Aya

I'm not sure who Teadrinkers characters are but I love the avatar and the rainy day signature gif! :-D (wish I had one as atmospheric! - plus Cowboy Bebop is best ever!) I am also a tea (and coffee) drinker too! (I seem to recall having this convo with her too before, and we both love coffee in addition to tea!) So ♥♥♥

I'd like to do Knock Knock but the timing is a bit awkward, so I'll sign up for safety protocols. I'll cede my spot to a magical character that wants to go though. All Aya can help with in this case is leg work

[sorry for the rather petulant tone, that wasn't my original intention but it is what emerged!] Closed eyelids felt the warmth of Vylbrand's rising sun. Tired senses tried to mingle the sensation with the potent scent of a final pinch of fine pipe weed, and the vibrant sound of an active quay below. She exhaled a cloud of smoke with a sigh. Why? Did it really deserve an all-night vigil? She signed again, slumping her head against the rich mahogany of the chair she'd dragged out to the balcony. On the adjacent little desk lay sheets of paper abandoned. Ink dried crisp to long-idle pen. She'd been determined to record her thoughts - and a tribute to the Battle of Gloam. But somewhere, she'd lost herself to idleness and contemplation. Why had she done it? Why had she cared? She'd little interest in Limsan politics or law: how had she found herself there? Attending hearings, defending sailors, and, by the twelve, going to sea aboard a privateer bound for battle? Only there was no real question. She'd always known why; she just didn't want to admit it. The reasons were: Leanne. Osric. S'imba. And numerous others. A barmaid's friends. People she admired--some of them heroes in their own right. It had been so simple, really. All she wanted was to earn their respect. In her heart-of-hearts didn't she always understand that's what had mattered to her? It had just been an opportunity to show them that she too could be relied upon: to do the things that were right. To do the things that were hard. To do the things that were brave. She wanted to show them she wasn't just the smiling girl they'd met at the Quick Sand. She'd been terrified back then - of everything. She was comfortable now: with herself, with her city, with her path. But for what end? The thought filled her with loathing. And with frustration. She refused to open her eyes to face the sun. Even where she had been successful she'd always failed at her larger purpose. No one seemed to understand why she was there. It was dawning upon her that she'd never be more than the pretty smile with a tall pint of ale. Their causes were deeper. Their stories more gripping. Their attachments seared in moments of high pressure. Heroes, it seems, were just a world apart. She rolled onto her back, slumped with the full indignity of exhaustion. Unable to shout. Unable to cry. She just sighed again, with a deep shudder of disappointment. Perhaps it was better this way, she tried to convince herself. Was this really the sort of trouble she needed? S'imba, the only one who really seemed to trust her, was still in more trouble than she was capable of getting him out of. Just what sort of further worries could lay ahead with this bunch? [align=center]Where prow through wave breaks, Beneath salt spray scour, When stout hull rattles and shakes, There you'll find the hero of the hour[/align] She had been there. Aboard the Sultana's Revenge when the hour came due. She was a woman who spurned the Ala Mhigan cause. Comfortable to make due with what life she could find in the rest of Eorzea. But ties of blood are slow to die. Her heart had raced as the Revenge turned into the Imperial squadron, with the able Yheli at the helm. She could still see S'imba standing proud. Hands upon his hips and expectation upon that daring grin. When the nimble Privateer broke through the last bank of fog they caught the Cruiser entirely unaware. Imperial sailors turned at them in horror. She leaped the gap between the ships, stout forest spear gripped in hand. Ladders followed. Osric cried his battle cry. The privateers of the Revenge swarmed like winged death. With spear in hand she dove upon those poor sailors with an unexpected intensity -they were the momentarily defenseless edge of the Empire's military might, and she showed no restraint. They were caught one-by-one with the swift, silent, deadly work of a Shroud-trained Lancer- and the fury of an Ala Mhigan Fox. It was over as quickly as it had begun. The entire action was a blur of memory. She had looked up to Osric and his blood-covered blade raised in exultant celebration. Had she, in that moment, not been the very picture of Ala Mhigan Resistance? She couldn't recognize her own self. How could Osric? She thought of her father. The man who had raised her. Protected her. The man who had surrendered everything to save his family from the conquest. She thought of every pride he had abandoned, every deprivation he had faced. She remembered the proud warrior-lord. She thought of the weary old man who remained. She pulled her fist to her chest. "If he knew..." she wondered in the ancestral tongue of their motherland. "Would he at last be proud?"

