation. She imagined everything riding upon this very moment: her entire future, her opportunity to dance, everything, everything, everything! Coming down to this one, terrible moment. Her heart threatened to beat right out of her breast. She felt the burn of flush upon her cheeks. The surge of adrenaline as the full weight of pressure crashed upon her shoulders. The expectation, the exhalation. As she had taken the first step she imagined the embarrassment that could unfold, and how it would feel to be shamed before the entire crowd. The boos, and worse even, the laughter. The judgement of her teacher, the wagging of fingers and the shaking of heads. The stern words, and then the dismissal. A future in those dark, dreary tunnel-like streets. The cries of her mother, the sighs of disappointment. But, when the moment came, all such thoughts were banished. It was as if her mind had shut itself, directing all attention upon well-honed routine. She propelled herself forward with a dainty surge of deceptive athleticism; and then just floated across the stage, as if suspended by the wires of heaven above. Gently, they lowered her back to the deck. Her left foot struck with poise, followed by the right as her body flowed smoothly into the next turn. She heard an exhale, teacher's relief, and suddenly her mind returned in a flood of excitement. She turned upon her toe, and squeezed her eyes shut, struggling to contain the emotion. I did it! I did it! I did it! I did it! I did it! He closed his eyes. He screwed them shut. But he could not unsee what he had seen. He could not undo what he had wrought. The terrible scene could only be obscured momentarily. This terrible scene of what some would call Victory: as if it deserved a name at all. Not only did brother slaughter brother, but faithful slaughtered the revered. A fratricidal bloodbath - in the name of what? Upon the King's word they slaughtered their own. A heavy rain began to fall across the field. Some would believe it the tears of the God: but Rhalgar does not cry. He mocks. And he avenges. Had not the monks had been uselessly outnumbered? Their skill in combat, that prowess so often exalted by their brothers, amounted to naught but greater casualties inflicted upon their foe. They fought with the tenacity of Gyr Abanian pride, and with skill centuries in the making. And though these would bring immortal shame upon the victors, neither could turn the tide. He tilted his head heavenward. He could feel it in the heaviness of the drops, and in the murmur of approaching thunder: the Destroyer's mocking. To every side of him, his own men lay dead, maimed and wounded. Cries and gasps of suffering filled the air. Young men hundreds of miles from home called pitifully for mothers they would never see again. They gave their lives for the slaughter of those whom they had once been taught to revere. These were the wages of this Crusade; a Crusade aimed directly at the heart of its own nation. His own blade had cut from side-to-side, true to its reputation and its hone. Cloth and fabric were no protection from its bite, it tore flesh and cleaved bone. He had spilt blood, much blood—it would forever stain. He opened his eyes. Before him he stood the last remnants of the temple's defenders. Their desperate final stand surrounded by the King's soldiers. His eyes focused upon one young man, brown-haired and dark of complexion. A handsome young highlander, one who could have been the pride of the Nation, and more than that: one he knew. One who had lived under his own protection. One whom he was sworn to defend. One of his own, born and raised upon his land. One who still returned home whenever possible. He felt a desperate urge swell deep within his breast: urging hope itself to come and sweep the man away. Away from this place, away from here, away from this slaughter. He had a lover, one who was with child. Let him see her again. Let him come home. By the gods, do not let him die here! The young monk would be swept away, but not by hope. The Lord of the Crow Banner watched with a dulled sense of horror, as the young monk's chest was pierced full by spear. The mortally wounded fighter fell to his knees, the felling shaft struck sure between his ribs. He coughed blood. As his life drained away, his eyes caught sight of his own Lord in the near distance. There they stayed, focused, for those long final moments—casting that deathly stare, unflinching, begging the unanswerable accusations of the slain. What... have I done... The audiences eyes were all upon the young dancer as she offered another curtsey. She finally knew just what it was like! She felt the heart-warming adoration of the crowd, albeit small, of well-to-do denizens. She cast her excited, bright smile from side-to-side, eyes scanning the room one final, hopeful time. How she had prayed her mother could watch the performance, but she had been told it just wasn't possible. And, there was no sign of her. Still, it was alright to be excited wasn't it? She nearly skipped off the stage, brimming with an ecstatic energy. Teacher quickly embraced her, grinning broadly, as the two celebrated the sweetness of shared victory. Teacher was taking such a chance to bring a lowborn girl into her class. The parents of her other students would never permit it, but she just knew she'd seen a talent in the girl that couldn't be squandered. At last, at last, she felt, her persistence had paid off! Mother hadn't been there to see, but she could never have been so proud. That night she would ask her daughter to tell her about the performance again, and again. To spare no detail, to tell her of the auditorium, of the crowd, and how prosperous they all