Lucien's
Background

Lucien 'Dorian' Crow was born into a quiet storm.
Long before he took his first breath, his parents Eryn and Vireya had already turned their backs on the secluded life of the Golmore tribe. Together, they fled the confines of their matriarchal woodland home not out of hatred, but out of hunger for something more. Civilization, danger, opportunity. They arrived in Hingashi with no name of worth, only sharp minds, willing hands, and the instincts of hunters.
What they lacked in connections, they made up for in patience.
They spent decades weaving themselves into the fabric of the underworld, slowly, quietly. Vireya was the fire, a woman of strong will and cunning instinct, unafraid to push boundaries or threaten those who got in her way. Eryn, on the other hand, was the shadow beside the flame, diplomatic, calculating, with a tongue sharp enough to gut a man without lifting a blade. Their operation started small. Smuggling rare reagents, exotic spices, and forbidden relics between the islands and the mainland. They avoided the spotlight, relying on relationships built through favors, shared secrets, and mutual need. Over the years, they became known not as kingpins, but as essential cogs in the ever-turning machine of illicit trade.
By the time Lucien was born, they had carved out a quiet but sturdy legacy, not powerful enough to topple empires, but well-known enough that certain doors opened without a knock.
Lucien’s early life was one of curated appearances and unspoken truths. Their home was always tidy, tasteful, even modest to outsiders, but it was a house of masks. He was never told outright what his parents did. He didn’t need to be. The lessons were in the details:
Guests who never gave real names.Ledgers that hid more than they showed.Conversations held in code, even when no one was listening.Rather than shield him, Eryn and Vireya chose to guide him through observation. As a child, Lucien was taught to read people before books. To ask the questions no one said aloud. He learned etiquette, economics, history, but also how to tell when someone was lying, when to hold silence as a weapon, and how to make others feel in control while you pulled the strings.
In his adolescence, Lucien began assisting with his father’s more “respectable” dealings, shipment schedules, inventory management, market analysis.Eryn used this time to instill in him the art of presentation, how to sound legitimate, how to look harmless. Meanwhile, Vireya tested his nerve in subtler ways, sending him to deliver packages to unfamiliar clients, challenging him to negotiate trade with men twice his age and three times his ruthlessness.
Still, they never forced the life upon him. They opened the door and waited. And Lucien, ever the observer, stepped through willingly.
By his forties, he was handling key clients on his own. By his seventies, he'd begun to reshape parts of the network, favoring layered fronts, political leverage, and silent blackmail over brute force. His style diverged from his parents’ in many ways, but they welcomed it. Where they had laid the foundation with patience and grit, Lucien was refining it with precision and polish.
Vireya was proud, but never said it outright. Eryn simply smiled more often in those years.
Now, at 120, Lucien stands as the heir to a legacy carved in whispers. He’s not a kingpin, and he doesn’t want to be. His influence doesn’t shout, it murmurs, suggestively, from darkened corners and velvet chairs. He does business with nobles and black-market traffickers alike, never tipping too far to one side. He wears tailored coats, speaks like a diplomat, and cuts deals like a predator.
And through it all, his parents remain nearby. Not retired, but quieter. Still respected. Still watching. And sometimes, when the fire dims or the silence feels too deep, Lucien still consults them, not out of obligation, but because theirs are the only minds that truly understand the one they helped shape.By the time Lucien Dorian Crow stepped into the fullness of his own name, his reputation had already begun to precede him.
He did not inherit an empire, he refined one.
Built atop the quiet, calculated foundation laid by his parents, Lucien’s enterprise was never meant to dazzle with size or spectacle. Instead, it became known for its precision, exclusivity, and influence woven in silence.
Outwardly, Lucien operates as a respected merchant, his holdings spread across Hingashi, Kugane, and Ul'dah, fronted by a network of well-maintained trade houses and warehouses. These establishments deal in high-value goods: rare spices, exotic silks, antiquities, and fine weaponry. To the casual observer, he is simply a man of taste and refined international trade.
But those who know better, those who matter, understand that each warehouse is more than storage. Beneath the surface lies a system of carefully maintained compartments, hidden vaults, and coded inventories. These serve as drop points and exchanges for contraband: illegal magitek components, smuggled relics, high-grade arms, and forbidden tomes. The guards are professionals, not brutes, paid well and trained to respond to both diplomacy and threat.
To move such goods discreetly, Lucien maintains a small fleet of ships registered under various names and flags. He does not parade them or let them grow too numerous. Instead, each ship is purpose-built: fast, quiet, and forgettable. The captains are loyal, many owing their livelihoods, or lives, to Lucien. These vessels operate in twilight hours, along forgotten trade routes and disputed waters, where law is more suggestion than rule. With them, his reach extends far beyond Hingashi’s shores.
But the heart of Lucien’s empire lies not in crates or cargo, but in conversation.
Behind the facade of a quiet merchant's residence in Kugane lies The Veiled Lantern, a private parlor reserved for the influential and the discreet. It is not advertised, and entry is by invitation only. Inside, under soft lantern light and delicate music, deals are made not with threats, but with glances, old favors traded, futures bought and sold in whispers. Information is the most valuable currency here, and Lucien is its most discerning broker.
He does not raise armies or shout his demands. His power rests in the knowledge that when Lucien speaks, those with sense listen, and those who don’t often disappear behind a polite smile and a closed door.He never needed to build a kingdom.He built a network, and made sure the right people depend on it.