Lore Lord Sounsyy to the rescue! :-D

Hiiii! Welcome to the RPC! I am assuming by Gardenia you were referring to Gridiana? The Eorzean city-state located in the Black Shroud? Or were you creating your own village setting named Gardenia (which should be fine, but some more background on the intended context would be helpful )? The basic idea sounds great, but I did have a few questions. I'm not aware of the Garleans hiring bandits to scout for them (though I am far from an expert!). They do use auxiliaries, but those would be, say, Ala Mhigan scouts and they would be unlikely to go around burning villages as part of a scouting mission. That part really doesn't quite hold together for me: was this intended to be very recently? Given the... circumstances (since we are still covered under spoiler rules) it would not be hard to imagine a Garlean punitive raid being the cause. I'm also curious about the character's psychology, he came from far away and then was settled by two loving adoptive parents who have become the most important things in his like, is he not interested in their culture? Maybe its just me but the focus on the culture of his homeland (such as burying his adoptive parents in a tradition that would be alien to them) seems a little off. Sort of a rejection of the adoption. Not that such a thing would be implausible, it just didn't seem intended. If you originally meant Gridania is where he settled, that also means that the Elementals have accepted him as a citizen of the Shroud through the Hearers. That's something, and its something that would probably mean quite a bit to him. Its part of what makes Gridania a potentially interesting adoptive home for him. Lastly, I'm just gong to mention my very generic "why-are-everyone's-parents-dead" bit. I understand that it makes characters more free to pursue whatever ends they desire without responsibility, and also creates the potential for a tragic-past, but I think you should give a touch of thought, at least, to the possibility that his adoptive parents could still be alive and an active thought in the back of his mind as he goes about discovering himself, exploring Eorzea, and with the new expansion, returning home. And what that might add to or detract from the story

That gets me just reading it... :dodgy:

