RACE (CLAN).    Ancient.
  GENDER.     ⚲   (they/them).
  PERSONALITY.     An Anamnesis Anyder archivist with a curious, feline-esque disposition and well known for having a sharp tongue; their honey gold eyes with flecks of lavender is reflective of their vacillate personality. They often accompany Azem (Venat’s protégé) to “record their exploits” when not dedicating themselves to the categorization of the ever-increasing number of papers, crystals, and other recordkeeping mediums amidst the collection.Their knack for being swept into Azem’s meanderings has earned them their fair share of censuring that the Convocation tends to overlook due to Syne’s exceptional capacity for recall, second most to the chief archivist himself. Their ability to reference even the minutiae from pure memory and dedication to their studies initially granted them their position at the esteemed vault—one in which they nearly declined if not for the gentle prodding from Venat herself. When summoned to aid Azem, Syne can (literally) draw upon vibrant hues of ambient aether to render abstract images to life from memory, a primordial form of what would later come to be known as pictomancy.Syne’s strong intuition allows them to sense events before they occur, yet they were unable to forestall the events instigated by the Meteia—a regret that makes them realize that even not making a decision in itself carries consequences. Due to this indecisive nature, Syne is thought to have defected with Azem during the Final Days, with one shard of their unsundered soul eventually splitting into Lisie and Rehn on the Source.

❝—for the choices I made, those I did not, and those yet to come.❞

This was their forest.Their home.Theirs.The Elementals had cried out—not at them but others who came before—and, with such strong emotions at stake, a volatile form of energy caused the ground to tremble and quake.The stone pebbles the twins were playing with began to roll on their own accord, and only then did they become aware that they were shaking too, that the earth was not supposed to move. They startled at the sound of a falling tree, witnessed a fissure widen the ground between them like a hungry maw, and it took only an instant for it to swallow everything they had ever known.Confused, helpless, alone. With no other choice, in opposite directions they ran and ran and ran…

⬩ ⬥ ⬩ ⬥ ⬩

The two conscript fugitives were no strangers to death nor those left behind in its slumber.But no matter how one hardens his heart to the tides of bloodshed, the imagery—sanguine skirmishes, war orphans, incessant isolation—plays beneath one’s eyelids without end. Even after the two somehow managed to escape the taut threads of fate that bound them to the Garlean Empire.For the time being, that is.Tierre fussed over Janus, whose life was nearly forfeit in the last encounter. As they moved parallel to the desire path albeit in denser foliage some yalms away to avoid detection, the last remnants of sunlight fell in slivers and patches, honing their own vision further. With dilated pupils, Tierre could easily make out the clotted rip in Janus’s left ear, the kink in his fractured tail, the slight limp in his gait. He knew his companion carried regrets, heavy and suffocating… ones that Tierre would gladly share the burden of without question. He sunk his fangs into his bottom lip to keep his worries from spilling out, replacing them with the metallic taste of blood instead.The silence between them prevailed until the aftershocks jostled them and Tierre’s ears perked upwards. The earth’s rumblings were not the only thing crying out. He could not make out the distinct sounds, or perhaps he was simply in denial to what he heard, but it came from the direction in which they were headed.‘Janus,’ he warned with his eyes, and Janus nodded in reply as if to say, ‘Unavoidable.’ Instinctively, their dominant hands shifted to the hilts of their weapons during the approach.The undergrowth before them rustled, two pink blossoms swaying in the breeze—nay, ears. Beneath the wind’s whisper were soft catches of breath and whimpers, signs of exertions having taken their toll. Thinking it perhaps a wild animal trapped as prey, Tierre was surprised to peer into the grove and find a young Miqo’te girl with watery mismatched eyes half-squatting in a heap of rubble. It was hard to tell if her nose was covered in splotches of grime or freckles. Her clothes were torn and leaves and branches were caught in her fine hair, one of her legs caught by a root and twisted.A trap?“You don’t think—to stoop so low as to use mere children?” Tierre tsked, but the familiar spiral embroidery along her hemline gave him pause.Janus drew his rapier and magicked crystal medium. “Shall I put this one out of her misery?”Without awaiting a response, Janus decisively reversed his grip, attached his focus, and began casting. A glow of aether engulfed the girl, and Tierre’s sigh of relief was palpable as he bent down to assess her. She seemed harmless, quivering in such a profound loneliness that would be hard to execute by one so juvenile.“Her physical wounds are treated—” Tierre paused, lowering his voice as the girl soundlessly curled in on herself. “... however, I cannot speak for her emotional scars.”“‘Tis all we can do. We depart, anon.” Janus turned abruptly, but he needed only to glimpse Tierre’s face to foresee that he would labor over leaving her all the way to port. Or perhaps that was the excuse he gave when he found himself also hesitating.There was something about her that reminded him of the woman whose captivating smile gave him purpose…The one who attempted to take her own life so that he would no longer be manipulated.Janus squeezed his eyes shut at the memory, the feeling of being unable to protect a single person engulfing him, drowning him.“Let’s take her with us. At least, for now.”Objections that usually rolled off Janus’s tongue were stuck in his throat and time was of the essence. Tierre had already hoisted the girl into his arms and the three of them quietly fled deeper into the Black Shroud. The girl rested her head against Tierre’s shoulder, feebly reaching back towards the grove with fat teardrops sliding silently down her cheeks as if in a silent farewell.

