#ayafoxheart

[ayyasap]

Aya Foxheart by AyyaSAP

Commission OC from FF XIV for AyaFoxheart!

    ♥ Hi-res Image /JPG/

    ♥ +18 version //

    ♥ Available on my PATREON !

[ayafoxheart]

Mon Petit Papillon

An Aside with Aya and Virara ( @onehundredplumblossoms ) from Verad’s “God and Country” Plot Line.

Buried in the frigid depths of the city of Ishgard stands a quiet family inn. The sign hanging above the front door is decorated with a rather plainly painted Gryphon Rampant, its body raised up and foreclaws reaching as if to swipe at something threatening it. One blocky wing is visible and partially spread behind it, filling out the square placard.

Within the Rising Gryphon, members of the Tharintreu family were busy preparing for the evening rush that would soon descend upon them as the local craftsmen and workers began to hang up their tools and come in search of a hearty and filling meal to finish the day. One of the family, a tall and energetic young woman, whose image has graced the front of posters across the realm, was busy doing her part. Aya swept the entryway clean in preparation for the dozens of customers who would visit in the coming hours.

She paused, rather suddenly, in the midst of her efforts. Raising her eyes she looked at the door; peering as if she could feel someone - or something approaching. The sound of the stride, she thought she could hear, was passing strange. It were as if someone were stamping their feet, but not overly committed: the softest stamping she could recall.

She stood a little taller with a touch of concern rising to pinken her cheeks. She wiped her brow for a moment, and her staring caught the attention of an old man seated at the bar within inn's common room.

"Everything a'yight, Aya?" came the familiar voice of her father. She kept her eyes on the door, not bothering to look back at him as she answered, "I think so..." The old man leaned forward a little, only slightly alarmed at his daughter's insecurity.

Neither had much longer to wait, the door was shoved open with an intense suddenness as the diminutive form of a tall, purple-haired Lalafel entered the inn without so much as a pause or hesitation. As Aya expected, she seemed to be stomping - but Virara's natural tendency to step quietly resisted the effort resulting in her unusual, pouting gait.

Virara paused once fully inside the door, her her worn and ragged coat hung tiredly from her shoulders. "Fox-Lady," she greeted Aya with a voice filled with barely suppressed frustration. Aya stared at her, momentarily dumbfounder. Virara normally entered through the back, or somewhere else unexpected, sneaking in when no one would notice. She had never simply barged her way in before. And now Aya watched as she seemed to be rummaging through pockets in search of something.

The concerned voice of her father carried only weakly into the entryway, "One of your friends?"

Aya blinked her wide eyes in surprise, "Virara...?"

"Here." Virara stated flatly. She had gathered a very curious collection of coins and other discarded objects in her hand and abruptly offered them. "For a room." As she said this her gaze finally moved upward toward Aya's, her single good eye staring with a barely suppressed violence.

"I..." Aya stammered for a moment before answering. "Of course, Virara, but a warm room for the night is the least I owe you. Please," she waved away the proffered hand and its coin "come with  me."

Aya stepped to move behind Virara, carefully she took the ragged coat from her and hung it on the adjacent coat rack before showing her friend upstairs.

"Do you know how to keep the fire warm with coal? I can bring you an extra bucket if you would like, and... of course I'll bring some food up. Are you hungry?" She paused outside the room door, having unlocked it already.

Virara simply nodded without looking up or towards Aya. It was an immediate acceptance, and utterly out of character. Aya gulped as she took a step back to allow Virara to pass. She'd never seen the girl like this before and it was worrisome.

While Virara settled in, Aya slowly descended the stairs. Her father was waiting for her at the bottom. "Everything alright?" She nodded, "I think so. My friend just seems to be having a rough day." He nodded understandingly, grizzled fingers stroked his crinkly gray beard. "That -was- a purple-haired Lalafel girl, aye?" Aya nodded, looking up at him with curious eyes. "You know there are rumors going around about a girl like that. They're saying..."

He could see the look in her eyes and waved the thought off rather suddenly. "Ah, ne'er mind me. Just wonderin' about all the strange friends my daughter has!" He turned back toward the bar, "Speaking o', how is that Duskie friend o' yours? What were his name, Varid, or something? He sure was fun to have around, you should tell him to visit!"