looked. To tell her how they applauded her, and how beautiful she had been. Mother too had so badly wished to watch the performance, but never once did she share her disappointment, instead she reveled in the excitement and joy of the moment. Her daughter danced, and danced so wonderfully. Not only that, but among high born students who one day might accept her as one of their own. What more could she ask for? She was so proud! It was so wonderful, mother, you'll have to come next time! What more could the King ask for? The Lord and his men had dutifully pursued battle, and the slaughter it entailed. But now the King wanted more. He wanted them to enter the monastery: pillage, ransack, and destroy. The Lord of the Crow Banner gathered his men, and rallied them to the banner. He offered the comfort he could to his wounded, and they sent up prays for the deceased, beneath the mocking gaze of the Destroyer they had once all professed to. The Lord cleaned his sword, but he knew the blood on his conscience would not be so easy to wash away. He turned to look toward the Temple, and then away. He lead his men the other direction, away from the field of battle, away from the monastery. Away from the coming slaughter. The Marshal would be on his own. Had he not done enough? Had he not done his Duty? What would father think? Wasn't that all he had ever wanted? To make his father proud? To stand tall with his ancestors, and make right by them? What would they have done? What could they have done? Those who opposed the King would pay for their insubordination in blood. And what worse punishment could await oath-breakers? Had he not stood firm and loyal to rightful liege? Had he not done right by what he properly owed? Why then, couldn't he banish this guilt? Why couldn't be forget the vanquished and slain? Father! Are you not proud? She couldn't forget. She just couldn't forget. How proud mother had been. How happy she had seemed. How wonderful it had all been, for once. Now she stood before the door of the tavern they called home. Uncle's establishment. The note was rolled in her hand. Wrapped with a pretty ribbon. It was so much nicer than everything else she had, so proper and fancy looking. But it was a deceptive little thing, bearing the worst possible news she could imagine. Now she had to deliver the message to mother. At least she didn't have to pretend. She didn't have to hide tear-stained cheeks. To pretend everything would be okay. She knew better. She only hoped mother would forgive her. Teacher had always known it was a risk. She tried everything. She wanted, so badly, to have the young girl as a student. She had provided so many lessons, and included her in so many recitals and performances, never once asking for the compensation offered by the other students. But, teacher couldn't help it. No matter how firm she had stood: no matter how she had insisted it was a matter of principle, a matter of art, and of grooming talent. It simply hadn't mattered. It couldn't matter. Teacher had heinously foisted a forgery about the other children. Exposing the scions of high society to a girl that wasn't even lowborn, but not even of Ishgardian birth! It simply would not do. A reserve of charity amongst the well-to-do mothers had preserved teacher's position, but the Ala Mhigan trollop would have to go. The girl rolled the note around in her fingers, glancing down once more at the pretty ribbon. She wondered how long she should wait before letting the rest of the world crash down around her. At last she opened the door. She climbed the stairs, slowly, one by one. She greeted her smiling mother, who all-too-soon realized something was amiss. She showed mother the note. There was no need for her to read it. Mother cast the unopened note into the crackling fire pit, pretty ribbon and all. She embraced her daughter and held her tight; she cried a mother's tears. Mother... I am so sorry... The young maid fell upon her knees before the Lord of the Keep, weeping a mother's tears. She had served the House since her childhood. She was helping raise his children. She served them still. She begged; she pleaded; she reminded him of her loyal service. She found herself begging for her life, and for that of her newborn child. The King of Ruin reigned. His Crusade knew no limit, no border, no inhibition. It was not enough to destroy Rhalgar's Temples, and slaughter his faithful, but their families too were made to pay. Her lover, the father of her child, was a Fist of Rhalgar. His Temple had been destroyed. She knew naught where he was, though her heart suspected. She knew there was no sanctuary to be found. A guilt welled deep within his heart. It haunted the darkness of long nights. She was a mother, and a widow too—this he knew, though he could not answer her. He wanted to embrace her. Console her, and tell her that her lover were safe. That they would be together again. That all would soon be well. But he knew better. He knew. In the swiftness of an instant every facet of her once comfortable life had come crashing down. She knew her Lord was loyal to the King. She knew he could turn her in, he could take her life and no objection would be raised. She begged as a last, final desperation. For her life. For her child. There was no hope. He felt the pang of naked unworthiness. She was a wretched sight, he knew, but not compared to the wretchedness of the lordly man who stood before her. She begged his forgiveness. For his pity. But he knew it was he who could never be worthy of her forgiveness. At last, he managed, a weak, broken voice. He asked the child's name. The weeping maid looked up, tears flowing upon reddened cheeks. "Enna." she answered