[align=center][/align] [align=center][An Ishgardian Ballad - Just a Story][/align] [align=center] [align=left][ A story from Aya's life in Ishgard. A story inspired by Noir - and by Cowboy Bebop (my favorite anime). I encourage anyone familiar with it to read the narrator in Jet Black's voice. If you're not familiar, I still hope you enjoy〜 ] Music Part One: The maid huffed. It was a huff of indignation. A huff of curiosity. A huff that resounded with a full measure of spontaneity, but was in fact fully rehearsed; being the sort of gesture one learns through repeatedly encountering the same situation. She shook her head with a look of annoyance. People were always leaving their junk here. Sometimes it seemed they just wanted rid of it. Other times it seemed as if it were something special in search of a new owner. This was just a little wooden box. It looked like it could contain just about anything. The woman cocked her head and stared inquisitively wondering just what it was, what its story could be. Junk is junk, but most that found its way here had a story of one kind or another. Now, you might be thinking this is just another one of Aya's boring stories about tea time, or another one of those friendly conversations beneath the setting sun, or some such stupid junk like that. But this isn't one of those stories. Not at all. Its a story of family and honor. Of doing what is right, or at least what's necessary - or just your best. Oh, yeah, and its a story of young love. So, you know, if that's not your kind of thing you can just save yourself the trouble and stop right here. The woman known as Aya Foxheart, wasn't always known by that name. Once upon a time she was known simply as 'Aya'. You know all of those performers out there known by only one name? Well, yeah, that was her doing. When she first made her name in Ishgard she didn't think she had another name worth sharing. So there it was, just 'Aya'. Somehow it stuck, and those others just want to be like her. Now you know. She's also thought of as one of Eorzea's greatest heart breakers. A darling and a delight. Or just trouble on two legs. And she'd have it no other way: you'd think the whole world would just bend over to get out of her way. But it isn't always so. She'd tell you that she can't remember just how it all happened. Or where it all started. Maybe somewhere with fairy tales of knights and damsels. Told by a mother passing on everything good in this world to her only daughter. She always said: 'When we lost everything, only our stories remained.' And here we are: her knight, at last: Charlesemile. Char, as she knew him. There he was again: tall and strong, even for an Elezen. She imagined him as a knight: no simple swordsman of the Temple, but the kind who stormed keeps and castles for true love. His long dark hair, raven-pitched, matched eyes that seemed capable of limitless depths. They were undeniably an object for the feminine gaze, and reflected affection with an effortless ease that belied his otherwise calm demeanor. She could not help herself in her admiration: his was the sort of smile you never forget. She didn't know how many times she'd seen him there back stage, or at some of the wilder parties thrown down there. He was probably just another nobleman's son, pawning off his influence for an evening's fun with the chorus girls, dancers and actresses of the lower-city stage. Their shows were more fun, and the girls themselves all-the-more entertaining, than those of the upper classes. They were also rather more appreciative of the bobbles and favors the young men offered. To young aristocrats, life down below the surface seemed altogether untouched by the frigid frost that defined the life of Ishgardian courtiers. Oh yes, she'd know just the sort. She'd seen it all before. She competed for their patronage. She wore their jewelry. She played their game, how could she not? And why not? Wasn't she enjoying herself? She wasn't quite famous yet. At least not like she would be. Just a teenager, and soon after her first starring role as an Othardian Princess in a great tale of heroic romance - you know the one. So, you could say she was a hot thing, but not quite that hot, if you know what I mean. And, with her charms, its not all that surprising that he fancied her. Weekend after weekend he went out of his way to find time with her during one event or another. We pick up again, somewhere, sometime, just off-stage. "Aya," he said with that bewitchingly soft tone of his, "How many times have I seen you like this? With all this company? With the noise? And the parties?" He offered up a disarming smile as he drew himself closer, pressing his arm to the wall just above her shoulder. He smiled with the gentleness that came naturally to his placid features. "Its you I want to see. Not them," he admitted with a hint of nervousness. He offered his deep, dark, pleading eyes ot hers. "As much as I enjoy these shows, the only real reason I come down here any more is for you..." She gazed back, stunned. She'd like to remember a thousand thoughts coursing through her mind in that moment. Carefully weighing her options, and noting everything the man before her offered. That she was guarded, wondering, parsing. But that wasn't her. She was a just charmed girl in love. There were only two things she felt: relief and excitement. It wouldn't be easy. Is it ever, truly? But, this is a hard-scrabble story, you realized that already, right? Still, young lovers find a way. Their relationship was a spirited whirlwind. A torrid little thing buried in the frozen city. They spared every moment they could: walking the silent galleries of the lower city late at night. Slipping away from parties. Together, she visited the surface for the first time in years. She visited the Pillars and the Hoplon. She strolled past the villas of the rich and the famous. Well dressed men and women respectfully greeted her in his company. But, even then, the warmth of the daylight sun, and the pleasure of such easy respect, never compared to how wonderful Char made her feel. He was everything that she was not: upstanding, of station, proper, educated, and full of a poised restraint that seemed ever to personify the Elezen of Ishgard. His was a practiced manner, forged by a rigorous upbringing and quenched in the halls and classrooms of preparatory school. But in those quiet moments alone with her, he allowed the mask to slip. He embraced the warm, effortless joy that she readily offered the world. He smiled, he laughed, and together they grew to be more than either could have alone. Together they dreamed. Together they strayed. Of course, Aya was already a sought after woman. Charlesemile