Rovahn's
Background

Rovahn was born in the gutters of Limsa Lominsa, the bastard child of a weary dockside prostitute who saw him as little more than a burden. He never knew his father, only that he was one of many nameless faces passing through the city’s sleaziest quarters. His mother offered no warmth, only cold stares and clipped words. By the time he could walk, she barely acknowledged him at all. He slept on ale-stained floors and scavenged crusts of bread from tavern scraps, eventually slipping away into the streets for good.He learned young that Limsa had no place for the weak. The city was a feast for the clever and a grave for the rest. Rovahn became a ghost among the stalls and piers, stealing what he needed and fading into the crowd. He fell in with other orphaned street rats, pickpockets, runners, errand boys for smugglers and thugs. He was cut, bruised, and beaten often, but never broken. By his teenage years, he had a reputation for being sharp-eyed, quick-fingered, and just dangerous enough to be left alone.He named himself "Rovahn Vael" in his early teens—"Rovahn" from a half-remembered sailor's tale, and "Vael" for the sound it made, like a blade sliding from its sheath. It was the first thing in his life he chose for himself.Petty crime only took him so far. Rovahn craved more than survival, he wanted freedom. Power. Respect. That chance came when he tried (and failed) to lift a coin purse from a grizzled sea captain in a dockside tavern. Instead of losing a hand, he impressed the man with his boldness. That man was the First Mate of The Blackfin, a privateer ship sailing under Limsa's colors but making its true living in the grey waters of opportunity.Rovahn signed on as a cabin boy but quickly proved his worth. He had a natural sense for logistics, negotiation, and finding profit where others saw risk. Over the years, he climbed the ranks, earning a place as Quartermaster after the old one died in a skirmish with a Garlean vessel. He was the ship’s backbone, organizing the supplies, dividing the loot, and handling the more delicate dealings that kept them in business with both Limsa's officials and its underworld.While The Blackfin sailed under the Maelstrom’s protection, Rovahn knew the truth, they were pirates wearing a privateer's mask. They raided ships marked as “enemies of the state,” took bribes to look the other way, and skimmed from every job. He didn’t mind. As long as the crew prospered, he did too.But power makes you a target.Grudges formed. Rivals whispered. One night, when they were far from friendly waters, it all came to a head. A mutiny. The Captain was dead before the sun rose. Rovahn fought tooth and nail but was outnumbered. He was burned, beaten, and tossed into the sea, left for the sharks. Somehow, he survived. Barely.He washed ashore half-dead, his skin blistered from burns, lungs full of seawater. For days, he wandered the coast until he found his way back to Limsa, limping, scarred, and changed. The city hadn’t missed him. No one even knew he was gone. But Rovahn was no longer the brash boy chasing a dream of freedom. He was a man forged in betrayal, vengeance burning in his bones.Now he haunts the backstreets and dockside taverns where he once scrounged for scraps, gambling and drinking like he’s trying to forget. But Rovahn never forgets. He listens. Watches. Collects favors and secrets like coin. The name The Blackfin still sails, but so do rumors, of it's demies.He doesn't seek redemption. He's not a hero fallen from grace. He's the shadow beneath the waves, And when the time comes, Rovahn will rise, not to reclaim the past, but to carve something new from the bones of those who wronged him.