in a voice filled with trepidation. He summoned a deep breath, and steadied his voice, "You need not fear, my dear." His tone was comforting, and earnest. "And Enna." he nodded slowly, "She shall be as one of mine..." It is not enough. Not nearly enough. The well being of his family, and his wards, were his guiding star. He never lost sight, not unto the end of travails. The King would fall. The Kingdom would crumble. Ruin would befall all. They would flee, enduring the long road of refugees. But, one day, she would smile. She would smile. Had it not been worth it? Wasn't every sacrifice, every last measure worth it when his precious tow-headed daughter would sit upon his knee and just smile? When he held her close, and they could just stare at the stars together? He would see his sons grow up strong and tall. His daughter grow lovely and graceful. What more could a father ask for? So much would happen... so much would happen... How many fathers died young beneath my blade? The heavy beams of the Ishgardian inn shuddered with a powerful groan. He remembered his promise, from long ago. Those words he'd uttered in a moment of such bare nakedness. He rose to his feet with considerable effort, his hand clutching his trusted walking stick: one remaining faithful companion. The tower foundation of the city shook all around the building. Coal rattled against the stone hearth, furniture creaked and groaned. He left his room, and started the difficult descent of the main stair toward the ground floor. He could hear the commotion in the common area of the Public House. At least a dozen voices were raised to a near panic. Everyone seemed to worried about those they couldn't find. No one knew where the others were. But the din of voices hid he sound of his stick upon the wood of each slow, steady step. He reached the edge of the common area and heard the distinct voice of his wife, worried but never panicked. She was asking after her sons: no one seemed to know where either Osvald or Kael were. He knew. She always worried too much. Osvald would attend to his filthy shop. Kael had his own children to look after. Regardless, his own heart was set on another child, the last of the three still living in the city whom he could be responsible for. He pushed his way through the front door, barely escaping notice of the others as he slipped out onto the cobblestone pathway that counted for an avenue in this part of the Foundation. He turned on his way, making slow but steady progress; each step preceded by the sound of his wooden stick upon stone. The entire structure of the city seemed to shake with the energy of the assault above. Militiamen rushed by the old man, trying to reach their rally points and silently praying that the Dravanians wouldn't made it that far. He had a rally point of his own in mind. He knew she'd just been off to the market, a small make-shift affair that opened in a square several blocks away. A father must do, what a father must do. Far away, in the desert city of Ul'dah, the dancing girl, once a tow-headed little cherub, had begun a new life of her own. She laughed amid the bustling din of the busy tavern, moving from table-to-table greeting each patron with that same brilliant, flashing grin that had once charmed Elezen ladies of Ishgard. A light giggle spread the good cheer, and encouraged every celebration she met. For others, she offered the comfort of a warm smile to help drown sorrows and lift weary spirits. She was no longer within Father's grasp. In that, he had failed. But she lived, she lived; she smiled, and for that he would have given anything. He could protect her no more, but he had once done everything within his power. And, perhaps it wasn't what he had once envisioned, but as she hurried to-and-fro under the attention of the Lalafel proprietress, she carried the same joy, the same beauty and bountiful energy that had cheered a father's tired heart. As she carried drink, after overflowing drink to customer after customer they could never know, never have suspected by how narrow a thread the young woman's life had once hung. What end she may have met at the end of Ruin's blade; or of the price of her father's loyalty. Now she laughed. She chatted. She flirted, and grinned her way to one tip after another. She had become part of the very life of the place, Ul'dah just wouldn't be the same without her. I only do what I must. The children are our only future. The old man reached the little square without hurrying. A crowd had gathered there, huddled together for protection; screaming and crying amidst the shudders of the foundation and the sounds of battle in the levels above. He looked through the group, eyes still good enough to pick out just what he was looking for. The brown haired Ala Mhigan woman who refused to ever leave his side. With a startled gasp she caught sight of him, and the soft smile hiding behind his unruly gray beard. She ran toward him with a look of panic. He smiled a little more; she looked at him just like a daughter should. "Enna, my dear," he gently patted her worried hand, "Lets say we go back home now hmm?" He turned with her, back up the avenue to begin the walk back to the inn. She stammered. Unsure. She turned to look back toward the relative safety of the square. Still, she knew well enough that argument would be of no avail. She put a steadying arm around him as they walked, and tried to hurry him back along the avenue as fast as his feet and walking stick would carry him. His sons would see after themselves. His daughter had long ago fled. But this one; this one he would watch over still. She shall be as one of my own. To the very ends of Hydaelyn. To the very end.