was not without his competition. And for her the danger was thricefold: to admiring men she owed her patronage, her fame, and so her future, at least whatever future she could make of her own. She could no more offer them a cold shoulder than she could wish away the Ishgardian cold. But even the greatest of men are prone to jealousy when a lovely young thing is involved. And so there she stood: pressed from all sides by dreams, needs, and fear. Despite her best efforts, things weren't always calm. There's one night in particular I'll never forget. I get to tell this one: I can see it now: a flurry of snow drifting down from the heavens. Descending flakes briefly caught in the lamplight of towering spires long before reaching the warm glint of lamps on the cobblestone streets of the less heavenly city below. The relative peace of the moment was interrupted by the sound of shouting voices. That age old concern: young men ready to fight over a young woman. Then, all at once, they fell silent with the sound of a 'crunch'. Cold steel striking the firmness of a young man's face. There quickly followed a second, 'crunch'. The same young man collapsing in a crumpled heap upon the snow. Several more remained standing, swords drawn and ready to taste blood. The not so poor fellow laying prone and regretful on the cobblestone was Reginald de something-or-other (its really not important at the moment). Above him, wiping the blood from sword-hilt stood Char. The others were Reginald's friends, or lackeys, depending upon how charitable you're feeling. "I suggest you three get him out of here, you've given us enough trouble for the evening." The trio looked back and forth, unsure of what to do with the sudden absence of their ringleader. In the moment of hesitation the subject of the altercation strode into the proverbial spotlight. Though slighter than the Elezen, Aya's always had a presence about her, and with her fearless poise and pose she seemed to momentarily tower over the rest of them. I can see it now: blue eyes shining with the full ferocity of highland defiance. Tensed, ready fists lingering waist-height just behind her. And she showed not a care that her bodice had been slit from top to bottom, leaving her Ala Mhigan bounty threatening to spill into plain view. She wanted nothing more than to return the disgrace that had been shown her, and given the chance she would more than pay it back. The fury of Highland women is something of legend, and once witnessed can never be forgot. Such is the lesson of this parable- or something like that. Anyway, faced with the charming knight, and his enraged damsel, the trio of well-heeled goons beat a hasty retreat dragging their barely conscious provacateur with them. And though he couldn'tt feel his feet as they banged along the cobblestones, he managed enough to hurl threats upon the couple: "You'll pay for this you wretch! And your cheap wench too!" It doesn't take much imagination to know how this scene ended. And there were more of the sort. Despite the challenges, they still found a way. And so it was. Sometime later Aya found herself at Heathrow's Emporium. It's her favorite kind of shop: the sort where you can find anything and everything. In other words: just another junk shop. And Heathrow's one of those talented old guys who always seems to know a little bit about everything. He also managed to have something new in stock most of the time: a neat trick given the difficulty of trade since the gates were sealed. I've always found it strange that the girl is drawn to this kind of place. I wouldn't say she's some sort of expert on junk, I sure hope not, but I'd believe she were Eorzea's foremost expert on the purveyor's of junk. Ah hell, there I go talking too much again, lets get back to the story. "...yes, my dear, it plays an absolutely beautiful little tune. Sweet and lilting." "The sort to remind you of a girl you love...?" She asked with a heart-warming unassumingness. He laughed, "I'd imagine its exactly that sort." Then the old man paused, bushy eyebrows twitching. "Say... its not for that handsome young master..." She nodded, silently, as the old man laughed, "And here I thought it was supposed to work the other way around. Guess I'm just old fashioned." "But, but..." he cautioned earnestly, "As I said, the box doesn't work any more." He scratched his head, peering at the little device, "I have not been able to figure out how its broken. Until it's fixed it won't play any music at all, whether for pretty girls or not." She stared at it intently. It was perfect. Small and he could take it with him anywhere he might go or travel. And everywhere he went, he could play the tune and think of her. But could it be made to work? She stared at it all the more, as if she could make it work through the force of will alone. The old man laughed, humoring the girl, "Ah... well... perhaps it just needs the power of love. You are welcome to give it a try, anyway. Its yours, just bring it back if it doesn't work..." Now, Aya's got a knack for tinkering. Anything mechanical, even magitek. If its a widget or gizmo with gears or crystals she can figure it out given enough time. I don't know where she got it from. I really don't, but sometimes its just a joy to watch. What she can't do is fabricate replacement parts. And that's where I get to have my part in the story: for that she needs a brother with a hammer and a careful touch. Well, she's a pretty amazing girl, and with my help, she had that damned little box working again. ♪Tinkle-dee-dee-dun-da-da-dee♪ sang the delicate little chimes. It was a lovely tune. It wasn't sophisticated or deep, but she knew he'd think of her whenever he heard it, wherever he might be. She wound the spring again, and flipped open the lid to listen once more. "Well, whadya know, sis. It works!" announced Osvald, her brother the smith, still wearing his smithy apron. ♪Tinkle-dee-dee-dun-da-da-dee♪ it played again and again. She grinned with the sort of excitement that only she could muster. You see that guy there? That's me, her brother. Music Part Two: The week came and went, and she had not been able to see Char. This was not altogether unusual. He was a busy young man: already in the final year of school and training for the military career that awaited him. It was not altogether easy for him to slip away, and she truly didn't mind. Eventually, they knew, all would be right, and they could be together like they had always dreamed. All she could think about was presenting him with the gift of the little music box. She opened it, and listened to the tune, imagining him in years to come playing the tune in some distant garrison and imagining rushing into