Khasar's
Background

Born beneath the open skies of the Azim Steppe, Khasar’s early life was surrounded by flickering firelight, chants of tradition, and the scent of smoke on the wind. The Dazkar were warriors, yes, but they were also deeply spiritual, and the men played a vital role in preserving the soul of the tribe. Khasar's mother, Ooyun Dazkar was a fierce warrior, respected among her kin for her strength and discipline. His father, Khada Dazkar a quiet and meticulous man, tended the sacred fires and led household rituals with a reverence that left an impression on Khasar. From him, Khasar learned that care could be its own kind of strength, measured not in force, but in presence.Though young boys were often encouraged to join skirmishes or learn to wield the bow, Khasar was never drawn to it. His strength lay in patience, boiling herbs to treat wounds, weaving dried flowers into offerings, practicing the movements of the fire dance. He was a soft flame in a world of wildfires, but he never felt less for it. He became a respected part of tribal life, not through dominance, but through consistency. He tended the communal hearth, watched over the young, offered spiritual guidance to the weary, and assisted in preparing rituals of mourning or celebration. Even if he wasn’t a warrior, he was essential. But he always knew that his fire wanted to burn in a different direction. Khasar's departure was neither scandalous nor rebellious. It came on the wind, quiet and sure.When emissaries from Hingashi passed through Reunion to discuss trade and culture, they brought with them a whisper of another world, refined, ordered, steeped in ceremony. Khasar, ever curious, saw in them a strange mirror, a society that, like the Dazkar, valued ritual, precision, and unspoken strength. He saw an opportunity, not to escape, but to evolve. After several seasons of contemplation, he asked his elders for their blessing to leave with the Hingan delegation, not as a warrior, but as a caretaker. His parents lit a ceremonial fire for his farewell. The tribe offered him small charms, ash-dyed fabrics, and a pendant forged from bone and steel. He promised to carry the Dazkar’s fire with him, wherever he went. The transition was jarring. The strict formalities, the closed architecture, the tension beneath Hingashi’s politeness, it was a far cry from the open skies and blunt honesty of the Steppe. But Khasar adapted. At first, he worked under a mid-ranking household, learning Hingan customs, language, and etiquette. His natural grace, discipline, and ability to read a room earned him praise. When a prominent ambassador noticed his quiet efficiency and rare cultural insight, Khasar was offered a place as a household butler and attendant to the shogunate’s inner circle.Now, years later, Khasar serves with distinction. He dons silk robes in dark, ember-hued colors, dignified but never ostentatious. He keeps a small personal shrine to the Dazkar flame spirits, discreetly tucked in his quarters, and maintains elements of Steppe ritual in private, burning incense in fire circles, preparing tea with a Dazkar rhythm, and tracing tribal symbols into the ash left by candle stubs. To the noble houses of Hingashi, Khasar is a rarity, a foreigner who not only understands their formality, but honors it with a mystique all his own. Some regard him with suspicion, others fascination. His presence is both asset and curiosity, a man who moves like smoke, graceful and watchful.