I actually thought this would just be, "Nothing, its situation normal." with all of the trouble Verad seems to get into these days :-]

This is would probably spark an existential crisis for Aya. The sort she has faced several times over the course of her life, usually opting for the option to flee (heart of a fox, makes sense right?) The last time something like this happened it was really pretty mild, and she wound up fleeing for safety for a few days and needing to really reconcile and steady herself upon the path of just staying put. It was a rather major moment of character development. I don't know that she'd be so brave in the face of real assassins.

[align=center][/align] [align=center][The Nightmare Ends - The Scales Part Fourteen][/align] OOC Comment: Theme Music! The long ride gave the young woman more than enough room for reflection. She watched the sight of a high moon rising, and then drifting steadily overhead as the minutes turned to hours upon the desert road as it wound its way through the heat of a Thanalan night. Clouds on the far horizon flashed with the intense light and energy high in the atmosphere. The image of dragons swooping through the cloudy heights, unleashing torrents of bright, searing breath lit her imagination. She passed within sight of Little Ala Mhigo's silhouette. That refuge for her former countrymen, the camp where they had spent several moons so many years ago. She had never been back. She preferred not to. There was irony in the predicament. How far had she come to escape the obsessions of the Tower City? How much had she sacrificed upon the altar of freedom: to make of her life what she wished, and where she wished--far from the zealots of Halone and their willingness to sacrifice everything good in the pursuit of their mindless quest for victory in an endless war. Yet, here that very war had found its way to her new threshold. She kept the company of Dragoons. She beheld the spectacle of Heretics preaching to the crowds of her adoptive home. And now, what? She rode, alone, through a desert night. Armed to the teeth, prepared to bare steel against what? The Dravanians and their faithful. How far she had come. How little had changed. Yet, she knew her cause was different. She understood the stakes of the struggle in its whole. The real, true dangers of the Horde that had been impressed upon her throughout her youth, and firsthand knowledge of what they were capable. Still, that was not her battle. Every time she closed her eyes all she could see was him. Her Duskwight friend, lashed by chains to to a high stone tower. Bearing him to the heavens, a sacrifice to the scaled gods of Heresy. That nightmare that had haunted her for a moon, and driven her to action otherwise incomprehensible. She wondered, at times, if Verad ever thought of her. She figured in his mind she was little more than a simple, pleasant smile. But every stride of her Chocobo through the waning night air revealed a further truth. The jingle not of jewelry, but of armor. The sound of a woman prepared for battle—for war. There was resolve. A bounty of courage sprung from the understanding that she had no choice. Step by further step she drew closer to her nightmare. To the visage of all she feared. [align=center][/align] The last time she had approached Forgotten Springs had been under such different circumstances. She had been part of a small party, riding in a Chocobo-drawn caravan. Every need had been taken care of; she was there on the behest of the Grand Companies, engaged as a model in a series of morale and recruiting promotions. All she'd had to do was smile and look good for the artists and their equipment. It had been a wonderful time, despite the heat, and despite the sand. The work hadn't been as easy as she'd hoped, but at least she had been paid for it! Now she approached in altogether different circumstances. A sentry posted to the gate hailed her. The sun had just begun to rise over the distant mountains. Long rays giving hint to the sand of the scorching heat that awaited. There was no gil or fun in the offing this visit. "Aya Foxheart." she answered, "I visited a month ago, I am sure someone can vouch for me." The sentry nodded, raising a curious eyebrow. She recognized the Hyur, it would be difficult not to. She was waved on through. "Appeal to their pride, but do not overly flatter them." She tried to remember Kiht's words of advice. She knew so little of dealing with tribal Miqo'te - and without the protection of an entourage and gil she knew not what could avail her if she made offense. "Reference Azeyma a few times, and ask if they have any recent kills. Ask for details of the hunt." She hitched her Chocobo to an empty post. She looked out across toward the quickly rising sun. "Tis like any social setting, but with different cultural values." The words were meant as comfort and encouragement. But how very different, indeed, were those values. She glanced about. The entire night had passed during her ride. She had a lot more to accomplish. Verad's life could very well depend on it. [align=center][/align] It had not been an easy matter to engage the U'ranika and her huntresses in the search, but Aya knew that if anyone could find Verad and the Heretics it would be they. U'ranika had already confirmed that a party matching their description had been spotted entering the Sagoli suns afore, and it was now