her arms. He'd never feel alone. He'd never forget. The days came. The days went. There was still no word from him. She could barely wait, and at last she could no longer bear it. If he were so busy, then even now he could use a reminder of her love. She'd left him messages before, and this would be no different. After dinner she slipped from the family inn and into the streets she called home. This was her city. Her place. She had no trouble making her way in the dark to the surface streets, and the Pillars. There she gently rang at the servant's entrance, as she had before. The sweet-smiling butler answered the knock, and with the exchange of a few kind words, accepted the gift to deliver. Of course, a young woman's dreams rarely come so simple, do they? She slipped quietly into bed, unable to sleep with the excitement that swelled within her breast. She imagined Char's face when receiving the gift. She imagined him listening to the sweet little tune again, and again. ♪Tinkle-dee-dee-dun-da-da-dee♪ She was helping with chores the next day when the carriage pulled up out front of the tavern. She nearly leapt in excitement, imagining a summons from her Prince Charming. She ran to the door, throwing it open and announcing herself, "I'm here!" There was quite a bit of activity within the rest tavern in response to the unexpected visit. Her cousins quickly began to look for 'Uncle', the one man in the family with enough standing and knowledge to speak with a member of a representative of a Noble House - no one else could afford such transportation. The Elezen gentleman who disembarked from the carriage offered nothing but serene disinterest. He stood at a majestic height, supported by an ornately decorated walking stick, and draped in what appeared to be a new fur coat: an extravagance. His short dark hair was just starting to gray at the temples - a gray that clung fully to the neatly trimmed beard that graced and distinguished his chin. His eyes scanned the environs of the modest inn. One could feel his silent scoff at the dimness of the light in the tunnels of the lower city, and the bare dinginess of the entire scene. Aya stared at him, agape, from the open door. At last, he took a few long, slow strides toward her before letting out a labored sigh that wiped the last remnants of smiling from her features. He brought his stick to rest, leaning lightly upon it. "You must be Aya..." His voice was sanguine, unaffected, and possessed of the cool, collected refinement of the masterly class. Uncle had been born and raised in the city, as had his father and grand father. He was a lowly inn-keeper, but still a respectable man who knew how to handle delicate situations involving men of higher status. Ishgardian was his native tongue, and despite his lower-levels dialect he could affect a proper-enough tone to not offend the sensibilities. It was this man to whom Aya would have looked for rescue, but this was not the man who arrived. Instead the sound of a heavy walking stick quickly descending the stairs announced the arrival of a fellow of an altogether different character. "I... yes...?" She answered, with a downcast stutter, "..ser!" she added with same panic. Her fingers clutched defensively at the door frame. His countenance betrayed no hint of emotion as he accepted her reply without comment, before slipping a gloved hand into the interior breast pocket of his coat. Unfolding his hand he presented to her the small, familiar music box. "And, you are the one who brought this to our home, yesterday evening?" There was a slight tilt of his head, expressing curiosity without intended harshness. The color quickly drained from the girl's cheeks. Her body tensed and then drooped. She fainted, her body threatening collapse at the sight, and the revelation it proclaimed. Only the sudden intervention of a strong grip prevented her plummet to the pavement. Her father. Harsh. Strong. Ala Mhigan to the very core. He had never bothered to learn Ishgardian. His grasp of the tongue is not just rough, but often borders on incomprehensible. He grasped her around both shoulders, fingers clasped around her arms, bodily holding her up with a gentle tenderness reflected in the worried expression upon his grizzled features. The Elezen pressed his shoulders back, folding his hands together in an entirely proper posture, while more of the family arrived in the entryway behind the girl and her father. Her uncle was the next there, but he was already too late. Her mother let out a wail of surprise, as the two of them took hold of Aya leaning her back and trying to revive her. With his daughter being cared for, the man who had-been lord, grasped his heavy walking stick and raised himself to his full height. He strode confidently forward, with the learned bearing of a fearless man of the battlefield, hunting ground, and dueling yard. He approached the unfazed Elezen with defiance: the worried expression replaced with a look grim and terrible: his heavy brow taut and furrowed, blue eyes filled with barely restrained malice. "This is my daughter." He stated, matter-of-factly. "Who do you think you are?" He turned his chin up toward the wiry, graceful nobleman, inviting confrontation. The Elezen had felt the pang of sympathy at the sight of the fainted girl, but he could not but dismiss the mockable sight now presented him. He gazed down his nose upon the might of Ala Mhigo's conceit, in all its broken glory. "A man whose acquaintance neither of you deserve." He replied with cold and patient form. Ever fiber of the old Ala Mhigan's body stood on edge. His voice growled to life with an agonizing fire, "You dare speak to us like this!" The old warrior raised his stick menacingly, glaring with rage. His interlocutor refused to flinch, he only drew his own cane slightly higher, perhaps to guard against a potential blow, but otherwise refused to budge or shout - still, exasperation shown through his voice, "I shall speak to you however I please. But I am only hear to speak to your daughter, and as mercifully brief as possible." From the entryway her uncle shouted to both of them for calm. Her father glared, but dared nothing further, just yet. He slowly lowered his cane, glowering with narrowed, threatening eyes. "You knife-eared scoundrel if you have dared to touch a hair upon my daughters head, I swear before the Destroyer that I shall strike you down!" "Twelve forfend!" gasped the Elezen in a manner that defused the situation. He folded his arms across his body, raising his head indignantly, "I know not your daughter. Nor do I ever care to. That is why I am here." The Ala Mhigan relented, if cautiously. "What the hells do you want with us, then?" The Elezen again presented the music box, "Are you aware that your daughter has been spending an inordinate amount of time with my son?" The Hyur looked puzzled, but Aya shouted from the doorway where she had recovered. "Father, its true!" Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her father knew not what to make of anything in that moment: except that this man was still terrifying his daughter. His posture quickly relaxed, and he returned to her side, speaking to her softly in their mother tongue. "Aya... what is going on?" The graceful Elezen let out a sorrowful sigh, "Now... now... I did not mean to be the cause of such... trouble." He hesitated, searching for words of comfort rather than offense. "There is no need for tears. No harm is intended for anyone today." Her father turned back toward the man once more, father and daughter staring at him hostilely, as her father replied, "I have my doubts, Elezen. Speak your business then, and begone." "My son." He started, pausing to take a breath and start over. "Charlesemile, is a man of great potential. I do not know what you are aware of, but I was not born to the gentry. Our family have been loyal retainers for generations. Centuries of carefully kept records attest to that. I was fortunate enough to marry a daughter of the family, I..." He paused, stifling a sigh while momentarily closing his eyes, "... I do understand what it is to marry for love. She became an unlikely heiress, and our son was raised with a future in her class. When she died, her title and name did not pass to me. They are his to bear. But you understand, I presume, that if he is to secure his family's position he must marry into his own station." Having finished the statement of his business, he rather abruptly presented the music box once more. "And what's this?" Asked her father, still standing by her side. The entire family watched the exchange from within the building. "A symbol of love, professed, I do believe." Stated the Elezen with clinical precision. "Now. I have every reason to believe that your feelings are sincere," he stated, with a carefully sincere intonation of his own. "And that knowing this, you will do what is clearly best for him. If you do not stay away from him he shall lose his standing, title, and every potential for his future. I pray that you satisfy yourself with once having known one of Ishgard's premier men, and one of her greatest knights." Her father rapped his stick powerfully against the paving stones, "She's not good enough for you, that's it?" He growled, before snarling a choice Ala Mhigan phrase toward the man. The Elezen bore the assault without flinching, and then addressed Aya one last time. "Is everything understood?" She wiped the tears away with her fingers, steadying herself just long enough to nod and answer him, "It is." The old Elezen was a bastard, no doubt. Glad we don't have his type as an in-law, and honestly I find myself wishing father had just throttled him right then and there for all of us. But Aya was the wiser, and we'd all have paid, in the end, for the gesture. I know she thought it over for days. She agonized. But, in the end, what could she do? It wasn't like there was somewhere the two of them could run to. Not at this time. Not in this city. "... what are you saying?" she had never seen Char so emotional as he was in that moment. "You cannot mean it!" He exclaimed, his voice cracking. "I do..." she repeated, struggling to force back her own tears as she sat passively next to him. She had summoned every last ounce of control and reserve. She was doing everything she could to be strong for him. "I do mean it." "But..." he let out an unaffected sob. The plaster-like veneer cracked before her eyes. "We are from different worlds, Char..." she repeated the carefully rehearsed words. Though they did not, and could not reflect her true feelings. "We cannot be together. I will hold you back..." "I don't care!" He yelled in frustration, leaping up from the bench as he turned toward her, his voice full of passion. "I don't care about any of that! All I want is you!" "And... you cannot..." she could not fight back the tears and longer. Her heart broke again. She sobbed. Chill rain fell from the cloudy sky with a crack of thunder. "That... this... this is it?! After... after...." he lost his train of thought, his own tears joined hers as they fell through the cracks and fractures of youthful dreams. The rain poured. It soaked them both, as the biting wind nearly froze them in place. "Char..." "Yes?" He raised his eyes, with a faint sense of hope. "Thank you. Thank you for having loved a girl like me..." It seems like that was a long time ago. So long ago. Eventually, Aya escaped this cage-like city. Found herself a new name: 'Foxheart'. You know how some of that story has gone- more than me, probably. Some, well, none of us will ever know just everything she's been through outside these cold walls. Out there, in the vast rest of the world. Sometimes I find myself wondering if she would have been the one to hold him back, or if, truly, it were the other way around. Meanwhile things here kept on, like they do. The world never stops. We went on with our lives. Never forgetting. I'm sure Char didn't either, how could you forget a girl like that? Sometimes I wonder if that bastard father of his ever had second thoughts. Ah well. Eventually, as you know, there was another Dravanian attack on us. Then, another day, they swung open those big gates. I never thought I'd see it. Had to let in adventurers, that's just how bad things had got. And then, one day, with the gates open again, she returned home... Dread. A deep-seated dread that stills the heart, and then retreats to its darkest corners as we try to forget. As we try to move on. She'd heard. But she had to know. Had to be there. Had to see it, no, feel it for herself. It was raining. That awful, awful, cold rain. Her fingers followed the indentation in the stone. The memorial engraving in that cold, ungiving, uncaring stone. "... Charlesem..." She tore herself away. Then she did what she did back then--what she always seems to do: she ran. She ran away. Away from the memorial. Away from the name she loved. Away from the memories. Away from it all. Just... away. I did say this was a sad story didn't I... I guess I probably should have... The maid stared at the little box that had been left behind like so much junk. Curious, at last, she flicked open the lid: ♪Tinkle-dee-dee-dun-da-da-dee♪ She smiled at the lovely little tune, and mused to herself "I wonder what old Heathrow will think of that...?" (Screen shot by @kiskiphelone via tumblr, and used with grateful permission!) [/align] [/align]