Aya stood completely rigid for a moment, as if struck by a bolt of lighting. "Verad!" She nearly shouted. "What was that?" Her father had turned quickly at the sound of the outburst. "Ah, ah, his name was 'Verad', that's all.."

"Oh, aye, aye. That it was. 'Verad'." The old man seemed to be welcoming a pleasant memory as he settled back down at the bar.

Aya stood there for a moment longer, thoughts wandering back over her missing Duskwight friend. Departed for the East, she'd been told. Nary a word to her though, of course. She remained thus silent for some time, but when it broke she remembered Virara upstairs and soon delivered a heaping serving of stew and bread, with an extra portion of stew meat piled on top. Returning downstairs she could not help but think of the coat Virara had been wearing, and as she approached the coat rack again she stared at the ragged thing. Virara had clearly mended it numerous times, but the stitch work had been repeatedly pulled apart and sewn back together. There where holes, weak seams, numerous patches, and even in good shape it looked as if it could barely keep someone warm in the bitter cold of Ishgard.

She took the jacket up, lifting it to examine more closely. She could not help but shake her head, 'Tch, tch, tch' she sounded just like her mother.

"You poor thing..." she whispered softly.

After a moment's more thought she carefully folded the coat and leaned back into the common room, "I am going to be busy for a little while, pa-pa! Please tell Uncle!" The old man waved his hand in acknowledgment.

By the time she reached the top of the stairs the door to her parent's room was already opened. From the door smiled her mother, a picture of a gracefully aged matriarch. She had been a vivacious, beautiful princess in her day. Now she had bore and raised three children, and carried the weight of an entire family for decades of trouble. Her hair had grayed long ago, but an earnest warmth smiled from behind the grace.

"Ah!" Aya smiled hesitantly. She never liked asking anything from mother.

"What is it, Aya?" Mother asked with a warm smile amidst her gently formal countenance.

Aya held up the coat, its numerous imperfections immediately visible.

"Oh dear...!" Mother gasped, and stepped forward to look herself. Her delicate fingers examined the fabric as she shook her head, "Tch, tch, tch."  

Lifting her eyes to Aya she asked, "Your friend's?"

Aya nodded in reply to which Mother added, "No, no, no. This will simply not do. Poor girl will freeze herself to death."

"We could give her another," mother suggested unconvincingly, to which Aya shook her head.

"Then we can mend it..." Aya's shoulder sagged in relief. It was exactly what she had hoped for.

"Thank you, mother..." The older woman smiled, and ushered her daughter into the room with an arm around her shoulder.

There were a couple of chairs near the fireplace, as well as several cabinets accompanying the Lady's spinning wheel and work table. Here she had made, repaired, mended, and mended again the garments her family had worn through their entire lives in Ishgard. Aya took in the smell of the familiar; it was like walking into the past. The two began to prepare supplies: heavy thread and needles, sturdy leather and cloth pieces and scrap, and a few folds of woolen material that could serve as insulation.

They pushed the chairs close together and each took a seat, sitting with the coat between them. Under the lamp light, together, they began the tedious and time consuming work of mending the coat. There were almost too many spots to keep track of, and both frequently backtracked and re-checked their work to see what they were missing. Small tears were sewn up. Leather patches added security to fabric worn so thin it could no longer support thread. Sturdy cloth patches, color matched as best they could. They replaced flimsier patches that seemed to have been drawn at complete random from wherever Virara had found them. They re-affixed the buckles, and other fittings and repaired seams, cuffs, and hem.

Her mother sewed in a new leather lining for the collar, while Aya sewed in the extra insulation for the lining. This was a craft she was particularly experienced in, having added extra warmth to her own clothing on too many occasion to count. "I may have to tear these out for her when she return to the desert..." Aya noted, "Or maybe we can just get her a different coat to use in warmer climes," her mother helpfully recommended.

A couple of hours passed as they worked. But as she thought they were wrapping up, Mother noticed Aya had started on something new. She had switched to smaller needle and more colorful thread and seemed very intent upon whatever she were stitching. She simply watched for a moment, admiring her daughter, before asking about  what she was doing.

"Well..." Aya answered, not interrupting her careful work.

"It has been a little while since I have done any needle point, but I feel like Virara should feel a little more pretty in her coat."

"Oh?" Asked mother, with a heart-warmed smile. "What is it you are stitching for her?"

"Papillon..." she whispered a little embarrassed. "Hmm?" Mother asked again.

