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Forging Oneself Anew [OOC ok/Closed-PM if Interested]


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((Since I hope to do more of this plot I've decided to collect all the posts I have on it here and work on it))


A crumpled form of a miqo'te slumped outside of the quicksand in the alleyway to Pearl Lane. The clothes were nice and pressed. Nice attire. Nothing quite stolen or out of place.


However blood ran down his blood-drenched hair down his cheeks. His blue and red hair slicked and covered with glass shards and blood. His sword and his scutum lay by his side, the sword only just pulled out. Broken remains of a bottle or two lay strewn around the area. All evidence showed that at the very least the miqo'te had been hit in the head several times by more than one bottle. Crushed linkpearls lay near his blue furred and rumpled tail.


It seemed all might thought the miqo'te was dead or just a drunkard, getting in a fight at the wrong time. None stopped to help. None stopped to look at him except to spare a glance to make sure he was not going to mug them by pretending to be hurt.


But he wasn't dead at least.


With a groan and a blink the miqo'te started to return to consciousness. He looked around, wide eyed and confused. He took what he had and made his way out, stumbling and holding to whatever could keep him up as he headed out of the lane.

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The miqo'te, garbed in a blacksmith's attire complete with a hammer at his waist, sat inside the Drowning Wench eating an antelope steak. He'd had some luck finding work at a forge and earned some coin. Thankfully the master did not question him but he definitely was suspicious of the miqo'te. He'd decided to take him to the Wench to have a good time but... the miqo'te honestly had no idea what to say or talk about. He'd had no luck finding out information about himself, not even knowing his name.


Looking up from his meal he looked at the forgemaster who had poked him with a fork.


"Look, ah can't keep callin' ye lug. I needs a name."


The miqo'te looked at him apologetically, pointing at his bandaged head and placing his palm against his forehead. A soft voice answered the forgemaster. "Apologies. I don't know it."


The master sighed, annoyed but not angrily. He looked at the steak the miqo'te was wearing and tried to remember what he knew of sunseeker customs.


"Ah, den we needs ta give ye one. What about... A'turius. A'turius Tia. Ye sure ain't a nunh if'n ye don't gots a women or two lookin' fe ye ah reckon."


The miqo'te blinked, nodding slowly. "Thank ye master. I'll... I'll be A'turius Tia. Maybe until I find who ah'am."


((The character is now in Limsa. He's free to meet people in Limsa as he's working at a forge, getting food or drink, or surveying ships for his master to see what is needed for clients' repairs. However, please pm me if you want to meet him! I have some ideas on how I want his discovery to be made and would either want him to meet people who are familiar with him if they're working for or with certain people or people he has never met before.))

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A'turius surveyed his work laid out before him in his master's forge. He was very thankful to him, he who had gone out on a limb for the amnesiac seeker and giving him this chance so that he'd not die to hunger. The man put him hard at work, just the menial tasks so far as his grip on his hammer kept slipping into a strange one.


The forgemaster had noted that the grip was that of a swordbearer and it made sense. The miqo'te had found a sword and shield in his belongings, along with the fine threads and the smithing wear. But the sword and shield, and the Twelve be... but all the berets did not give him a clue as to what or who he was. He'd had a key too, but where to? A chest? An abode?


A'turius wiped at the sweat building on his forehead as he continued to work at on making rivets for his forge master. For now, as he sometimes relapsed his grip, he wouldn't be making the bronze swords his master had on the work list. The ship A'turius had surveyed last even had needed newer, more stable rivets.


For all the niceties that the forgemaster had shown him, A'turius felt a great sense of regret. It wasn't about his lost sense of self or his failure to be unable to do more for the master. He wasn't sure what the regret was about but it was regret... and a sense of longing for... someone.

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After a long day's work at the forge, A'turius finally got his one meal of the day at the wench. The Bismarck was currently completely out of his pockets' reach but the Wench was fine. Tonight was fine for ales and a steak. The last night was particularly hard for him.


He had dreamt of a female. A female sunseeker. Short cropped tawny curled hair. Vibrant green eyes. He remembered seeing her and a well of emotions had filled him. Regret. Dread. Longing. Who was she? Why did it cause him both joy and sadness when he saw her?


There was another. A hyuran female. His image of her was strange. Sometimes fine, fair... pale. Long red hair. Others, she was battered. Hurt. Short cut red hair. The sight of her made his hand curl into the grip his master said was a swordsmen's. Was it anger? No, it had been more... protective. Willing to kill but not her.


Just like the sunseeker before her, A'turius was willing to kill for the red-haired midlander.


But... who were they? Were they looking for him? Did he have such a relationship with them that they might care for him? ...did they care for him?


Were they of any relation to the strange piece of metal he'd found in his pack? It had been shaped into a sort of shield and shakily a sharp thin tool had carved into it "Do not Falter."


What did it mean? What was its significance.


These were the types of things weighing upon A'turius's mind as he drank the night away and filled his belly full of aldgoat.

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A'turius wondered who the blonde haired male miqo'te who cooked at the Bismarck was. Who was the short browned haired miqo'te? Was she the same? The one from his dreams?


It seemed like Mr. Steele knew who he was. His words sparked of familiarity. but why hadn't he said anything? Was it the disguise?


The miqo'te rubbed at his forehead, a dull residual pain.


Why was it paining him so? Why... could he not let go of his past, the one he knew nothing of?




Who was he?


But it was then that he crumpled in pain.

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