only a matter of locating where in the desert they could now be found. U'ranika lead a small team of huntresses; she'd met Aya on her previous trip when they were engaged to provide protection for the project. She'd thought the blonde a fun, if trifling woman at the time. She wasn't all that convinced that her first apprehensions were wrong, but the young woman's concern seemed sincere, and she'd appealed to the pride of the tribe. They couldn't just allow something like this to go down in their territory, could they? Aya tried to do her part, holed up within the Immortal Flames outpost in the small settlement with a map of the desert. She'd gone over it and over it again, searching for clues as to where the heretics could be found: near water, she told herself, and plentiful shade from the midday heat. Speaking of the heat, she had discarded most of her armor which lay in a somewhat neat pile in the corner of the room. Sweat evaporated quickly in the dry air, but the oppressive oven-like atmosphere of the outpost was still preferable to the bare sun of the exterior. She leaned her head back against the chair. The fatigue of a day and a half of activity washed over her at once. She wanted nothing more than a bath, and a comfortable bed. For this all to be over. For the nightmare to end. [align=center][/align] A white-haired Miqo'te stepped into the room, boots echoing against the solid wood floor. Not of the U'tribe, a "civilized" Miqo'te. Aya blinked with blank, confused expression: one that was something of an automatic defense mechanism. She could never know what to expect. "The Immortal Flames outpost, of course..." she muttered to herself in obvious displeasure. Her eyes flicked toward the seated figure of the fair-haired Aya, her Miqo'te ears twitched slightly with surprise. "Ummm..." the Ishgardian girl stammered, "Are you a friend of Kiht's?" The Miqo'te's lips quirked into a smile as she offered the slightest nod. "Aya, we've met." She removed her hat and approached the table with a soft step. "In the shroud, at that old Keeper manse; after the time Verad got beaten senseless." How the hapless Duskwight seemed to bring people together in the most reliable of ways. Aya let out a relieved sigh and a soft smile. In other moments she might have laughed, or shrugged away the display of blonde forgetfulness. But she was full of tired and the weight of responsibility. "Oh.. I remember now! Anstarra!" V'aleera's entrance was less subtle. The Ishgardian dragoon, well known to Aya since their childhoods, crashed through the door in an obvious hurry as her heavy boots beat the floor. Her eyes filled with annoyance and a concern shared by her furrowed brow. The expression softened for a moment as she too spied the unlikely woman at the center of it all. "Aya? For what purpose are you here?" She was less here for Verad than his fellow hostage: Kyrael. But her presence was more than welcome. Aya noticed that her unexpected allies were not those struggling vainly in the visions her nightmare: Kiht, Osric, Crofte, Immortal Flames, Brass Blades, Sultansworn. These very protectors were nowhere to be found.. Verad's fate was instead in the hands of a myriad assortment: Ishgardians, and a Miqo'te bard. Perhaps there was hope yet. Aya stood, gesturing toward the map as she spoke in her heavy Ishgardian accent, "Several suns ago, huntresses spotted a group of strangers moving from the north, through the pass into the Sagoli." She moved her finger along the route the huntresses had indicated. "The travelers were careful to avoid Forgotten Springs. And U'ranika was certain they were not adventurers. She estimated that there were eight of them total, in addition to a heavy load of baggage. I don't know if Verad and Ky were among those eight they counted." She nodded slightly as she let the other two women take in the news. At least the Heretics had been seen. Her hunch about the Sagoli had been astute. "So there are, at worst, eight of them. Perhaps six." observed Anstarra. "Right..." Aya again nodded slightly, while with her left hand she gestured toward some of the areas of the desert map. "Several of the huntresses are out right now searching for them. They're covering areas they thought the party was most likely to have headed. There aren't that many areas of the desert with sufficient cover for several days, let alone water if they did not bring enough with them." V'aleera narrowed her gaze toward the map. She had been quiet, her attention intense. At last she lent the quiet confidence of her voice, "I know little of hunting in this barren wasteland. But a paltry eight heretics shall pose no threat when found." She continued, "When their location is confirmed, the attack must be immediate and ruthless. No mercy or hesitation can be suffered; heretics have been known to kill prisoners when rescue appears imminent." Aya simple looked back toward her with tired blue eyes. The confidence of her childhood friend stirred her own. She nodded in agreement. The discussion continued as the women thought about the merits of conducting their own search, before the sudden interruption of a U tribeswoman bursting into the outpost. They'd spotted a group of eight in the southwestern outskirts of the Sagoli. Two, who had been bound, had been observed to be digging something in the desert. Aya swept her unclasped armor from the ground, quickly pulling the jacket on