This is uuuuhh prolly a last attempt to reach out/try to find some RP/people to do stuff with in game! SO if any of this intrigues you and you’re looking for some RP connections to do stuff with, feel free to reach out and let me know!
Stop me if you've heard this one before: A man walks into a bar. Something something looking for a job. Something something chip on his shoulder; a bone to pick with the world. Love lost. A desperate deal with the devil. Pilfered memories. You get the gist. It's a story that's been told a thousand times before. But what is life without clichés? Everyone always thinks they're different; that it’d surely never happen to them. And yet, often times they tend to become the cliché they never thought they would.
True to form, the Viera couldn't remember much. His past was as fuzzy as his ears had been. All he knew currently is that he was hungry. And he was out of gil. ..That felt familiar, somehow. Maybe because, he surmised, it'd been that way for suns. No, it was deeper than that. But he couldn't quite place it. Something felt off about it. But then again, things had felt off since he found himself waking in the Shroud with no previous inkling of who he was or had been.
Sure, there were memories he had. Or memories he thought he had. And belongings he found on his person. A spear. Two daggers. Some threadbare clothing designed just well enough to keep him warm and, beneath it, more scars and blemishes on his flesh than he could count and a silver band dangling from a chain with familiar initials etched into the cold metal.
There were things that came natural to him, he found. Foraging for food and water. Stalking prey. Silently maneuvering through the Shroud as if each step could be his last. And when something deigned to strike at him, he found himself capable of defending himself too. His body seemed to move on its own, countless years of experience and muscle memory put to work as he fended off his assailant and, after, had a fine meal of its flesh.
He had his fair share of troubles, of course. He found it awkward to balance himself at first. His ears felt far longer than they should have been, and there was a strange annoyance to how they.. flopped as he walked. Fighting was no different. He could perform the moves that must have been from memory, but everything felt different. Slower. Weaker. Off.
Civilization was an enigma. There was a slight familiarity to it that he didn't quite understand. There were familiar faces he was certain he'd seen before, and even more familiar places that seemed to open up once he'd seen them. The flower patch in Gridania. The beautiful view of the rolling seas from Limsa Lominsa's cafe and its shipyard. Seedy Ul’dahn alleyways and, of course, the Quicksand and the soothingly familiar sting of whiskey in his throat. He felt a particular strong connection to hot springs, but he couldn't quite place why. They'd certainly been relaxing, at the very least.
..And cozy fireplaces and little puppies. Knights and wolves and Princesses. And white. So much white. The scent of vanilla and tea were particularly strong in his mind and, upon tasting the foul liquid, he had absolutely no idea why. And yet.. despite his distaste, there was a warmth there. Something that balled up deep inside his chest in a mixture of emotions so powerful it threatened to burst through at any moment.
And anger. So much anger. At the world. At himself. At anyone that drew too near to him. At the person that bumped into his shoulder. At the laughter that was too loud. At any little thing that should have been easily ignored. But it was there. Most of the time he could keep it bottled up and hidden away in some deep, dark recesses of his being. But sometimes.. sometimes it got the better of him, and that's when he got into a brawl. More often than not it led to broken flesh and a bruised ego. He could do better than that, right? He remembered being able to do better than that.
Yet, broken flesh and bruised egos were comforting. Familiar. And so, win or lose, he sought them out. There was something about the thrill of the fight that invigorated him. The world and its noise and the strange fog he found himself in lifted, even if for but a moment, and there remained but he and his opponent. Be it underground fighting rings or more sanctioned affair, the Viera turned no one down. Paradoxically, the closer he came to death the more alive he felt.
For better or for worse, this came fairly often. And with each loss his earnings of gil dwindled until he found himself standing in front of a job postings board, tacking on a carefully written notice:
