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• Chisavelle
• Lesia
• Sorbet
• Raine

• Stheno
• Astrea
• Saya

A quori clothed in kitsune grace and silken sakura, Chisavelle inherited this vessel from the demise of Raine. Wroght of whisper and will, she is tempered in twilight and fae touched fantasy; letting her leap freely between realms in hunt of both trinkets and treats.

• Kitsune

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A quori crowned, in kijin composure, this vessel was carved from the hush of her hearbeats, under the tree where the dawn dreams meets its first bloom. Wrought of reverence and restraint, she moves as moonlight through the moral plane, Serene, suffused, and surely sovereign.

• Kijin

[Entry from the journal of Raine: date unknown, never written]
The stars have gone out, or..maybe I closed my eyes?
I think… I think I’m leaving.
Something is tapping at my cheek.
If it’s Death,
it smells like flowers.
If it’s Life,
it giggles like a child.. It’s annoying.

Raine's Magic became spent so quickly. The last round of her efforts slowed, the moonlit touch of her being dimmed in sigil and self, and as she reached the back walls of the Garden, she stopped, then knelt, landing softly to her knees. Her final breath nothing more than an exhale.
What came next ** wasn’t a resurrection**, she was a replacement. Wandering in as the sigils that guarded the Garden in her own realm burned out, allowing open passage into the valley that Raine had made into a home.
Somewhere in the crack between one breath and the next, she came , and crouched by the husk that was Raine, tapping a claw to the vessel’s cheekbone.
“Are you done?” the creature asked. Not cruel, just curious. Raine didn’t answer, she wasn’t there anymore. “If you’re leaving, I’ll borrow the rest,” it whispered.
And then she was, all flesh and bone, begging to be crafted properly. Her tail sprouted fur as a tree blooms flowers in spring. Her horns curled into twitchy, wiggling ears. Chisavelle crafted the body to her liking, a kitsune made of sakura, adorned in flowers and imbued in magic.
She didn’t steal this vessel, she inherited it.

[Chisavelle's ,mental journal, there's a lot of scribbles in here.]
I touched the dead and they never seem to tremble
soft as clay,
I could shape a memory.Beneath the cherry tree,
she was there.
She was too perfect not to see,
so I slipped in, like breath in stone,
and sat in her last exhale.Now the wind moves,
and I hear her voice in my throat,
asking if I've learned to die just yet.

Chisa had watched the kijin long before the woman beneath the cherry tree. She marveled at a being built on the foundation of contrast: a divine beast, one of wrath and restraint. Scales that hardened soft skin. And yet, beneath that armor, their laughter was light and melodic, and achingly mortal.
She found their beauty tempered, their joy didn't fade. It was constant and boisterous.
She loved how they felt deeply, but never drowned.
When she first fell into Yanxia, Chisa would linger at the edge of their festivals. Hidden among the reeds, she watched the kijin dance in the silver stain of the moonlight.
She adored the symmetry of their movement, the way they seemed carved by their own discipline.Chisavelle looked at the dead she crossed the same way a sculptor looks at marble or clay. "It just needed to be shaped." she's often chant to the friends and foes who watched her approach the cadaver. And, like most artists, she fell in love with each piece she formed, never wishing to part.
She witnessed souls lingering in the mere moments of mortem, and occasionally, when no one was watching, she would dip inside, indulging a carnal curiosity of hers, just to taste what it was like to die that way, to think that way, to feel the shape of an ending.
Usually, she left. Just a visitor passing through. But once, there was one that caught her off guard.
One serene silence, she wasn't empty.
Beneath a cherry tree in Yanxia, the petals fell strange. No wind was there to carry them off into the fast setting sun.
A young hyur laid, crimson locks tangled wildly in the grass; and beside her, a sword stained in blood.. but she in the grass beneath the cherry tree, she was unscathed, she wasn't breathing.
Chisa knelt beside her, a gentle finger brushing her cheek, and remarked the same still warm sense. She crept in just the same as she had always done.
It was that thought that stopped her as she wrapped around the woman's soul.
"If I stay a little longer, I can see the stars one more night."
That longing... it was so simple. It struck Chisavelle harder than the normal mercy. The woman didn't hunt for revenge, she didn't complain of pain, or even accept her passing.
So, she stayed, too. She slipped fully around the soul, and into the shell.
And this vessel, it was so pliant, it molded like soft clay. As she curled and twisted into this woman, Chisa paid homage to the Kijin she witnessed. Horns growing, then curling, then guilding in dream adorned metals. Scales grew and softened into strange floral shapes as a gift to the hyur vessel in it's new making. And in her, Chisa found peace.

