crystal data centre — Anneli Auclair.
"Have you forgotten what you were, Woodsinger?"
As if the clay she was made from
was kneaded in poison—
It ran in like milk and honey. It was sweet at first. Wanted. A gentle promise in the wind they welcomed with joy, with children singing, with the women laughing. And then it turned, and it turned to horror with glowing fingers, and a need for fire. When it started, it began to sing.The fizz of hair burning, the of pop lumber breaking, the silence of choked screams. Smoke came big and black like a beast, reaching to choke and squeeze out air from cracked lungs.The village erupted. Blood spilt as water to the earth. Bow to back, the survivors turned to the village heart, sending their swiftest in to soak in the sin, to free survivors from rubble. Anneli dropped to her knee and ran, and ran far and fast through the fires, over the brambles burning, over the many, many dead. But they were all dead. All of them. The children, the women, the fistful of Wardens.War came, and the blackwood lost, turning from green and tall with trees older than Ivalice into a heap of delicate ash.When she woke, nothing was the same. The Greenword was gone, and with it, everything. Everything.And now—the shadow of that dark thing circles like a wolf, gnashing its teeth, playing beneath the moon, draining out any good in dreams. Sleeping with a knife beneath her pillow came steadily. Softly. As paranoia took a Rava by the hand, and saw a seething bitterness burn her forest name.The Greenword was taken, and in its place, a black song still sings. Being near her—you might hear it too.Anneli Auclair was born from blood and ruin.
dossier
name ................................ Anneli Auclair.gender ............................................ Female.age ................................. Locked in youth.build .................... With a dancer's grace.height................................... Tall in heels.of note ............................... Softly voiced.
appearance
Her laughter was a pearl. Her smiles were anything but honest—shadowy things, dark things stalked after Anneli’s steps. Or so she thought. Maybe it was paranoia that saw her twist to look over her shoulder from time to time, or the many secrets pressed against her chest. Little lies told not for viciousness, but because those dark things tread after her heels, and she has thus lived in this world without her forest, alone, sleeping with a knife beneath her pillow, fearful of the very things which go bump after midnight for many, many years.In that regard, she was a closed book. And yet—Anneli's face was smooth and soft. Her eyes were her best feature. Blue for tropical waters, and worn as sultry gems to mark her sweet. She loved to meet people. Loved to introduce herself and learn, learn, learn. Learn about the fascinating things her Star offers. Languages, people and their cultures—her ear flicked in the direction of an interesting word or story, throwing her often into the heart of conversations none her own, being seen, being known. She could not help herself. Daggers in the dark be damned. Questions ever spilt from her little throat.And with a touch fond for gentleness, her pixie-like glimmer of Rava magic was a spice to her fingers when it flourished. Glowing at her palm, sprinkling like stardust. Her home village was her soul, no matter how many malms separated them. No matter how far her feet traversed her from her Heartwood. It was her.Sultry. Seething. Simmering. She radiated relaxation like a summer sun offers a kiss of heat. The loveliness of her gentle voice, to the delicate way she carried herself—she was a rumour of many things. And a mystery most of all.If she had a forest name—she never tongued her cheek to share it. Such things were buried beneath leaves and remembered when alone.Some secrets are best kept out of sight. After it, it sings, still, and searches as smoke.
glossier
MYRKVIDIRL — Translated roughly to the Common tongue as the Blackwood, it was home. Kits ran with dirty soles and played, and played with flowers tied into their hair. With bells on their shapeless clothes. But it is no more. Only a smouldering pit of grey and black bark blooms where once the Myrkvidirl village settled, high in old trees. It is a place for graves without stones.THE GREEN WORD — Ivy creeping, leaves whispering, flowers singing. The Greenword connects a Viera to her forest, and losing it is akin to losing a love too young. The grief, the mourning, the grip of it is carried as bricks to the back, like hands to the throat. It hurts.WOODSINGER — Within Myrkvidirl, a band of several Faram-favoured Rava girls chase the heels of the matriarch. They sing for the Wood, tend to the trees, and keep a quiet balance with bow and song, singing for His light, learning the ways of the forest. These girls are called Woodsingers, and they are priestesses and warriors devoted first to home and hearth and then to the Father. And from them, a matriarch is promised. Nurtured. For once the old dies of sickness or turns back to join the Light after war, one shall be chosen.KILTIA — Even woods-locked Rava know of the Father. Kiltia is a religion passed through the people of Dalmasca as quietly as a dawnsong. Faith sings for the many, but at its heart sits He of Light, Faram the Father. Anneli’s religion is a secret upon her lips, murmured in moments where blood promises to seep, and her bow is to sing. Near forgotten, gutted by the invading Garlean Empire, private prayers move soundlessly by habit.
Our stories are bowstrings;
pulled back and threatening to fly
THAT WHICH CLEARED THE FOREST — His blood, his smoke, his sin. She was there. They witnessed it together, and a thread as fine as a single hair connected them by fortune and ill-favour. They shared the blackwood, they knew its voice, and together, they left behind its charred remains.A SPIDER IN HIS WEB — Everything was practiced. Everything was measured. He plucked secrets like juicy fruits from his many, many webs, and bartered, bargained, blackmailed until his belly was full, but his greed sat starved and wanting. To say he was a villain was not quite correct. What she stole, what she destroyed, was irreplaceable to the spider sat waiting with his poison. He knew what to hurt without need for a knife.UNTO BLACKEST BLACK — He was darkness and lies. She saw it. The smell, the sound, the sensation came as black bog water, drinking from life, making it dead, fattening shadows. His Pale Lady grinned, yawning wide a tooth-filled horror, unhinging her jaw to swallow all whole. Nightmares shine for the cold, distant, Skatay moon. And despite this—he held her most precious part with her blessing.THE RAIN STAYED SOFT — It was as if she knew, she understood how precisely glass could crack and shatter and break with the most delicate touch, a soft word, a huff. Make such a mess in the shape of shimmering stardust. Her sister knew the taste of men and their lies and their secrets well. After all, she was an actress, the world her play. But her grace? Gods-sent. Moving like a doe, like a bird, like a moon moth. She was the Matriarch.
OOC
PLEASE UNDERSTAND — The usual applies. Slide internet drama to my door and watch my jaw unhinge like a snake. I am not looking for a relationship. I am not looking to strap Anneli to your apartment room's bed and pixel sex for six hours. I don't want it. But I am a goof, I am an idiot, I am hyper, running on the wispy fumes of coffee, and all I honestly want to do is write. Write, write, write. Maybe trip into dying against content, but mostly write. Discord can be given on request.AND ON THAT NOTE — I am an adult, (30+). No minors engage. I will not write with people below the age of twenty-one. This is a hard rule.COMMUNICATION — It's a great thing, and I like it very much. If something is not for you, tell me. I will never judge or interrogate. And I will make this clear here: if make big peepee rub Rava thigh on first hi, then we are on different wavelengths. Drink water, you've a thirst.ON THE TOPIC OF THEMES — Drama, slice-of-life, romance, horror, comedy. I can tag them here and more but above it all, everything needs to flow. Let it be organic. Too much of anything is sour. As stated—Anneli's past is a shadow, her story is dark, the themes she touches upon need maturity. But above all? Our characters drive the writing forward.SLIDE INTO MY DMs — I am scatterbrained and honestly a bit silly, but I love FFXIV, and I love making friends. Don't be shy! But a kind reminder: I am teeming with RP from friends' plots, my plots, my FC's running story. If you want to be involved, hit me up, Holmes. Just understand I am totally in my right to say no.