and working the buckles to tighten it around her upper body. "Can you lead us there?" The huntress nodded. Anstarra flipped her hat up, her expression sharp. "We'd best hurry if they're digging their own graves." V'aleera grit her teeth. Eyes narrowed as if she could already see the prey. "At last, the quarry are cornered. those vermin have scurried in the shadows long enough. We shall end their miserable heathenous existence." Anstarra flashed a toothy grin, "Spoken like a true Ishardian. With a little luck, and Twelve willing, the sand shall drink their blood by day's end." Aya pulled the metal mask over her lower face, and lifted the spear from the wall. Once again her concerns where warranted: there was no time to wait. No hesitation could be conscionable. This had been more than a hunch and a search from the start. It is why she had come with spear in hand. [align=center][/align] The party could not have seemed more strange, the three mounted figures cut entirely different forms as they hurried across the desert. The Ishgardian Dragoon, in full control of her well-disciplined war mount. The Shroud Miqo'te Bard and her mostly un-tamed Chocobo, off chasing the wild life as soon as she dismounted. And the Ishgardian barmaid and her rented Chocobo, wheezing fitfully from the sand-filled air thankful just to have reached a stopping point in the desert's early evening. The trio quickly joined the huntresses, and were joined by yet another Ishgardian Dragoon: Orrin Halgren. In the distance they spied the Heretics' shelter. There were eight of them, in addition to the two prisoners who laid bound and unmoving in the distance. Out of the sand dunes rose a leather-looking wing, fixed and immobile. Aya shuddered deep. The group grew busy discussing their options. Aya watched the movement of the enemy in the distance. Her eyes fell upon the longer of the two forms laying motionless in the sand. The white-haired Duskwight. Her friend, and reason for being there. The others were professional soldiers, and a professional adventurer. But still, she knew, she'd have her eye on what mattered. She steadied her breath. Measured the pace. Conscious, slow, meaningful. She summoned her inner calm, focused the inner reserve. Silently she summoned the lines of the song of war. Of the Crow's flight. One of the Heretics' lookouts spotted the group, letting out a cry. In an instant all thought of a plan was moot. The man who looked in charged turned his gaze upon the tall sand dune over which they emerged. With spears and bow at the ready they descended toward the heretics and their prisoners. The Dragoons belted out their war cries. The leader directed his followers. Aya's eyes were steely, fixed with intensity upon the leader as he tugged Verad into the air by the white strands of his hair. Now was the moment. Her trance-like breathing swallowed emotion. Her attention focused upon naught but the target. She took quick steps with long strides upon tall legs. Speed, decisive speed. Gravity propelled her down the slope of the dune in silence; a stark contrast to the war cry of the Miqo'te dragoon to her side. The two Dragoons fell behind the surprising quickness of the sprinting blonde, while the Heretics quickly formed a defensive line athwart their leader and the hostages. Two of the harriers stepped toward Aya, intent upon blocking her approach. Her eyes remained fixed through the line, and upon the leader. She carried her momentum forawrd as she suddenly set her heeled boots into a controlled crouching slide. The leader watched the pair of Dragoons as he prepared to carry out the ritual. A dragoon could cover a lot of ground, they were threats—but she was clearly no dragoon. From the coiled position of the crouch she sprung forward, leaping above and beyond the pair of set defenders, with a graceful forward flip. She rolled smoothly into a landing that preserved as much of her momentum as possible. Redirecting the power of her charging leap, she emerged from the roll with a lunge toward the figure of the leader. There was no hesitation; she was set upon her course. Decisive, precise, and sudden she struck with the full power of her leaping, rolling charge. Bare spear point was driven where the man's neck met his collar, with a frightful and determined silence that matched the suddenness of the motion. His eyes were wide with shock, but he had caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye, and managed to barely lean back in time to avoid the fatal strike. He dropped the hostage to keep his balance, nearly stumbled backwards as blood began to flow from a deep gash the spear blade opened in a line from his neck to his shoulder. The battle engaged around them around them, while the other hostage cut his bonds to escape, and joined the fray, slashing at the leader's exposed back. His focus remained intent upon the lancer who had bested him with the charge. His wounds were a hindrance, and the two entered into a posturing exchange, neither able to land a telling blow. He thrust and moved around her with his blade, testing her balance and poise. She kept her feet again, and again, but found herself unable to beat his expert defenses. She was buying time. Buying time, and little more. He was no poacher or bandit caught in the wrong place at the wrong time—he would have his way given enough time. But still she fought. With tenacity and determination. She