An au'ra not from the Steppe, Raine materialized from the death of Ingrid Gaal in Garlemald as an entity of hate. The loss of her own sense had left her open to the eldritch horrors beyond the veil of existence, until she had come across the fae and found herself drawn to a devotion of humanity.
Raine now spends her time in Eorzea atoning for her atrocities, imbibing in pleasures of the flesh, and seeing the lands for what they are now.

• The Warlock

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No cradle claimed her, no mother bore her breath. She, an echo incarnate, she, vengeance in mortal body; for when Ingrid exhaled her final frost in Garlemald's war-stained snows, the putrid ink of her ending gathered.
Molding into marble pale flesh, it rose, shivering upon the still warm corpse.
She did not yet know self, only that she was.
She draped death's remains over her shoulders: a fallen soldier's coat. And in that, she found a name: Euphemia. She claimed it, and this lie gave her shape.
Through time, she bargained with malignant eldritch beasts and demons until what was left of her soul was nothing more than the fear and doubt that crept in the corners of her mind.
She fled into the wild, unmade, unmoored, unmothered.
Long she wandered, half ghost, half girl, until Raine met her. Stheno. A serene serpent. A guide bathed in lunar gold.
Stheno waited, patient glow never calling out, just listening to be called. And when Raine did just so, she led her first steps past the realm she knew.
Skies burned crystal blue, fields covered in pretty pink petals under a sun warmed spell, and soon, she found herself asleep.
When Raine woke, she lay in candy colored light, and watched on as finnicky fae flitted around her, eyes shining in curiosity. They had found her, and, in time, she would find herself.
The pixies never changed Raine, instead offering respite to reveal herself. Magic unspooled the masks she had sewn in the terror of her past. And, for the first time, she was Raine.
Even so, transformation was not absolution, and her past remained, a shadow beneath the new white stain on her skin.
And so, one night in the The Garden, she sat alone; glass in hand, filled with something sweet... something strange.
Fae draught, jasmine and tricks. She tended once more to the fast dimming sigils she carved for protection.
But the last took too much, and Raine slumped to the floor, the last of her pouring into the very walls that had only now began to see her trust.

Born under Ishgard’s frost and scandal, Lesia Vaurienne was a golden-eyed Miqo'te, rumored to ward off sorrow and shadow alike. Raised in silence and suffocating grace, she chose love over legacy, casting aside nobility to become Lesia Silverpaw. Now, cloaked in velvet, she protects without blade or spell.

• The Noble

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Golden eyes like burnished coin. Hair as dark as the night sky before snowfall.
A heart as soft as candlelight. A soul carved from silence.
In the frost-veined annals of Ishgardian folklore, there lingers an old belief, more often murmured behind chapel screens and hearthfires than spoken aloud in noble court:
That children born with golden eyes are not simply born. They are sent.
Harbingers of serenity. Wards against despair. Living vessels of grace.
Protectors of the soul.
So it was when Lesia Vaurienne first opened her eyes beneath a canopy of falling snow, her newborn wail muffled by the hush of high Ishgard. The towers of the Holy See stretched above her like frozen prayers, and the winds, cold and biting, did not touch her. She was born beneath cathedral spires, to a mother of iron: Lady Clarimonde Vaurienne, the glacial Matriarch of House Vaurienne, whose very name rang like tempered steel through the vaulted halls of nobility. Her bloodline ran older than many of Ishgard’s walls, unbroken by scandal, until her daughter arrived.
Theophilus Ravahn, a Seeker of the Sun, was no nobleman. A mercenary by trade, hired blade to House Vaurienne’s distant holdings, he was flame to Clarimonde’s frost, a fleeting warmth she allowed herself only once. His name was never spoken after, save in veiled tones and bitter wine. He disappeared as swiftly as he came, and within a fortnight of Lesia’s quiet conception, his name was struck from the records. House Vaurienne would not suffer a blemish.
But Clarimonde did not hide the child. Instead, she raised Lesia high, wrapped in opulence and reverence, veiled in etiquette and watchful silence. No apology. Only control.
Lesia’s early life was a cathedral unto itself, domed ceilings, echoing marble, servants who bowed as if to a relic. The air she breathed was perfumed with incense and obligation. She learned to sit before she learned to speak, and when she did speak, it was in perfect cadence, her voice soft and measured, like wind brushing frost. But her eyes, those golden, glowing eyes, betrayed her stillness.
From infancy, whispers followed in her wake. The nursery remained untouched by night terrors. No candle flickered out in her presence. No shadow lingered near her crib. Servants would pause when she passed, drawing in a breath they didn’t realize they’d held. Some wept quietly after speaking to her, as though purged of grief they’d forgotten how to carry.
“She is warded,” they said. “No, she wards.” “She carries the peace of the gods.” “A child of light.”
Clarimonde scoffed at such peasant ramblings. But she lit incense in her daughter’s room each night without fail. She forbade visits to temples whose seers stared too long. And when Lesia was of age, she forbade mirrors in her chambers for even reflections might speak truths better left silent.
Yet, Lesia required no rebellion. No defiance. She moved through life with the poise of a poem, composed and complete. Her grace was not performed; it simply was. She needed no permission to belong, no title to command reverence. And so the name “Protector” came to her not as a gift, but as recognition. Not of her strength, nor any magic… But of her very presence. Where she stood, sorrow receded. Where she watched, darkness faltered. Where she smiled, the air grew warmer.
It was not amid the jeweled chandeliers of a ballroom nor the cold arrangement of noble favor that she met Cyre Silverpaw. It was quiet. Unassuming. A meeting without grandeur, but rich in gravity. And where others faltered before her radiant gaze, he stood firm. He did not worship her;he saw her. Not as legend, not as myth. Simply Lesia.
With him, there was no veil. No posture. Only the soft unfolding of self. She chose him with the full, silent certainty of snowfall upon stone. The House of Vaurienne was scandalized.
Clarimonde, ice-hearted to the end, disowned her. But Lesia did not weep. She did not plead.
She shed the name Vaurienne like an old skin, as one might shrug off a too-heavy mantle, and in its place, she took the name Silverpaw, not by contract nor command, but by vow. A sacred, whispered yes to a life of her choosing.
Now, she lives by Cyre’s side, as a bride in brocade, a jewel upon his arm, and a guardian cloaked in velvet. She does not wield sword nor staff. She is not trained in the arcane.
And yet, no harm dares draw near him.
She reclines across his lap like a sun-sated lioness, limbs soft, gaze heavy-lidded and golden-bright. But behind those serene eyes waits a stillness too profound to name.

