Aya

This one... this one is background worthy... @_@ So beautiful. Absolutely is! She does such lovely work with screen shots :-] Honestly this is just about the first time I've found the Gridanian spear attractive...

You know this thread is full of some absolutely wonderful music, some obscure (or just non-pop) favorites of mine, Hello Benefit!, but I'm going to just tab something straight out of the pop scene because I feel its quite fitting. (To quote from what I posted over the weekend, my first actual reference to Aya singing: she has a "high, lusty soprano voice." Lusty, mind you, not lustful! ^_~ (and I guess technically Mezzo Soprano!)

I wish I had more screen shots of original Highlander Aya, but I only have one and its from the character creation menu and I really don't care for it...

*sighs* I know I am... but you guys didn't have to totally make a whole thread about me! (Post for Serious: What a lame comment from the developers. I think its been well enough expressed by the rest of this thread though )

Leanne! Staring in: Lost Antiquities—the Caverns Time Lost: A Tale of the Hat, and also Leanne.

This could be fun!

Berrooooooooooooooooood *squeee!*

It was a lot of fun! I wish I had been there for more of it :-]

A coy smirk crossed the blonde's lips as she gave the slightest shake of her head. Lifting her cup she took another drink of the warm, fragrant tea. "That's a name I haven't heard in a while." She pushed her chair back just slightly, not having much room between her and the patrons behind her. She slipped out the side of her chair, that coy smirk growing a little broader. "Thank you so much for letting me sit down." She turned to go, casting one more playful grin back to Rhea, "You should ask him about 'Foxheart' sometime."

They came by to harass Sounsyy (and Aya incidentally) at the Quick Sand! It was fun!

Thank you for the Carnival Aeon!

I first met Vaughn when he turned my RP thread a little awkward! I loved the encounter, and he's been fun to RP with since!

For a dead character why not wrap things up? Leave the background and anything of interest up.. write a short section about the character's death and make a note of it somewhere obvious in the article's summary. I can't imagine the value of deleting a dead character's wiki

They are terrific! I never realized how similar Roen and Aya looked :-X

Aya raised her eyebrows. "Rhea", she thought to herself—the name was not at all familiar. She thought she had at least heard mention of every name that had belonged to the Company since its relatively recent founding. She tilted her head a bit, a look of curiosity and thought crossing her features in an unguarded moment. She turned her eyes back to Rhea, her hands folding one atop the other on the table. "Did you say Takeba?" She smiled brightly.

Kellach wasn't afraid to approach me and start RP at an event! I love that sort of outgoingness. Thank you Kellach!

