#rhaya

[dragonuv3]

Rhaya and Saffy are very good friends. So good that they share the same bed every night. Ya know, like best friends do. Platonically.

This was a spur of the moment that actually started kicking my ass in the last few moments, but I’m glad it turned out well.

And of course, Saffy is owned by the wonderful @foxxlology FOLLOW THEM IF YOU HAVEN’T!!!

[sliceofaether]

Question how connected or disconnected are your ocs to being a Warrior of Light? Also how many ocs do you have for ffxiv?

Hullo, I have two OCs, these two right here:

My Miqo'te Rhaya and my Viera Baudron.

Baudron (who is a bit more developed than Rhaya when it comes to being an OC) is more devoted to being the WoL than Rhaya and takes it all very seriously. He left his home upon Hydaelyn's calling and well, leaving your home for Rava Viera means banishment, no matter that his friends/brothers and mentor were supportive of him investigating the then-mysterious voice calling to him. It's simply how things work, so he gave up a lot for becoming a Warrior of Light.

He has no regrets though, he knows he is making a difference in the world and it's very fulfilling. And he still goes back to Golmore to at least visit his "found" Viera family, even if it is at the border.

Rhaya is a bit more loose with being a WoL. She will do what is needed and she will help out, but when the world isn't at stake or her friends aren't in any danger, she rather go off and do other things.

[redemptioninchaos]

Diamond in the Rough

@stxrmchild

In a forest clearing, one could hear the pleasant plucks of a lyre faintly in the distance. It seemed as if a bard was in the process of finding a melody for his next song.

The player of said lyre was a muscular, broad-shouldered half-orc man, wearing a black cap with a yellow feather in it as well as a loose linen tunic, his chest partially exposed. He had dark green skin, a nose just as humanlike as his blue eyes, and long, messy black hair that matched the beard wrapping all around his jaw. He had three golden piercings on each long ear as well as black pants and brown boots both made of leather. He kept two shortswords sheathed on his back, the sheathes making an X shape over his back and over his chest. His rucksack sat at his feet while the half-orc himself sat on a tree stump. A small fire gently crackled a few feet away.

When he had a basic melody in mind, he tried matching his vocal tones with that of the lyre. Though the lyre itself sounded great, his voice left much to be desired. There was a stereotype that ogrush, those who were orcs or related to orcs, couldn’t carry a tune even if it had handles. The half-orc did nothing to break that stereotype, his booming voice sounding like someone scratching sandpaper, or a really creaky wagon wheel. 

He tried matching even low notes on his lyre for about 10 minutes before giving up, a slight frown on his face. He started playing a melodically simplistic tune meant to carry a catchy rhythm instead of provide a complex musical intonation. This was clearly more his speed, the half-orc smiling and tapping his foot as if to simulate the tapping of a giant war drum. He tapped the side of his lyre to imitate a snare drum as well, the instrument having bronze sides, silver strings, and a golden base. 

Instead of singing, the half-orc performed a sort of bardic poem, but in rhythm with what he played on the lyre, almost as if he was chanting in preparation for a battle with other soldiers:

“Lor’s gonna give it to ya, No need to seek a beatdown on your own, Lor will deliver to ya, Knock, knock, open up the door, it’s real, With the nonstop clanging of orcish steel, You see me, then you might panic, I will do high damage, you may wonder if I’m the one who took on 25 bandits, Damn right, and I’ll do it again, And my armor’s light, so I fight like the wind...”

Strangely enough, while he performed the tune before, he’d never come up with the lyrics until that moment. He’d closed his eyes as he performed his freeform chanting, not realizing the white magical sparks emanating from the strings with every pluck, his strings illuminating in his hands.

[justashadetalkative]

(Starter for @stcrmborne !)

“One hundred prisoners. Stars above.” Diamond presses a palm into his eye, trying to think.

“Can you do it?”

Diamond shakes his head, frustration curling in his gut. The man sounds so hopeful, and Diamond hates that he can’t live up to that. “I can’t–I can’t drag these people through the Spire, you know that. Without its power…” 

He does the math, tries to assess how he feels: how many teleportation spells he could manage, if he made a circle and an anchor and prayed the boatmasters didn’t notice, or how stable of a portal he might be able to maintain. How quickly they could free everyone from their bonds, and how badly it might go if a fight breaks out. 

The timing for this couldn’t be worse; it’s been a long, long week, and he’s tired. 

“...you’ve always been weird about that. Way I see it, the Spire sounds a good bit nicer than a slave ship. Been half tempted to retire there myself, even before this.”

Diamond groans and rests his head on his friend’s shoulder, headless of the filth there. “Ah, Kovitz. You might think that, and I might think that, but we’re cynical nontheistic bastards. Plenty of other folk aren’t quite so happy to risk consigning their soul to something other than their gods, mm?”

Maybe teleportation is the wrong way to tackle this. Can he take out the crew, without getting anyone killed in the process…?

Diamond’s thoughts are interrupted as a bone-rattling crash rocks through the ship, nearly knocking him off balance even in his seated position. He steadies himself and then scrambles to his feet. “Shit. How do I get above deck?”

“How do–Diamond you are blind, where in the nine hells do you think you’re going–?!”