Born to the name Meiko, her family often called her "Sorbet", fitting her looks and her sweet personality.
Sister to Kijo Kokaji, Sorbet often spent her time excited to meet new beings rather that wanting to instill fear and terror as often oni do.
After some time, Sorbet took to the lands of Eorzea, her sister, Koji, alongside her as she chose to travel the realm, enjoying story and company of those willing to spend time with an oni.

• The Oni

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Sorbet was envy incarnate, gilded in grace and grief.
Born beneath a jade eclipse, she craved beauty as sustenance.
Her smile was sugared poison, her gaze a mirror that devoured what it adored.
She painted her horns in stolen colors, wrapped her heart in silk and sighs,
and whispered vapid promises of love.
All she touched tarnished,
out of her want
out of her wickedness.
When the mirror refused to show her face, she shattered it,
and stepped through the shards into herself.
There she learned the quiet cruelty of desire:
to hunger eternally, and to mistake reflection for belonging.

Between deity and mortal, Stheno walking the silver stained threads of moonlight, charged with leading others to their destiny.
Throughout the ages, legends of Stheno have spread, with her image often appearing in sacred texts and ancient murals. Her presence is seen as a gift from the heavens, a symbol that even in the darkest times, the light of purity will always shine through, offering hope to those who seek it.

• The Guide

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Stheno’s origins trace back far beyond the realm of Eorzea, to a place that exists on the edge of reality, where spirits of purity and purpose are born from the collective will of worlds. She was not always bound to the lands of Hydalen, the star that housed Eorzea and the many lives it nurtured. In her early days, she was a traveler between realms, answering the unspoken calls of those who sought clarity, purpose, and healing.
She first came to Hydalen through the desperate prayer of a man named Caedran, a warrior who had been devastated by the illness of his beloved wife, Selene. Caedran had heard whispers of a spirit guide, an ethereal being whose purity and wisdom could unravel the mysteries of fate and even save those teetering on the edge of life and death. He had traveled far across Eorzea in search of her, crossing treacherous mountains and seas, enduring countless hardships in the hope that Stheno could save his beloved from her impending demise.
When Caedran’s prayer reached her, Stheno felt the pull of his soul, the weight of his love and grief, and she could not ignore it. For though she was a being of purity, detached from the mortal world, there was something within her that was drawn to the love that bound Caedran to his wife. Perhaps it was because she had never known such connection herself—only duty, only the purpose of guiding others. So she answered his call, crossing the threshold into Hydalen, where she manifested in the dense forests near Gridania.
Appearing before Caedran, Stheno was struck by the intensity of his devotion, his eyes filled with hope and despair. He fell to his knees before her, begging her to save Selene, his voice breaking with the weight of his emotion.
"Please," he had whispered, "I have nothing left but her."
Stheno had never been one to deny the plea of a soul so earnest, and she agreed to help. But there was a gravity in his request that weighed upon her in a way she had not felt before. Saving a life, mending what was broken... was beyond the bounds of what she typically offered. She could guide, she could offer clarity, but to reshape fate itself?
That was not her role. Yet, she tried.
For days, Stheno remained at Selene’s bedside, her essence intertwined with the woman’s fading spirit, trying to breathe life back into her with every ounce of her power. She guided Caedran through rituals, ancient practices meant to restore the balance between body and soul, but nothing seemed to reach Selene. The illness had rooted too deep, and fate’s course was already set.
In the end, despite all her efforts, Stheno failed.
Selene passed away in the quiet of night, her hand slipping from Caedran’s grasp. The grief that followed was like a tidal wave, and Caedran, once a man of hope, was shattered. He looked upon Stheno with eyes that no longer held belief but accusation, though he said nothing. He simply turned away, lost to his sorrow.