Isaiah & Elijah's
Background

Isaiah and Elijah were born beneath the dappled light of the Golmore Jungle, a place so tightly woven with ancient silence and sacred ritual that even the wind was careful with its passage. Among their Rava kin, the birth of twins was a rare and quiet affair, viewed with a mix of reverence and unease. Two mirrored souls arriving together was said to disrupt the careful balance of the tribe’s ways. But their parents, bound more by love than superstition, welcomed them without question.Their father was a Wood Wailer, a role among the Rava that allowed him to step beyond the borders of their hidden home, patrolling the jungle and the lands around it to protect the balance of nature. He was stern and distant, a figure carved of order and law, but he passed to Isaiah the gift of discipline, of measured steps and thoughtful silence. Their mother, by contrast, was the color and warmth of the canopy itself. She knew every plant and its purpose, what could heal, what could kill, what could bring vivid dreams or soothe a restless child. She passed these secrets to both her sons, but it was Elijah who truly lived them.Their early years were filled with the music of rustling leaves and whispered lessons. Isaiah, quiet and observant, spent his time studying the methods of the healers and alchemists. He refined tinctures with steady hands, seeking harmony in formulas. Elijah, meanwhile, was often found with mud on his feet and feathers tangled in his hair, chasing sunlight and shadow in equal measure. He made little trinkets of twine and bark, whispering promises into them and leaving them on trees, believing they could bring luck or love. Whether they worked didn’t matter, what mattered was that they were his, made with intention.But the jungle had little room for dreams outside its traditions.As they grew older, pressure mounted. Their roles were being decided. The tribe expected Isaiah to follow his father’s path, and Elijah to take up the quieter, dutiful role of a gatherer or herbalist. But something in both boys stirred, an ache, a longing, for more than the same roots and cycles. Isaiah had questions no one wanted to answer. Elijah had stories he wasn’t allowed to tell. The forest, once a cradle, began to feel like a cage. The final decision came without storm or fire. One night, when the air was heavy with the scent of rain, the twins left after saying their goodbyes to their mother, Not as rebels, but as wanderers. They walked in silence, their only farewell the soft brush of leaves against their skin. They didn’t look back.The World BeyondThe cities beyond the jungle were loud, strange, and vibrant with possibility. The twins adapted in their own ways.Isaiah found quiet corners in apothecaries and workshops, his skills soon in high demand among highborn clients seeking unique perfumes or potent remedies. His signature blends were more than scent, they were memory, longing, fear, or desire, bottled in crystal and sealed with purpose. There were whispers that he could craft a perfume to make someone fall in love, or remember a life they never lived.Elijah wandered markets and alleys, selling his charms to those with open minds and willing hearts. His stalls were always cluttered and strange, filled with carved bones, dried herbs, colorful thread, and bundles of peculiar objects tied with knots. He claimed his charms brought luck, protection, passion, or peace. And somehow, they always seemed to do just that. Or at least.. people believed they didThe twins now make their home wherever the season takes them, though they return often to Gridania where the shade of trees reminds them of home. Their shared stall is tucked into corners of markets, always fragrant, always humming with curiosity. Isaiah handles clients with elegance and quiet mystery. Elijah laughs with children and tells fortunes to drunk patrons. Their perfumes and charms are crafted with knowledge, love, and perhaps a little something more, something old and green and wild that never quite left them.Together, they live not by the old laws of the jungle, but by a rhythm all their own. They are no longer sons of the Golmore.They are Isaiah and Elijah, perfumer and charm-maker, wanderers, brothers, rare and inseparable.And this time, they are writing their own story.