"Well... She has rather peculiar tastes, but I always associate her with butterflies."

"So you thought to..." Mother smiled broadly.

"Sew her some butterflies, yes." Aya matched her smile as the two grinned at each other for a moment.

Her mother picked up her own thread, and soon the two were both fast at work sewing butterflies. They were of various sizes, color and pattern, all sewn directly into the fabric of the coat. Sometimes it was one, sometimes a pair and three danced colorfully together on the left front of the coat. By the time the two women were done there were nearly twenty total butterflies, their wings warmly brightening the color of the freshly mended coat.

Their handiwork complete, Aya carefully folded the coat and left in front of Virara's door where she could find it in the morning. She wasn't sure how it would be accepted, but hoped it would bring at least a touch of cheer, and knowledge that her friends do care about her.

[ayafoxheart]

Catching up on some Aya art that has been done lately!

This is a commissioned sketch by @ragecndybar (ragecnd @ deviant art as well), who did the Aya For Eorzea! Pin ups.

She is sporting a jersey to support S’imba Tia, who is competing in the Blood Sands as the Hell Cat! @simba-tia

[ayafoxheart]

#RandomFunScreenshot

I don’t remember the context of this one at all (which is unusual on its own).  But Its a lovely backdrop (FFXIV  has really lovely skies), and Aya’s always loved domes and spires.  She has a habit of finding high, out-of-the-way places to do her thinking and pondering.  This dose not strike me as one of those moments :)

[ayafoxheart]

[City of Sadness - Verad Bellveil Versus the World, Part 2]

How long had it been?

Cloaked in heavy cloth for warmth, Aya stood in the dark of a late winter evening.  Beneath the falling snow, high in the pillars where she did not belong.  The bitter cold clawed at her body, but in that moment she barely noticed.

What was it with this city of sadness?  Grey walls beneath gray skies.  Grey stone protecting gray hearts.  She stretched her hand out.  Manicured nails graced slender fingers that slid gently through the carved grooves of a name upon the stone memorial.

How long had it been?  how many years since she had held the man who had borne this name?  This was all that was left of him: memories recalled by gray stone.

The canvas bag she carried slipped from her loosening fingers and dropped quietly upon the snow-covered pavement.  Tears flowed freely.  

"Char..." she cried pleadingly.

Earlier that day:

The kitchen of the Rising Gryphon was one of the most familiar places in the entire world to Aya Foxheart.  She had been raised there, literally. It was where her aunt and uncle had taught her to bake.  It was a place of joy and fond memories, and of great warmth against the shuddering cold of Ishgard's permanent winter.

The smell of freshly baked cookies wafted pleasantly through the front of the tavern where several neighborhood locals joined a familiar dubious Duskwight, and her Uncle Theo, proprietor of the establishment.  Chocolate Chip cookies were a specialty she developed in Ul'dah where chocolate was more plentiful than in the barricaded Ishgard of her youth.  Today she was baking them to share with family and friends for the first time.

The kitchen door swung freely open, pressed upon by a wide, muscular hand. "Aya!" boomed the familiar voice of her brother Osvald, a smith by trade.  The excitement in his voice matched that of his manner and he strode quickly within, while energetic blue eyes smiled upon the baker and her work. "I could nearly smell those all the way at my shop!" He offered a hearty laugh, "I can't wait to try one...!"  As he reached toward the tray of cooling treats, she cocked her hips and offered him a disproving look.  "You should at least let those finish cooling..." she pursed her lips, eyes narrowing before she let out an amused laugh and waved him off, "Nah, take one! Enjooooooy!" She beamed at him with a grin.

As the hungry fellow gladly grabbed the treat he radiated a joyful excitement. He admired the strange cookie for a moment before taking a large bite, the wonderful mix of sweetness and richness a welcome delight. "Ah..! These are amazing! You've out done yourself!"  It took mere seconds for the entire large cookie to vanish from sight.

While licking his fingers clean his eyes fell upon the counter top where she was stirring a new mixing bowl.  A bottle of pink-hued rosewater, an expensive fragrance for most denizens of the city stood nearby. The bottle stood atop a piece of paper bearing what appeared to be a freshly written recipe.  

His eyes furrowed as he watched her for a moment, "What this? Those aren't more of these fantastic cookies are they?"