[align=center][/align] [align=center]Reminisces of an Ishgardian Dancer[/align] It was the evening before a holiday-a late night for most of the city's employed. The theater was packed, a full house waiting in anticipation for the show to begin. It was a newer theater, as far as new went in Ishgard. Ensconced firmly in the lower levels, it primarily served for the entertainment of the lower class. Those seeking a little warmth in the city of Frost. An escape from dull boredom, with performance energetic and exciting. They knew tonight would not disappoint—they knew who was performing. The murmuring of the packed house grew quiet as lantern lights dimmed. The quiet became silence as the curtain began to rise. Aya had always been exotic in Ishgard: a fair-haired, blue-eyed blonde in a city where they were uncommon, if not unheard of. Nearly as tall as an Elezen maiden, but possessed of a voluptuous attention-seeking Hyuran figure. She stood at the base of a large stage that thrust outward into the theater's seating area. With the balcony filled, the house was now home to several hundreds waiting anxiously to have their attention stolen. She appeared in full costume of light-blue and white. Long, heavy skirt, a rigid bodice that curved inward to snug a narrow waist. A light-blue veil fell across her eyes, held up by a matching mesh cap, which also supported a white mesh veil enclosing long blonde locks that fell down her back. A somewhat suggestive take upon a recognizable costume: that of a particular style of Halone's celebrant. The quiet lingered a moment longer, before she began a sauntering stage-walk toward the end of the stage. One foot crossed the other, lending an exaggerated sway to prominent hips, with the sound of skirt-hidden high heels striking the deck with each step. The crowd became more excited: whistles joined raucous jeering. A violinist from the pit struck a note; the pitch sounded languid yet solemn as it fell across the quiet hall. Aya clasped her hands together and raised her chin. She sung out in her high lusty mezzo-soprano voice. The song, paean to the goddess—a hymn sung upon the tongue of every Ishgadrian child. She praised Halone's wisdom, her strength, and grace. There were more playful, rowdy jeers from the crowd - this was not what they had come for, but, no doubt, they knew it could not last. The second verse began as the first, torn from the well worn hymnal. But rather than ask for Halone's grace and protection, the starlet sung, asking to whom she should turn for a little fun; an exciting evening. Her hands unclasped. She cocked her hips, resting her left hand upon the upward tilt. She sung another verse: And whom should I ask for a little warmth, make that a little heat. Who will make me feel alive tonight? To be a little frisky beneath the sheets. Who will make me feel better than just alright?" She raised her right hand to blow a kiss to the audience amidst a low cheer, before tearing the veil from her eyes and tossing it from the stage. It was irreverent. It was impious. According to the See, it was illegal. There was a staccato click of relays being thrown, followed by the low rhythmic humming to life of magitek crystals. Her eyes were lined with heavy, dark stage makeup. Long lashes begged and called for attention. She turned her gaze, vivacious and sensual from one end of the house to the other. In that moment hundreds focused upon naught but the charming blue eyes of the dancer before them. Sacrilege: the sullying of the holy word, and the holy image. Heretics and Witches would be dealt with by the state, but in that moment they could only envy the bewitching power of one performer's eyes. She lifted her skirt with a high kick; her finger unhooked the quick-release, dropping the heavy, ruffled fabric aside to reveal the tight, mini-skirt of her costume below, which sparkled in the intensity of magitek lighting. With a spin she cast aside the heavy bodice, revealing the matching bustier as the musicians brought the hall to life. The chorus of backup dancers joined her on stage. The audience cheered, their rapturous attention invigorated the girl: she lived for these moments. What was a little irreverence, really? Perhaps it was ignorance or laziness on the part of the city's inquisitors. Perhaps it was just friends in the right places, or the right palm's greased. The baudy theaters of the lower levels entertained those without hope, and those for whom those above had little care. Perhaps it was simply no matter to them. Of course, the private boxes that lined the sides of the theater were guarded by mesh screens to hide the identity of those who could afford it. Tonight they were full, as they were most nights she performed: even House-members understood the value of pleasant diversion. The evening continued, each act performing with an energy and passion matched only by the appreciation of an audience hungry for distraction. Aya moved on and off stage, quickly changing costume and makeup between sets, catching quick, excited conversation with fellow cast, and members of the crew. These moments were always among her favorite - the energy and speed with which everyone worked, the way frustrations and annoyances were so often cast aside as the focus came upon the show. At last they prepared for the show's finale: Aya always asked to be left out of the penultimate act, to ensure that everything was perfect for the finale's spotlight. The curtain again rose in silence, followed by a growing