They can remove the classes but not the concepts, so absolutely no effect at all

♥♥♥ For the Wayfarer's! I only stopped by briefly at the end, but enjoyed the bit I did! Singles nights are always a bit of sizzle and a bit of fizzle, I think that's how they just are

I agree! Totally adorable!

[align=left] [align=center][/align] [align=center][Homecoming - Part Six][/align] [align=center]The final installment of Aya’s return home. [/align] [/align] [align=center][/align] [align=left] It was neither the first, nor the last. Years ago in the depths of the Tower City:[/align] Music! The hinges squeaked as the worn door cracked open, marking the late-night end of a guilty sojourn. Feet, bared for silence, were too quiet to announce her return. She pressed the door gently closed—every sign pointed to the success of her deception. She turned toward the stair, but a faint flow of lantern light from the inn's main sitting room, caught her attention. The room now served as a tavern in the long, harsh days of Ishgard's imposed isolation, and the sign of habitation gave lie to the flickers of her hope. Grimacing, the young girl momentarily halted in her tracks. There was no easy route of escape. Maybe the sentry had fallen asleep at watch? She made a furtive break for the stair, mounting just a few steps before being brought to a sudden halt by the sound of a match strike. Dare not look. Dare not look. Dare not... She turned her eyes hesitantly toward the faint illumination. There she saw through the stair's banister, through the open door to the sitting room, and through to a familiar figure seated in shadowy illumination. With a slow, intentional motion he brought the lit match to the pipe upon his lips. Watching, it felt an eternity, he lit the bowl, cupping his fingers around it before the embers began to add their own amber to that of the lantern. She was still - frozen - motionless - trapped. He shook the match out before opening his eyes, directing the full intensity of his harsh blue gaze at his teenage daughter. It was a practiced glare. Formed over more than a half century of preparation. No longer did these eyes demand loyalty of retainers, peasants and soldiers. No more did they lord over battlefields, hunting grounds, and feast halls. No longer did they dictate with the force of authority and blood. The forceful personality behind the glare had withered but never wilted. Ruin had befallen everything he held dear. Only the family remained, and from them he still demanded loyalty. That was the insistence of the hardened glare: the iron will that demanded obeisance from the only ones it still governed far from the mountains and forests of Ala Mhigo. He had said nothing, but still her body refused to move. It was her spirit that flinched: her heart pounded in her ears—her nerves tingled with the touch of fresh panic. No words were necessary, but he chose to employ them regardless. He slipped the pipe from his lips, his voice low and even, with the burr of his mother tongue. "We had a visitor yesterday." She stood, motionless, as under the effect of a terrible magic. "Do you know what he said?" His tone was rhetorical. "He told us, again, about these so-called 'friends' of yours." He set the pipe down, freeing her momentarily from the harsh fixation of his gaze. "You remember, I am sure, what I told you before?" She did. She needed no reminder. He repeated the commandments for her, his voice rising with authority. "You will not see those hooligans. You will not spend time with them. They will be the ruin of you. The ruin of us. You know that your actions reflect upon, and effect this entire family." He paused to tap the bowl of his pipe upon the table. "I doubt you will deny that you were with them again tonight..." She wanted to deny with every fiber of self-preservation, but quickly found herself shaking her head against every better judgement - such was the power of his compulsion. With this answer the man rose like a beast from his throne, his voice roared with the fire of righteous anger, "And yet you defy me! You defy your mother! Do you have any regard for you family?" The question, asked with a furious snarl, permitted no answer. "My -daughter- will not behave like a common harlot. My -daughter- will not deprave herself with obscenity!" He emphasized the word as if it dripped with venom, while advancing upon the frozen girl with quick and powerful steps. Anger, frustration, worry and fear that had simmered for hours burst forth in a torrent as he gripped at the at the posts of the banister with barely contained rage. His face, rugged and strong shook with the power of his will. The sudden show of emotion snapped the spell he had held over her. She nearly fell backward away from him, flattening momentarily against the wall of the stair as she felt the fullness of dread he instilled. "You understand, don't you?" He asked, with a hint of pleading in his anger. "You're the one who doesn't understand!" She shot back with a rising surge of resistance. "You never have!" The retort was that of every teenage girl angry at her father. She nearly leaped down the stairs as she raced for the front door. Their shouting had woken the entire family - the rooms above stirred with commotion. Father turned, indignation burning in his eyes. "Don't you run from me!" She tore the door open, turning back at him one more time, "Maybe I am no daughter of yours!" she shouted in pure resentment. That was his line. He'd used it before, and its impact was all the greater for its return. [align=left]He started for the door, but he no longer had the strength of his young self. His late night vigil had exhausted him. He grasped at the door frame, bracing. Out he shouted into the street, watching the vision of his barefoot daughter retreating into the darkness. [/align] [align=center][/align] [align=left]Not so long ago, Ishgard "He's been feeling stronger, but he still needs his rest." Mother's voice could be as gentle as a spring breeze. "He's... well, its been hard, as you know..." Aya nodded. She held her mother's hands. The two of them had not always looked at things the same way: mother always seemed to take father's side. But, they had shared so much of life together. They had endured, they had persevered. No one had taught Aya more, and the two women both understood what it was to be a woman in father's family. The bad. The good. The hard.[/align] Aya took a deep breath. She nodded, and whispered, "Thank you..." The hinges squeaked as the worn door cracked open, marking the welcome end of an arduous sojourn. She stepped into the room. It was kept warmer than the others with a well-attended coal fire that cast its illumination on the features of her father reclining in his bed. She took a step toward him, her heeled boots loud against the wooden floor of the chamber. He turned his head toward her, eyes opening slowly to reveal the blue-eyed gaze that she had not seen for so such a very long time. She covered the distance between with a few quick steps, kneeling at his side. His eyes were tired, but shone with an emotion as indescribable as it was indecipherable. She gazed back, struggling for words. A thousand times she had rehearsed this reunion: what a waste. To see him so tired - so defeated. Her lips hung open, trembling for want of the will to know what to say. Only one soft word escaped, barely voiced, "Father..." A faint smile appeared on his lips. An upward tug upon the corners that showed no sign of resistance. "Shh..." he replied, while his hand grasped for hers. Cold fingers wrapped around the tender, softness of his daughter's hand. She gasped at the touch of his hand: those strong hands... she remembered. She remembered so very much- tears fell from her cheeks. "I am very tired..." he said, with a weak voice before taking in a deep breath that spoke of immense relief. She nodded and wrapped her hands around his... [align=center][/align] Osvald and Aya stepped out from the inn, walking the familiar streets and avenues of their youth, levels below the surface of Ishgard in the depths of the city's base. "Were you able to talk to him?" He asked with the sort of gentle curiosity he was so capable. She shook her head, forcing her hands into the pockets of her coat, suddenly intimately conscious of feeling her own hands. "I... no, we didn't." Her brother let out a loud sigh of thorough disappointment. He turned his gaze toward her as they continued to walk, "Aya... I'm so sorry... I really thought that by now..." She interrupted him with the shake of her head, "No.. no... it was good." She didn't quite smile. Neither did he. Everywhere there seemed to be a little relief. (Screen shot by @kiskiphelone, and used with grateful permission!)

This is terrific! I'd like to enter if it were at a time I could more likely make! Will see as we get closer to it if there are still slots open!

I love merchant characters and meeting them, and Aya especially likes knowing them and learning what all sorts of wonderful things they sell. I don't know that I can offer anything more than social RP, but its possible!

Ugh! What a terrible round :-X Neither probably. Maybe the flogging.. but ugh!

Wanted: Thravnarian dancer with whom to exchange moves!

I think that's right! I am not very well versed in Thaumaturges, but I know they are based in Ul'dah and are at least relatively common. This is the sort of magic you would study as an arcane student in Thanalan Its based upon channeling your own internal aether, if I remember correctly, and is mostly a destructive magic.