held her ground. There Verad lay, where he would be at the Heretics' mercy; at the mercy of the wyrm lying moribund in deep desert sand. The nightmare ended here, one way or another. The battle that raged around them soon turned against the Heretic and his men. One by one the Ishgardian Dragoons put his defenders to an end, while Anstarra focused disrupted the progress of the ritual itself. The end approached, victory was in sight. Still, the leader fought on, deftly avoiding Aya's spear thrust. He countered countered with his sword-arm passing parallel to Aya's own weapon. It was a sudden and nearly unavoidable strike; she managed the slightest deflection with the haft of her spear, enough to save her life. She did not feel the slice of the blade, or the heat of blood upon her neck. Behind her, Sellaine, the Leader's lieutenant staggered near defeat. His men collapsed all around him. With is forces clearly defeated, the ritual at an end, leader cried for a halt, an end, a surrender. Aya stepped backwards. The beat of her heart finally caught up with her—the sensation of rushing blood, and the pounding in her breast. The Heretics had yielded. She eyed Verad. V'aleera finished the lieutenant with a coup de grace: a settlement of unfinished business. Only the leader remained alive. Surrounded. Anstarra fell to Verad's side, attending to his injuries. Aya continued to stagger backwards. She had held; it was over, it was over, it was over. The weight of the moment was heavy. She heard the Dragoon, Orrin, giving her orders. She shook her head. She knew how Dragoons would deal with Heretics. It was no longer her battle. Verad was safe, all was well. She turned her back on the group and struggled back up the dune from which she had embarked upon her long heedless charge. She closed her eyes, struggling with the moment. She felt the sting of her wound, superficial as it was. She swallowed hard. All was well. The drake would be buried beneath the sand from which it came. The Heretic threat was at an end. Verad was safe. Verad was safe. All was well. She pulled herself atop the porter's Chocobo, and offered an expression of exhausted gratitude to the U-tribe huntresses. She spurred the bird onward, onward to Ul'dah. Onward to a perfumed bath. Onward to the taste of mulled wine, and Shroud honey. Onward to another day of work, serving drinks and casting smiles. Away, away, away from all of this. Verad was safe. All was well. The nightmare was no more.

[align=center][/align] [align=center]Father and the Ancient Wood[/align] This story takes place in between the two parts of this thread's second post The tow-headed girl's arms hung limply over the side of the wagon. Eyes tired and dry--lids squinting tight against that sand-blasting wind of Northern Thanalan. The scraping sound of dirt and grit slashing against the bare wood frame of the wagon added an accompaniment to the never ceasing grind of heavy wooden wheels against the deep ruts of the path. Her eyes had opened wide upon the sight of the high bridge, standing as it does athwart a mighty ravine carved by the power of an ancient river. She had stood astounded at the sight of those high standing statues watching the way; the ruins of a civilization much older than their own. She remembered them: it was the second time she had gazed upon these wonders with her own eyes. They had passed this way years before in the other direction, possessed of a cart laden with the family treasures and heavy heart's filled with worry and hope at the start of their exile. They had long since lost such treasure. They were long since bereft of worry. Or of much hope. Their parents tried to excite them with the promise of a new home: but it is one they had heard so many times before. Where once had been exiles of means with a real hope of settling down, now they were little more than vagabonds. Wounds to pride had become wounds that cut far deeper. The tow-headed girl glanced to her right, up toward father. At his long unkempt beard. The gray strands of scraggly hair. The bare, worn linen upon his shoulder. Torn, and in places barely held together by the thread-work of loving repair. She looked upon him with eyes too young to fully comprehend, but she remembered when he had not seemed so aged. In the fullness of his glory. The velvet cloak, the shining metal of armored plate upon his shoulders. The strength of the entire clan in the authority of his voice. The heart-lifting power of his smile and his laugh. Her lower lip pushed outward, covering her upper lip in an expression of incomprehension before she turned her eyes back to the roadside scenery. The trees were growing taller, stronger, and more ancient with every weary step of the draft chocobos. She faintly recalled the forest paths they had first crossed through in their flight from from the North. Those days were little more than a blur of bewilderment. She had been scarcely three years old, and all she knew was that the bad men had come, and their family would have to leave. She had always expected to go back: Kael, her biggest brother, assured her they would see their home once more. Somewhere inside she knew they wouldn't, at least not on this trip. But the sight of such trees could not but stir her hope that they would retrace those first steps they had trod upon the path of refugees, and return to the loving, happy home she barely