cheer. She wore what they referred to as Ul'dahn costume. Crafted from silks and the finest cloth available in the city: a bare halter top, decorated with straps holding numerous tiny bells. A second piece hung from her wide hips, more rigid and belt-like, it dove below her midriff. Sheer silk hung from the sides of this like a partial-skirt. Strings of beads and metal loops hung from the front. (Sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words). In her hands she held a large, sheer, matching, silken veil, a similar smaller piece held over her eyes by a golden circlet that wrapped around her head, tight enough to not slip loose in the dance that was to come. Her wrists and ankles were adorned with numerous piece of jewelry. Some were the gifts of wealthy patrons who would want to see their baubles displayed so prominently in her performance. She always wondered if they realized there were a dozen or so others watching carefully with the same intent. A necklace adorned the smooth slope of her collar, falling as it did toward the proactively displayed decolletage below. A gift from her family, she used it to hold numerous additional rings. From the audience one young man squinted his eyes, staring at the necklace until he spied a plain steel loop hung upon it. He let out a cheer joining the others. She managed to contain her own excitement, her features expressionless as she waited for the cue. The music had started, but only at the proper moment did she open her hands out to the side and begin the rhythmic side-to-side swing of her hips. Every movement matched the beat and sound of the accompanying music. The dance was mostly choreographed, with subtle improvisation and improvement from performance to performance. Every movement of her body caused the bells, chains, anklets, rings, and bracelets, that adorned her to jingle and chime. True Ul'dahn dancers adorned themselves in intricate body jewelry, and accompanied themselves with the play of finger cymbals. Their emulators in the frozen tower city of Ishgard could only dream. Her dance carried her out into center-stage. In the moment she forget the crowd, despite the noise. She forgot the stage lights, despite the heat. She forgot her costars and the crew behind her; she forgot the musicians, her patrons, her employer. Everything faded away except herself, and the music that filled her. Inspired, she moved with an extraordinary grace and an easy agility that belied the difficulty, and athleticism of the display. She spun, she leaped, she posed. Her flowing, moving dance exhibited flexibility, nimbleness, and a deceptively lithesome strength. There could be no denying the lascivious and arousing nature of her performance: for many in the audience that was all they cared about. But the sensual display was without crassness. To her it was art. Poetry: music in motion. She imagined her body as one with the music; the rhythmic motions of shoulders and hips as the thrum of percussion; the movement of her arms and hands as the bow draws along the string; the quick shimmy of shoulders, the undulations of her mid-riff, as the strumming of strings. This was not an irreverent song sung to amuse. This was not a dance to thrill and titillate—this, to her, was an art she performed as much for herself, as for the audience. When she dropped her body, split-leg, fully against the ground, she brought her motion to a sudden and complete stop. She turned her body to the side, raising her legs briefly into the air, to join in the quiet peal of an oboe reed. She came to rest on her knees, lowering her upper body to the stage. The light went dark. She knew silence as well as sound. She rose again, triumphant, with a single motion to her feet. She grinned as the music rose toward its climactic crescendo. She danced with the fullness of her heart. She danced with every last measure of strength. She danced with a singular unity of body, spirit, and mind. She embraced the moment. When at last the music came to an end, the sound of her jingling costume ceased. She stood amidst the fixated gaze of hundreds of eyes. She breathed heavily, the only sound in that moment of near complete stillness. The crowd roared to life once more. She grinned. She curtseyed. She relished. She bathed in adulation, and attention. She took it all in. The fun would continue into the evening: first backstage. She would be visited by admirer, after admirer. There would be gifts, there would be endless praise, and hopeful, sometimes lust-filled gazes. There would be fun, after-parties. There would be friends, there would be gossip, and there would be boys. There would also be the long walk home afterward; or more likely, not to home, but to the shop of Master Dunois, that old Duskwight smith. She would crash with her brother, his apprentice, rather than face the wrathful scorn of her parents. But that was a long way away yet, why worry? The knife fell with a sudden chop. Others followed slowly and lazily behind it. "How many of these do we need?" she hollered in a voice only vaguely reminiscent of the performer upon the stage. The reply came in the form of Jericho's Ala Mhigah brogue, "A few more dozen should do!" She tried to blow a long strand of hair out of her eye. "Why don't you work in the kitchen tonight?" she mouthed off in mock mimicry of the Lalafellan Proprietress. At least she could always remember those moments, those precious moments, in that distant land, in that distant time, when she felt her true self.