Just the question is enough for Kovitz’s mental focus to shift towards the exit, though, and Diamond catches the impulse and follows it, picking his way among the bound prisoners. There’s a bolted door at one end of the hold; telekinesis makes it easy enough to slide the deadbolt, and while he leaves it unlocked he closes the door behind himself once he’s through. No need to draw attention to the prisoners. 

With his cane in one hand and his other hand against the hull, Diamond makes his way towards the sound of fighting that filters down from, presumably, a stairwell or ladder somewhere ahead.

[vermilionwinds]

23. Soul

It’s been a while since Remeraux’s done ‘people’, really, on any grand sort of scale.

Not since Bozja, anyways. Since then her road’s been long, and it’s been largely a solitary affair.

Sure, there are chance encounters; there always are. People to while away an evening with and then, once the dawn creeps up on the horizon it carries you down the road again. Right back to looking, but never finding.

It’s a good thing that this doesn’t work forever. There was only so much she could do alone, locked in an inn room with a brush and glue, trying to piece enough of herself back together to walk around in the daylight. 

And as Llymlaen tended to, nudging her down a path laden with chance encounters, serendipitous and strage, Remeraux finds herself absolutely surrounded by people. When she goes to bars, it’s not to drink alone-- and even if it is, a familiar face tends to find her anyway. First conversations turn to seconds now, and then to third. Typically by the fourth, at least, she realizes that she doesn’t even know what in the hells she’s doing. 

Typically speaking, she rarely ever makes it this far. When first impressions cease to matter, when you really can’t get by anymore on a quip and a wink, trusting your outfit to speak for you more than yourself. It’s at this point that she usually starts to crumble under scrutiny. And, to her chagrin, some folks in her orbit are shrewder than most. People like that can read you like a book, and understandably they tend to take it off the shelf with reluctance. Every conversation is a game that she can’t win, because all she knows about the rules is communicated by scowls and sneers when she inevitably breaks one. But, blessedly, there are faces among their number who getting on with is as easy as breathing. It’s something that she can usually feel in her gut, right at the first meeting. The way that conversation just flows like a river downstream. A dance, not a waltz with rigid steps. And the more she learns about them, the more it only reinforces that feeling she had at first brush. 

These are the kinds of folks she’d gladly share a bottle with: Well-trafficked smirks set above tired eyes. Folk that had seen too much to ever stand on ceremony. Humor like glue, like a hammer and nails, keeping the house together. Folks that had taken a thousand knocks but still only trained their daggers on the ones responsible, meeting fellow travelers with an open hand. And to them she always offers a look: softened brows, kind eyes, a warm smile and a passed glass, that screams at the top of her lungs without saying a word: Hey, I fucking get it. Me too. It’s the same way with me.

The Star might be harsh all over, but sometimes-- if you’re lucky-- you’ll find someone whose soul has been tuned to the same key as yours. And every time Remeraux does, at the moment their hands shake, something in her knows… how did her new boss put it?

Right. Remeraux knows that they’re going to get on like a house on fire.

[technxlogic]

@stxrmchild

Willow glowered at the dock before him, trying to ignore the birds that thought they could try to nest on top of his head. His own body betrayed him by a magic not his own. Root like structures branched out from his arms, legs, and torso, fastening him to the hull of the ship, much like most decorative statues.

Every person who passed ignored him, but yet he persisted. Someone surely would have sympathy for him. Perhaps they were afraid of him? He was not quite sure. He would try to put on a smile, in hopes it would warm someone’s heart.

“Excuse me! Hello? Madam??? Up here! Madam!!” He tried to keep his wit and charm about him, despite the horrific state he was in.

“Pleasedon’twalkaway.Please.” He muttered under his breath. He was so tired of this.

[dragonuv3]

Look at that poss GO!!!

This was a first for me in a lot of things. Especially with how dynamic a pose this was. Kinda wished this was digital or had better coloring tools because it looks too good to not finish further, but for now, we leave it as is xD

(Lore talk of how he accidentally created breakdancing.)

Rhaya has a unique style of dancing that had him combine his parkour, rhythm, and acrobatic skills into four core aspects: footwork, floor movements, momentum based movements, and freezes that demand his balance and full body coordination.

It was a breakthrough he found quite by accident during a dueling match where he got creative with his movements and kicks, and it took him YEARS to develop and perfect. Rhaya mainly did it to try and use it for fighting, but found it’s just as good for just performance. He’s still not quite where he’d like to be in the fighting aspect, but he thankfully has a lot of people to help with that.

[redemptioninchaos]

@stxrmchild

Continued from here

The tabaxi’s ears perked up at the sound of fluttering wings, looking above him. He had seen macaws, but never one so big...and so close. Maybe the macaw was only so big because it was so close. Either way, he was always fascinated by their ability to speak, and he was hard-pressed to contain some of the giddiness he felt in the opportunity presented to him. 

“’Sup, birdie?” he said to the macaw with a wave, a small smile on his face. It was a long shot, but perhaps the macaw would come closer to him. Preparing for that possibility, he reached into his satchel, dumping a small amount of trail mix into his hand. 

He made sure nobody was looking at him in the woods. He wasn’t so much worried about bandits or knights lying in wait to attack, but rather anyone who would have made fun of his fauna fascination.