Stheno, too, was shaken by the failure. She had never been bound to the outcome of her guidance before, but Caedran’s pain lingered in her heart, something foreign and unfamiliar. For the first time in her existence, she questioned her own purpose.
Was her guidance truly enough, or did her limitations make her presence futile?
Instead of leaving Hydalen, as she had with other worlds once her guidance was complete, Stheno chose to remain. Though the realms beyond still called to her, she found herself tethered to this world, haunted by the failure to save a life and by the love that had driven Caedran to seek her out. She felt bound to this star now, to its people, to the fragile mortality that defined them.
Perhaps it was her own way of atoning for the life she could not save. Perhaps it was because she now understood that guidance was not only about leading others to their destinies but about staying with them, even when their paths led into darkness. For Stheno, the detachment she had once embraced now felt hollow, and so she chose to walk among the souls of Hydalen, offering her guidance not as a perfect solution, but as a companion on the journey.
She became a silent watcher of fate, leading those who wandered in search of their own answers. But in the back of her mind, the memory of Caedran and Selene remained, a reminder that even an embodiment of purity could falter; and that sometimes, the path she walked alongside others would end in sorrow.
And so, Stheno stayed in Hydalen, no longer just a passing spirit, but a fixture of its forests and its crossroads, waiting for the next soul who would need her.

A star-born matron, veiled in the hush before creation’s breath, Astrea drifts where silence gathers form. Wreathed in the pale gold of genesis, her gaze steadies the trembling firmament, and from her calm the worlds take root. She is the stillness that teaches light to move, the memory from which divinity recalls its shape.

• The Mind

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Astrea came before the first word.
The stars had not yet learned their courses when she drifted through the stillness.
Light followed her the way water follows the moon.
Her presence shaped the firmament without intent or thought,
as though creation had paused to listen.
Atlas found her there, and the heavens altered.
His gaze broke the long silence of eternity.
In the space between them, new worlds began to bloom.
She watched them unfold, radiant and unfinished,
and knew herself changed by his nearness.
The fall was slow.
Each moment of descent left a trace of her upon the firmament.
Her hair became the silver current of galaxies.
Her tears filled the hollows where stars would later be born.
When she touched the dark, the Great Old One rose to meet her.
It spoke in a calm that seemed eternal.
Its promise was reunion, order, peace.
Weary from shaping the cosmos, she allowed its voice to guide her.
In that yielding, her light was taken,
and what remained became the sorrow of all things.
From her own ruin, she wove the cycle of return.
Her essence scattered into five lives,
each carrying a fragment of her will:
Kihisha, Sorbet, Ingrid, Raine, and Chisavelle.
They would walk the long corridors of time,
seeking the quiet she once knew.
Now, Astrea moves unseen through dream and reflection.
Her memory lingers where starlight meets the sea,
in the hush before a name is spoken,
in the ache that follows wonder.
Those who listen may still feel her passing,
soft as a breath through the fabric of the world.

Her steps weave the threads of what was and what may be, a subtle current shaping hearts and histories alike. She carries the hush of vanished light, and in her presence, the weight of all things lost and longed-for trembles, reverent and resolute.

• The Body

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She gathers the remnants of what slips between worlds, the echoes of choices never made and loves never returned. Her hands are calm, but they hold the weight of consequence; her eyes, golden mirrors, reflect the paths of those who stumble through grief and longing. Saya walks the borders of memory and dream, speaking without sound, teaching without claim. Those who encounter her feel the stirrings of remembrance, a pull toward what they were and might yet become. She bends the currents of chance and fate not with dominion, but with a quiet insistence, an inevitability that cannot be resisted. In her presence, the fragile threads of life are knotted and unknotted, tested and restored, until all that remains carries the subtle mark of her passing. She is the keeper of losses and the herald of what endures, a luminous shadow threading through the tapestry of being.