remembered. [align=center][/align] The hour grew later as they passed through the last stretches of Thanalan, entering the deep forest. It had been almost a month since they had boarded the trading ship from a quay beneath the high white towers of Limsa Lomimnsa and their sparkling, pearlescent splendor. Children adapt so quickly, and she had become fully accustomed to the taste of salt-air, and the spray of sea water. Now she missed them, embarked upon an unwelcome voyage; having made yet another farewell in a young life filled with far too many. The early autumn day held just a hint of crispness in its breeze; a relief from the dry overbearing sun of Thanalan. The trees grew taller yet. Their ancient boughs now reaching so far over-head they cast a fullness of shade across the well-trod path. She sat now with eyes transfixed. While the other three children squabbled and played, she simply watched the forest pass her by. Entranced by its lush green beauty. The bounty of thriving plants, the smell and taste of the forest air. The sight of the woodland's tiny animals bouncing and traipsing about their business. She cast intrigued looks at the wary travelers who passed them by. She imagined the magical lives of such accomplished life-long woodsmen: Elezen, Hyur, and Miqo'te. Most of the travelers paid the family little heed beyond the cast of unwelcoming glares, but one friendly Elezen had walked alongside them for over an hour, enthralling the children with stories of the forest known as the Shroud. He told them of the ancient nature of the Wood, of the Elementals, and the dangers of Greenwrath. The angle of the shafts of light filtering through leafy heights grew low; the light less intense as the sun grew weary and prepared for rest. The traveler at last left their company, with a word of parting advice: do not leave the road at night. Father's jaw tensed. Her eyes opened wide in wonder. The Elezen trod off with one last wave. [align=center][/align] Beneath those night-time trees, seeming so tall they must graze the starry canopy of the heavens above, the tow-headed girl's fascination grew to worry, and worry to fear. The woods were alive with shapes, shadows and sounds: at once alluring and haunting. She sat by her father for comfort. They had lit only the barest of fires, enough to warm water for a meager tea. The waning embers proved no more illumination than the starlight above. He put his arm around her, and held her close. She leaned her head into his body. He did not say anything. He hadn't had to. The sound of his slow, steady breathing was comfort enough. The safety of his embrace would keep the Elementals away. Greenwrath, whatever it was, could be no match for his hands. His voice. His love. She closed her eyes. She breathed softly. Easier. Easier. She slept. He would hold her until the sun rose the next day. He would do whatever it took. He would do anything. The children were all that was left. Their future was his. Wasn't it the 'why' of everything? To Ishgard. To Ishgard, they would go. A home at last. A home for them, for he could never know one again. [align=center][/align] She dreamed of forest green and lush. Of running beneath the canopy, and of bounding across deep forest paths. She dreamed of the full light of the moon. Of fairy dust, spring flowers, and chill forest mists. She dreamed of a she-wolf beneath the shade of trees; running at full stride. She was the very essence of a freedom the girl had never known. In her sleep she heard the howl of the Shroud, and would forever know its silence. It was a dream she would dream again. Again, and again. Once in a land, yet unimagined. Beneath tall towers that would dwarf the trees. Beneath spires of cold stone bereft of warm seasalt-spray. Beneath the weight of history, and the burdens of name. Within storied walls that clung fast to their wards. Where freedom was naught but a dream of the wide open forest she had passed through once before. In those distant days when father's embrace would no longer be enough. When she would dream of so much more. Of piney forest air. Of the sound of leaves in free wind. Of the feel of a forest path beneath her feet. Of the howl of the Shroud beneath the full light of the moon.

Some really strange looking sets...

Aya cocks her head slightly, with one blonde eyebrow ever-just raised in an expression of amused curiosity. "Honey?" her eyes glanced at the vial of the sweet, "That's one way to make friends, I guess?" she giggle softly, "Perfect for some tea, maybe we should order some?" Her eyes returned to the Lalafel's as she offered a bright smile.

T'Caska's posts have a way of making me smile!! :-D

Keep up the effort! I hope you're having luck finding people!

Yay! Welcome to Balmung :-]

Because Highlanders are amazing, and I was inspired to do a Scandanavian Viking Warrioress type deal I hadn't really worked out Aya's character yet, and some of my original assumptions were way off base (though they've still factored into the fully developed character). And.. of course.. Highlander? Right, I fantasia-ed because back in the day the clenched-fist Highlander thing just never felt right and eventually annoyed me enough that I switched Aya to a Midlander, model wise at least. I could go back now with the addition of /cpose, but I feel like her look is too well known to do that

<3 Rhea's Tarot cards! C'kayah's my favorite, with my own just behind! :-D