Sévran's
Background

Sévran does not remember the faces of his parents, only the smell of smoke and the echo of shouting in the tunnels. He was a child born into strife, Duskwight Elezens who had grown weary of hiding from the Wildwood’s reach, who whispered of rebellion in the deeper veins of the caves. His parents were not philosophers or leaders. They were angry, disillusioned, and drawn toward a bandit cause that promised to strike back against the surface-dwellers who scorned them.
When they left, Sévran was only a small child. Perhaps they thought he’d be safer behind. Perhaps they believed they’d return. Or perhaps they simply didn’t care.
They left him in a dusty, crumbling temple, a ruin at the edge of the necropolis, with a few strips of dried meat and no explanation. That was where Tellenne found him, drawn by the sound of a child's quiet weeping amid the empty tombs.
Tellenne was not a mother. She was a woman who had lived too long among the dead to remember the softness of life. But something in her cracked at the sight of him, dirt-smudged, wide-eyed, too quiet for his age.
She took him in, saying nothing. Simply handed him a lantern and gestured for him to follow.
Sévran grew up beneath stone arches and in candlelight, his lullabies the echo of water dripping in old cisterns and the occasional chime of bells during rites. Tellenne taught him by example, never cooing or comforting, but never cruel either. He learned to wrap the dead in cloth, to speak their names in whisper-prayers, and to mark their resting places with careful reverence.
The caves were cold, and the people above, Duskwight and Wildwood alike had long forgotten this place. Sévran and Tellenne were all the other had.
He never asked about his parents. He knew they weren’t coming back.
Instead, he found comfort in quiet things: the flicker of flame, the slow drift of ash, the idea that something was always listening, even if no one answered him back.
It was during these rites that he began to feel the pull of something deeper. Shadows moved when they shouldn’t. He began to see fleeting forms at the corners of his vision, or felt a presence behind him when performing a prayer. Tellenne noticed, and warned him gently but firmly “Respect what listens. Don't invite it.” But Sévran 's curiosity would not be quieted. When he asked the void questions, it began to answer.From the time he could walk steadily and carry a lantern without trembling, Sévran took on more than just observation. Tellenne taught him the rites piece by piece, not through formal lessons but through ritual repetition, like etching spells into stone one slow carve at a time.
His duties were small at first, Dusting tombs and sweeping ossuaries of debris.
Keeping the eternal lanterns lit, checking the oil, trimming the wicks.
Re-wrapping old bones where cloth had decayed, folding fresh linens with the same care one might reserve for dressing a living elder.
Learning to chant the names of the deceased from faded grave markers, some too worn to read, requiring divination or intuition to recover.He would follow Tellenne down winding tunnels carved generations ago, holding her spare scrolls, muttering her prayers under his breath to memorize the cadence. There was no audience for their work. Only silence, and dust, and the soft glow of lamps against stone.
But the dead had their own way of showing thanks.
Sévran learned that graves are never truly still. Sometimes he would feel a shift in the air, like someone exhaling beside him. A voice without words pressing behind his ear. Occasionally, candles would gutter when he spoke a name. Or bones would settle suddenly, as if relaxing.
Tellenne never called it magic. She called it “remembrance.” She believed the dead stayed close as long as someone cared enough to hold space for them.
Sévran believed it too, but he also began to sense something more. He would find pages rearranged in his grimoires, hear his own muttered chants answered in kind by voices not his own. When he placed offerings at certain tombs, sometimes they would disappear. The air would shimmer. Once, he found a folded note where a jawbone had been. He never told Tellenne what it said.He kept a ledger of the dead: not just their names and locations, but their stories, if he could uncover them. He would journal who they were before they were bones. A simple mason. A runaway lover. A child lost to plague. Even if no one would ever read it.
He performed rites for bones found outside the crypts, bandits, wanderers, outcasts. He gave them a resting place, even when Tellenne warned him not to interfere. "They might not want peace ," she'd say. But Sévran did it anyway.He had a habit of talking aloud as he worked, casual conversations as though the dead were listening. Sometimes just to fill the silence. Sometimes to ask questions he never expected answers to. “Do you think they’ll come back for me? ” “Was it worth dying for a name the world forgot? ”) On cold nights, when he couldn’t sleep, he would light all the candles in the chapel, sit in the center, and read aloud to the bones. Mostly stories or poetry. Sometimes his own writing.
He once laid a child to rest, an old skeleton wrapped in scraps of blue cloth, found collapsed in a cave shaft. No name, no offerings, nothing but silence. Sévran wove a doll from linen strips and carved a wooden rabbit to leave beside the body. He left it there, never mentioning it to Tellenne .
Years later, he returned to the tomb and found the doll moved to a different spot. Not disturbed, rearranged. And when he reached for it, something unseen brushed against his sleeve. A gentle touch. A farewell.