Warren would be a very good Dragon Age character. I can see him as a Thane of Ferelden

[align=center][/align] [align=center][/align] [align=center]A Day Remembered[/align] The flags snapped sharply in the wind. The crow banner, ancient and victorious, flew above the high rampart. The memory stood as clear as day. The boy stood in the direct sunlight of an early autumn afternoon. The days grew shorter, the chill of Highland winter seemed to creep closer each morning. He had walked into the courtyard as the flurry of activity subsided. The welcome return of a successful hunt was always an occasion for noise and celebration. Men stood, milling about in high spirits while the beast was prepared for an evening feast. Some cleaned arms, told stories, and shared the news of the day. At the center of attention, though, was the Lord of the keep: tall, powerfully built. His once fair hair had long before begun to gray, his tightly coiled beard had grown dark in the fashion of the men of the family. He laughed boisterously at a retainer's display with a spinning blade. He drew his own sword from scabbard: grey steel that seemed dull in the full light of day. The pommel simple, its elegance found in balance and the distribution of weight along the heavy blade. With a deft motion he swung the blade around his wrist, grasping it again before it fell. He made a broad stride with his left foot; his eyes were the very picture of concentration and focus. He drew the sword from his right arm toward his left, mimicking the man whose display he was attempting to follow. Before the sword could transition from one hand to the next, he jerked it to a sudden stop with a motion that threatened to send him toppling to the ground. He let out an even louder guffaw, "You win!" he shouted with a voice that reverberated within the walls of the keep's courtyard, joined soon by the laughing good cheer of his men. He strode a few steps away, catching his breath from laughter. He stopped, peering down with a smile toward the boy who had wandered out to meet him. "Aaah Thule, my lad, my son! A good day isn't it?" "It is!" he answered excitedly, his eyes wide and bright with the energy of an inspired youth. "That's your sword, father?" he asked, pointing to the blade the Lord of the House still carried in his hand. The man raised the broad-bladed sword with another spinning motion, bearing the proud grin of a father. "That, it is. Our sword." he nodded to himself, as if in correction. "Ours?" asked the son, "but don't we have many?" His father laughed again, the grin undiminished. "Our family has many swords. Weapons of all varieties one could wish for." He narrowed his eyes, focused intently upon the uninspired-looking blade, "But just one ancestral arm." The boy looked upon it with the astonishment only a child can muster. "Ah, you like it then?" grinned the father. "Do you think it a tearer?" he asked, adding a slicing motion. He turned it over as if to examine it, "A ripper?" He looked at the lad with raised quizzical eyebrow, "A slasher?" He turned the blade over once more, grinning with a deep chuckle. "Its a cleaver." He pressed his lips together and nodded—lost in thought, and admiration of the blade he knew so well. "The forger's name is lost to the mists of time. As is how it was forged to have such strength, and mass. The secret of its balance, lost. How the edge stays keen." he shrugged, offering the boy a slight shake of the head, "Lost." "It was my father's blade, your grandfather." he added, looking to the boy. "His father's, and his father's before him. For generations of our house it has served, and proved its loyalty again and again." He nodded toward the sword with the same fatherly conviction he showed to his boy. "Your great grandfather had a new blade guard made, in the style of the last. Your grandfather, replaced the pommel." He glanced to the boy with one eyebrow raised for emphasis, "It took him ten years to find one with just the right weight to balance the sword." With a turn of the sword he showed the pommel to his son for examination. Beaten base steel, pounded roughly into shape. It was not a work of art. "Would you like to see it?" he asked with an unexpectedly friendly smile, shifting the blade toward the lad who nodded in reply. He remembered how the handle fit in his father's hand. Palms that seemed like they could hold the world. Fingers with the strength of a man's arm. Hands that could shape, that could hold, that could protect. Hands that could do anything. They held the sword with a preternatural ease. "Then you must promise me two things." came the father's voice in a full earnestness usually reserved for addressing adults. "That you shall wield it well. That you shall wield it with honor. And with respect." He nodded slowly, solemnly. "And." he paused, as if the second could carry more weight than the first. "That you shall remember that it is you who wield the blade. And not the other way around." The son nodded. The father carefully passed him the sword. Son held the handle with firm, and sure grip. Its heavy weight was too much, the blade struck hard against the ground. Father laughed. He remembered. He remembered. [align=center][/align] Thule stood before the Seawolf. His garments were simple, worn linens. The leather of his belt stretched, threatened to tear. His beard was dark, tightly curled, and untrimmed. His once fair hair, grey and crudely shorn. He looked down at the sword laying on the counter. Its dull steel refused to gleam in the mid-afternoon sun of the early autumn. The grip had seen better days. He had once hoped to replace it. The pommel was of rough, beaten steel. The imperfect accompaniment to the heavy blade, whose edge had not yet dulled. "Fifteen hundred." repeated the scouringly deep voice that belonged to the Seawolf. The Hyur looked up, his steel-blue eyes once shone like daggers. Their pierce had dulled. He was silent. "Fifteen hundred, take it or leave it." The Hyur chewed his lip. He swallowed his words. "That's enough to get off this island. That's what you're lookin' for, right old man?" The Seawolf was sure of himself. "Three thousand." the words flew from the Hyur's throat as if sprung from a trap. The Seawolf laughed, "I said, take it or leave it." The Hyur nodded. And repeated, "Three thousand." The Seawolf grunted. "For this worn old thing?" he shook his head as he gestured toward the blade. The Hyur nodded. He swallowed. Hard. He nodded again. "Twenty-five." he answered, the words a struggle. The Seawolf sighed with a shake of his massive head, long braids swinging to-and-fro. "Five-hundred, and passage to the mainland. You are not going to find a better deal, old man." Thule nodded. He thought. He nodded once more. He agreed. He looked at the sword one more time before turning away. He remembered. He remembered. [align=center][/align] His eyebrows had grown thick and bushy. His body, when standing, stooped. His hands rest upon a pommel; that of a walking stick. He breathed slowly; eyes staring straight ahead at the coal fire that burned with its quiet sizzle and pop in the hearth before him. He remembered that day. He remembered. What he had given to buy his family's way to Ishgard. This city where all had been lost. This city that had swallowed a son. This city that had stolen a daughter. He sighed. He closed his eyes. His youngest, his only daughter. Stolen in the prime of her youth. Beautiful. Kind. Sweet. Her voice would never be heard again. He remembered her smile. Her laugh. How she had played and danced as a child. The earnest, heart-warming joy. He cried. Sometimes he forgot what had come after. The stubbornness. The trouble. The besmirching of the family's name, its pride, its honor. He wished he could forget the words he had used. He wished he could have them back. That he could simply speak to her—hold her once more. How useless his hands had become. How much he would have forgiven, if only he could have seen what would come... he remembered. How could he forget? How could he forgive himself. How could they forgive him. The door opened in the tavern below. The sound of familiar boots. The sound of familiar voice. "Uncle, where is father?" he sounded excited. Thule lowered his head, forehead resting upon his hands, upon the pommel of the walking stick; the final, mocking heirloom of a broken family. The steps came heavy upon the stairs, despite their quickness. They stopped in the hallway outside. "Mother..." came the voice of his son, almost breathless. "You must see this.." the door swung open. The old man did not move. He did not see the parchment in Osvald's hand. He did not see the handwriting upon it. "Father.. father..! Its a letter!" The old man did not move. Did not speak. Merely breathed. He remembered. How could he not? "Father!" repeated the voice of his agitated son. "Its from Aya, father, she's alive!" Eyebrows quivered. The old man collapsed. Crying. He remembered. He remembered.

