Hey everyone, just wanting to make a few friends and get some roleplay going. Below is a little about my character.
If you feel like your character could have a place in this RP, whether is an IC family member, romance, or rival etc. Feel free to Pm me either here, or in game (same name) and I'd be happy to work something out with you!
Also, fairly new to RP and Ffxiv but I'm sure I've stuck close enough to lore to be considered safe.
Thanks and enjoy!
(((please forgive any typos/misspelling/grammar mistakes. I'm on my phone, and I'm not in anyways a professional writer)))
11th Sun of the 3rd Umbral Moon.
73.7 Height. 187 Weight.
The night sky, filled with the dim twinkling stars stretched out as far as the eye can see. A lonely breeze of wind, ruffling the few small plants struggling to grow on the unforgiving desert sand, swirling around, caught up in the gust. The faint cry of a young fox separated from his mother could be heard in the distance, a mournful howl echoing in the night.
The dark, forlorn shadow of a figure could be seen, trudging against the night sky horizon, his rough leather boots kicking up sand as he shuffled his way through the desert. He was a fairly tall, solid built man, the few scratches across his arms, face and bare chest told tales of unknown battles and events
Though battle scarred and marked he was, his eyes, though bloodshot, was young and held a firey glow, his piercing eyes barely visible above the ruffles of the scarf wrapped around his face, doing a pitiful job of keeping the sand from his mouth, eyes and nose.
His right hand tightly grasped the hem of his scarf, pulled tightly to his face as the wind tried to wrestle it from his grip.
His left hand gripped the leather wrapped hilt of the worn sword that swung from his left side.
Though the sword had lost its shiny polish, and the blade was chipped in a few places due to battles of before, the blade was still sharp and clean, a true testament to the skilled upkeep that it's weilder had shown it.
Around his sword belt, hung another small belt which hung a few pouches and pockets, laced around the back and the side that hung opposite of the sword. A combination of rope, misc metal working tools, some small nails and tacks, along with a few dried fruit pieces and a cut of tough jerky.
On his back was strapped a rawhide pack, stuffed with a blanket, a few makeshift eating utensils, pots, pans, a bag of curing salt and a few herbs and fresh leaves from an oasis a few miles back. 2 cantines of water hung from the outside, the one nearly empty, the other full to the brim, another thing to be thankful and praise the gods for leading him to water.
A lethal dagger hung to his leg unseen inside his boot. Though tough to reach in perhaps bulkier armor, due to the leather and cloth coverings that he wore, it could be pulled quick from its sheathe, an unwelcome surprise to its adversary.
Though the night air hung cool around him, his face and bare chest and back was covered with beads of sweat, serving as a witness to the long hard trek that he had embarked upon.
At about the midnight hour, he took shelter behind a large jagged boulder that sat upon the top of a small sand dune.
Taking shelter opposite side to protect himself from the wind, the weary traveler unhooked his belt and listened to it thud against the sand. His sword, however, received a much more respectful treatment. Gently unhooking it, he took the scarf that was no longer needed to shield his face from the wind and sand, he wrapped the sword in it and leaned it gently against the rock.
He slid his backpack off, and reached inside and pulled out a few small wooden logs and placed them centered inwards. Removing a small bottle of oily liquid he sprinkled it onto the arranged logs. A concoction of animal fat and oil, it could burn for hours at a time, a trick he learned from an old grandfather long ago.
As the fire burned and crackled before him, he pulled out a few pieces of dried fruit and popped a few pieces into his mouth. Reaching into his boots and removing the dagger from its sheathe, he hastily cut a strip of the jerky and began to gnaw on the rough piece of dried meat. Leaning over to his pack, he undid the leather strap that was holding the canteens in place, taking a long satisfying swig from the canteen, allowing the excess water to flow to his neck and chest.
Thirst quenched and hunger satisfied, he leaned back aginst the rock and for the first time in hours upon hours, allowed himself to relax. Closing his bloodshot, sand blasted eyes, he thought back to everything that had happened over the last few months.
The love of his life choosing to stay with another man, the dishonorable shunning of him by his nomadic desert tribe, the few occasions he encountered a ravaging bloodthirsty predator, the skirmish he had with a group of bandits on the outskirts of a small desert town.
Placing his hand on a dried, blood stained bandage wrapped around his side, he vividly recalled feeling the arrow head pierce through his flesh, an unlucky shot. If only he'd had dodged a few more inches to the right, the arrow would of missed him completely instead of piercing him 3 inches from his side. Though not a lethal shot by any means, it sure hurt as hell.
Grunting in uncomfortable pain, he reaches into his pocket ans produced a wrinkled letter, written out in faded black ink.
The only remaining readable line was "My Dearest A'mon" at the beginning of the letter, and signed only with a row of 4 hearts, each pierced with an arrow threw it.
His otherwise blank expression, for a moment yielded a look of sadness. A look that was quickly corrected as he folded the paper and held it towards the fire, a scene that has taken place many a night, and just like the other nights, with a heavy sigh, it's folded and placed back into the pocket.
Leaning back aginst the rock, the line "My Dearest A'mon" ran through his head. The letter was in response to a question that was asked in secret to his love, and the reply was not one of joy.
Squeezing his eyes tight he rubbed his rough hands across his forehead, almost as in an effort to erase it from his memory.
He quickly changed his thoughts to how his life would change. He was making his way to the desert city of Ul'dah. A place that usually did not sit well with him, the hustling and bustling of the city usually was to much for him. Although in his younger years, he had developed a fondness for the tavern drink.
But that was for younger times. Now though only at 27yrs old, he gave up drink and focused on training of his mind, body and sword.
His mother, originally being from Gridania, had taught him and the younger children to read and write at a young age.
Between his talents with the sword, reading and writing, and his brief knowledge of wood and steel working, he assumed the city-state would be the best place to carve out a living.
And he would arrive tomorrow. Tomorrow would be the day, the day to arrive in the city, refresh his supplies, and seek out work.
A day to make a name for himself, the name of A'mon Vespar would be redeemed from the shame his tribe bestowed upon him.
With these thoughts in his mind, he closed his eyes and soon drifted off to sleep.