Daamir's
Background

Born in the radiant city of Radz-at-Han, Daamir Azhen grew up with the scent of incense in the air and the hum of the sea always nearby. His family lived modestly in one of the city’s quieter districts, where vibrant silks hung from balconies and prayers echoed through temple corridors. His father Kaveh Azhen , worked as a scribe in the Satrap’s court, while his mother Naileh Azhen, a former dancer and performer, tended to the home and raised him and his younger sister, Naila, with quiet strength. Their lives were not extravagant, but they were stitched with dignity, tradition, and a deep-rooted pride in their homeland.
From an early age, Daamir was drawn to order and purpose. He watched the Radiant Host, Thavnair’s elite guard with reverence, struck by the discipline and conviction they embodied. It wasn’t a hunger for glory that pulled him to service, but a sense of duty, a desire to protect the vibrant culture and people of Thavnair, and to give back to the city that had shaped him. When he came of age, he enlisted with the Host, trading the colorful streets of his youth for the polished drills and shining gold of the barracks.
Years passed in disciplined service. Daamir proved himself a steadfast soldier, measured, precise, and utterly reliable. He was deployed on jungle patrols, coastal guard assignments, and security details for dignitaries and scholars. He rose to the rank of Ashkara, a senior field commander responsible for leading smaller detachments and overseeing operations that required both strength and discretion.
But everything changed during what would later be hushed as the Alzadaal Incident.
Daamir ’s unit was assigned to escort and protect a group of scholars conducting an aetheric survey beneath Alzadaal’s Legacy, an ancient ruin partly submerged off Thavnair’s western coast. The vault they explored was older than expected, humming with strange energies and warded with sigils few recognized. It was meant to be routine, an academic endeavor with military oversight. But within days, something began to unravel. Subtle shifts in time. Whispers in languages no one understood. Comrades acting strangely paranoid, disoriented. Some began speaking to the walls. One scholar swore they had “heard the sea speak back .”
The scholars had awoken something, a voidsent entity sealed within the depths, bound by forgotten rites. When the seal fractured, chaos erupted. Daamir fought not just to escape, but to prevent the entity from breaking free, sealing the entrance behind him in a last desperate act leaving those affected and brainwashed behind, after pulling one remaining survivor from the wreckage. The man died hours later, and the Radiant Host quickly moved to contain the fallout. The scholars were declared lost to a “collapse .” The vault was left sealed, and no further expeditions were sanctioned.
Daamir was quietly honored for his survival and promoted, but he carried the weight of that place in his bones. He could still hear the whispers, even long after the mission. Nightmares twisted sleep into torment, and the city’s light, once so warm, felt foreign.
Unable to bear command or ceremony, he resigned from the Radiant Host. He left without fanfare, giving only a brief farewell to his family, who watched with worry but did not question. With his remaining pay and savings, and a favor from a merchant sailor he once saved, Daamir acquired a small vessel once used for coastal trade, worn but sound. Over weeks, he restored it himself, naming it “The Kshatriya’s Respite .” It became both home and sanctuary.
Now, Daamir lives along the southern coast of Thavnair, where coral reefs stretch like fingers and the water runs clear and deep. He works as a pearl diver, descending into the stillness of the sea where the world above cannot follow. The deep is his refuge, quiet, cold, honest. He keeps to himself, sells his finds through trusted vendors, and disappears again before the city can catch up with him. He sends them pearls, small fortunes with no sender’s name, and always enough for their comfort. His father, now blind, holds each one like a talisman. His mother prays over them. His sister, wise to his silence, simply keeps them in a lacquered box marked with his name.
Despite the distance, Daamir visits his family from time to time. He returns to Radz-at-Han in silence, never in uniform, never staying more than a day or two. His father, blind, gray and slow of step, always welcomes him with a steady hand. His mother cooks too much. His sister chides him, then hugs him tightly each time, telling tales of his married life with her merchant husband. They do not ask where he’s been, and he does not tell them.
Daamir carries his past like he carries the breath in his lungs, heavy, necessary. He remains watchful, solemn, a man shaped by duty and haunted by what lies beneath. But in the rhythm of the tide and the weightless silence of the deep, he has found a fragile kind of peace.

Player INformation