Dogberry has magitek prosthetic legs. I'd give some thought as to where it was acquired, and at what cost.

And here I thought it was:

As I said, the whole reason they are in Job Gear at all is because they want Iconic gear for the trailer. They want people to look and go: That's a White Mage, That's a Black mage, etc. I firmly believe that it was simply a marketing tool, as opposed to anything relating to the lore. But wouldn't the same effect have worked if they provided the pvp gear they have? say the ilvl100 things? The Mage gear (thematically) goes back to the original Final Fantasy. No one would have recognized the PvP gear.

Its the Echo versus Blessing of Hydaelen thing again.. all over again! Again! To many of the character's around here, anyone claiming to be a White Mage in-character is probably considered a charlatan. That's usually how such things work in RP, you can claim and do whatever you like, but everyone determines their own canon one way or another either by playing along or not - especially when it comes to things that are not well supported by lore :-] There's no reason someone couldn'tt be a Conjurer who specializes in healing, although there are inherent dangers in that (as presented in the Conjurer quest chain). It could also be interesting to be a healer, who perhaps through a twist of good-fortune can channel some amount of healing magic in addition to the use of herbs, tonics, tinctures, bandages, and assorted salves and remedies

*Googled from Deviant Art*

Three shall be the number thou shalt count, and the number of the counting shall be three. Four shalt thou not count, neither count thou two, excepting that thou then proceed to three. Five is right out. Once the number three, being the third number, be reached, then lobbest thou RP of Garuda towards thy unsuspecting audience, who, being naughty in Her sight, shall snuff it.