Neat! I love the concept

Hi! Welcome to Balmung and the RPC! When it comes to classes, jobs are always tricky. The jobs in the game are often reserved for the Warrior of Light only, or for a very small and select group (often related to very rare access to knowledge, and soul stones). Not all are so rare, but Black Mage is one of those that is exceptionally rare - because of their nature and their role in a previous cataclysm they are also, I believe, kill-on-sight for most realm authorities. That said, Thaumauturges cover most of the same concept in a package tailor made for a Lalafel. I would encourage you in that direction unless there is something very specific about the Black Mage that you want to capture for your character, but that title on its own will introduce a host of its own baggage. This is probably obvious, but it is sometimes worth pointing out: the game allows your character to master any number of classes and jobs, but most RPers take a much more realistic approach to these sorts of things in terms of what they rolepay, and tend to focus on achievements that would be plausibly achievable. Just because you have a class or job all leveled up, does not mean that you must, or should, RP it is an aspect of your character. There are plenty of people who RP a character who is both a mage and a mighty warrior, but there are also plenty who may find that rather implausible. Which path you want to walk really depends upon what sort of RP you enjoy, what sort of story you want to tell, and what sort of character you want to play. Its probably worth a little thought about just what it is you'd like to do: play a little samurai, play a little mage or play a little mage who is also a samurai

I always read Ligardian's name as "Ishgardian Dreamer" and that has made the name, the avatar, and the title stick so well that its like seeing an old friend whenever I see a post! I also think its a really lovely name, "Ligardian Dreamer" just flows off the tongue. And, well, dreamers are always terrific! [Aya - LOL at my saying 'dancer' instead of 'dreamer']

First of all, disagreeing with "back story means nothing" does not only not put you at "full disagreement" with me, it does not put you at any sort of disagreement with me at all! I completely agree with you. [The negation in here is really confusing... I'm agreeing that back story is meaningful, fun, and useful in its own way, I have never, ever, stated otherwise - and given the time and effort I have gone into to write stories about my character's lives, it would be a very silly thing for me to say ] As you describe, it can lend very fruitful depth to a character. I would also not advise revision of backstory, especially not frequently. This is very different from refinement over time. Lets just take the current suggested case: the character in question could begin being roleplayed as an Au Ra Princess of an Eastern Kingdom recently arrived in Eorzea and looking to start a new life. This is sufficient for role-playing purposes, and additional depth and detail (while not harmful) are unlikely to actually create more immediate role-playing opportunities. If next week she then becomes an Au Ra raised in the Shroud on Conjurer's Stories and the Good Intentions of a wizened Miqo'te, but is otherwise the same character, we're really not doing anyone any good at all. But if she, instead, adds definition to the kingdom that she is from, or her family, or her retainers who have traveled with her and so on, this is refinement that does not detract from the original telling. All I am saying is that if you're looking to roleplay then a basic background is sufficient enough. Just get in there and RP for a while, and you'll get to know your own character a little better as you do, and you can continue to refine the story as you go. Spending more and more time on the story, trying to make it more complex and detailed, may be pleasant enough in itself, but it is not going to contribute to those initial forays into RP, and may in fact detract from it if it becomes over-thought.

As an addendum, adding it to your character info block might help too. One of my characters uses a cane quite regularly to walk around. I emote when he's using it now and then, but I also have it there so people who glance at it will know. It's something I've seen used pretty frequently to describe things about the character that might be off-model (taller than normal, different kind of eyes, etc). If I didn't include that, I had meant to. These things about Aya (height, accent, and that she's almost always wearing heels of some sort, are all in her search comment )

Of course its fine! Can't have Treasure Island without Long John Silver! When it comes to this sort of thing and describing it, you just have to play it by ear and kind of learn when and how often it needs to be mentioned. Aya has a few characteristics (nowhere near as dramatic) that I try to describe to new people, but especially when RPing in public places you really don't want to mention it frequently. Having it in the character description, mentioning it no new people or when appropriate when engaged in public RP, and gently correcting the situation when absolutely necessary should allow you to incorporate it without too much trouble. If someone tries to shake his hand, I would play it straight: they simply had not noticed his arm was missing. If they try to grab him by the arm... well... that may call for a whisper to clarify the situation In terms of why he doesn't have a replacement, those can be myriad. From cannot afford it, to not being a good candidate (maybe there is extensive nerve damage beyond the missing structure), to simply not wanting it for psychological reasons.

I see a lot of time being spent on a back story and discussion of it that would probably be more productively put toward simple RP. I've said it before, and I am sure I will again: character backstory is one of the least important aspects of roleplaying. Precious few people will suddenly become interested in RPing with a character because of their backstory, few will even be interested in learning anything beyond the most basic elements. It can provide inspiration for story writing. It can provide depth of knowledge about a character. But when it comes with actual RP, most people care a lot more about the here and the future than the "back then". If you want to RP, stop thinking about it, and just get out there and do it!

Noh has such an adorable avatar! And.. has an amazingly cute blonde Au Ra character... Blondes are totally winning this thread right now! :-D

If we're talking friends from the past, I strongly encourage it. I think it takes the right sort of relationship between the players, because you have to be on the same page about just what sort of things the two have lived through together, but it adds a sense of depth and immersion to the world that's hard to get with the "I stepped off a boat six months ago and the only people I know are those I've met since then" approach (not that there's anything wrong with it, if anything that is the standard way to go!) With regards to romantic relationships... that seems like trickier territory only because there is so much about chemistry that you just wont' know until you get into RPing