She shook her head, pausing for a moment to draw the bangs back out of her eyes, they always loved to fall out of the kerchief as she worked.  "No, I'm afraid not.  I don't think these will taste as good either."  

He raised a curious eyebrow, stepping a little closer so as to peer into the mixing bowl in which she worked, "What's it then?  If its not as good?"

She pulled her lips tight for a moment, slowing but not pausing her mixing.  Something was clearly weighing on her.  He peered at the rosewater, then back to her, then to the rosewater, and back again.

"Ah!" He drew his big hands to his belly and grinned broadly - hopefully, "A man is it?! Someone stole my little sister's heart?"

She paused, turning her eyes toward him with a teasing grin to match.

"Yes, dearest brother.  His name is Erimmont and he's in the Inquisition gaol awaiting death."

The color quickly drained from Osval'd face; his eyes opened wide in momentary horror. Only slowly did he begin to recover his senses.

"I... goodness..." he drew a hand slowly down his face.

She let out a light laugh along with a flick of her hips, "I'm not in love with him!" She tossed Osvald a teasing look, "But he is a man who could use a little attention right now.  I think anyone could in his circumstances."

The massive highlander quickly nodded, managing to muffle a sigh of relief.  "Say no more, dearest!" With a quick motion he snatched an apron from a wall peg, and began to pull it on. The image of the barrel-chested fellow in his undersized apron could have melted the hardest of hearts. She simply grinned in admiration.

He looked back, shaking his head as if to ask what the fuss was about. "If he's good enough for my sister. He's good enough for me. I'm going to help."

He stepped up beside her, and together they continued to follow the recipe for the unusual rose-flavored treat.

At last, sliding the tray into the oven to bake, she stepped back and admired him all the more.

"There..." he declared, in triumph, dusting together his large, flour-covered hands.  "I bet they're going to taste better than you expect!"

She settled back, leaning against the counter they'd been working upon and offered him a softened smile. "Perhaps you are right..."  She took in a sighing breath, before asking him the question that had been on her mind, "Do you remember Char?"

The smile quickly vanished from his features as he turned to look back at her with a serious expression hinting at sadness.  

"Of course, how could I forget?"

She let out an audible little breath, shaking her head with a bare smile.  "Erimmont lost the love of his life.  'Char' he called her, 'Charlotte'.  I nearly lost it when he told me that."  

"..." Osvald didn't quite know what to say.

Aya turned her eyes back upon him, "Have you ever visited the memorial?"

He offered a slow and wide nod before crossing his arms grimly, "We were there the day it opened. Mother and I. They rained honor upon those Knights. There were no dry eyes, I assure you."

"Mother too...?" she asked, both touched and surprised.  She closed her eyes, letting out another audible breath, this one filled with sadness.

"I am sorry, Aya. We never did forget. We know how much he meant to you. He died a hero, that is the least we can say."

She didn't say anything for a moment, the silence lingering uncomfortably.  At last she looked up again, "Do you think he died alone? Lonely?"

Osvald bit his lip.  "A man like him..?" He faked a laugh, "I bet he was surrounded by..." he stopped, sighed, and hung his head. "I doubt he ever got over you, Aya.  I don't think he had it in him."

Before the Memorial to Fallen Temple Knights:

Tears streamed down red cheeks as she fell to her knees before the cold, stone slab of the memorial.  What good was it to die in the defense of one's city? To die so miserably just so that others could be miserable too?

She cried the tears of a thousand lonely nights. Of a thousand broken promises. She'd broken his heart on the behest of his own father. And then she'd run away. What more did she deserve? For what had turned out to be the rest of his life she had never spoken to him, never written. His family had denied him the memento she had tried to leave him with.  What more did she deserve?

As she mourned, the rose-water sweets grew cold within the canvas bag as it sat in the snow.  She couldn't know what Erimmont was going through. He would never know her loss.  But for a moment, she knew, the city' sadness could be lifted by the bittersweet.  For the both of them.

For the original story of Charlesemile and Aya: An Ishgardian Ballad

(Screen shot by @kiskiphelone via tumblr, and used with grateful permission!)

[ayafoxheart]

IC: Just running into friends outside the Wayfarers! With Kazukata, Benedict Whiteraven, Val (@its-the-val-pal), and a fellow named UltraX!

[4etheria]

ayafoxheart replied to your photoset: ☀ �� Beach waves (I tried to do a heavily...

Its fantastic! :)

Thank you very much! :D