⬩ ⬥ ⬩ ⬥ ⬩

A shift in the wind, denuding breezes dancing about the path dappled with leaves, the deadly truth of the Shroud.Woodsin.The bard, carrying a rueful past steeped in Ishgardian knighthood, knew to tread carefully here. While certainly not haughty enough to call the Twelveswood home, he was comfortable setting camp beneath its canopy and partaking of its hymn in moderation, ever keen not to invoke the Greenwrath.For rumor has it, once claimed by the Wood, one can undergo certain… changes. Angering the Elementals damns one for eternity to wander the woods’ depths…—but was that truly such a punishment?Interrupted by frantic footsteps in the distance, Jeannot need not strain to hear the panting growing ever closer until a shock of hair that seemed to reflect the sky beyond the trees nearly plowed into him.“P-Please! Help me find her!”A Miqo’te boy stared up at him pleadingly with auspicious eyes, ears pinned back but tail bushed out high and puffy. The garb he wore was distinctly not Gridanian, and while he could be in cahoots with the local bandits, slitted pupils suggested otherwise. His politeness and upright posture bespoke a decent upbringing, though he had dirt beneath his fingernails and various knicks and scratches adorning his body, fresh blood pooling at the surface. Noting the splatter of freckles across the bridge of his nose and clan marks that had yet to fully darken, Jeannot concluded he could not be more than four summers old. Certainly too young to be meandering alone.Instead of pushing for an explanation or providing fleeting platitudinal comfort, the bard simply nodded at the boy who then scampered off, following his beat without falter.

⬩ ⬥ ⬩ ⬥ ⬩

It took three full sennights for her to finally speak, the trauma so great Tierre and Janus thought her mute. They had managed to escape to the farthest corner of Eorzea—the maritime haven situated by the large island of Vylbrand—and, yet having been unable to ascertain her origins, made a modest home in the Mist with her in tow. She had padded out for tea one afternoon, tears still clinging to her lashes, and stood quietly until the both of them acknowledged her.“Thank you.”A wisp of a voice, but she pulled at the hem of her clothing and gave a practiced curtsy before settling down at the table.Tierre stood agape, unintentionally overflowing the teacup he was attending, and even Jannus hesitated in bringing his beloved sweetmeat to his mouth. The girl’s ears flattened sideways and she bit her lip, fidgeting.“I-I don’t remember much, but I know my name. It’s L’ilise.” She had rolled the name in her mouth several times after recalling it with a fleeting pang of nostalgia that made her chest heavy. The sensation washed over her again and she gave pause, the tip of her tail flicking against the chair in her internal struggle. “I like ‘Lisie’ better though. But not Ilise! Never Ilise. Got that?”After delivering her first serving of sass, she swung her legs and waited patiently to receive her usual snack. The two exchanged looks and Tierre gave an amused chuckle, no doubt having been used to such antics from Janus in their long history together, even though the latter was always loath to admit it.“Is that so.” Janus replied after a moment, more of a statement than a question, as if to usher the conversation along to keep Tierre from loquaciously drawing comparisons as he was apt to do.“Very well, Lisie. No matter what you remember, you’re still you. Also—” Tierre placed a glass of warm milk with honey and papanasi before her. Lisie clasped her hands together in delight, in awe of the creamy cheese and sweet-and-tart rolanberry sauce dripping off the fried dough. Much better than the dense bread her palette was used to, a vague memory that she would be fine not allowing to surface ever again.“As long as we’re by your side, you won’t be lonely.”

⬩ ⬥ ⬩ ⬥ ⬩

What could have been four suns felt like four moons as the boy searched desperately for his pair within the Twelveswood until exhaustion and fever overtook him. Slipping in and out of consciousness, he awoke beneath the stars, one ear rotating towards the sound of soft plucking—a tune achingly familiar, yet foreign all the same. The euphony seeped into his wary bones, settled into his throbbing heart. When he finally summoned just enough strength to lift his heavy lids, he could barely make out the bard strumming an instrument with a long neck and a rounded body, illuminated by the campfire that seemed to crackle in rhythm. He was far too young to comprehend the distant glimmer when their gazes met but for a fleeting moment, yet each harmonious pluck had him speculating the past as he drifted in and out of consciousness. The bard’s presence gave him, at the very least, peace of mind in knowing he would not die alone, embraced by a melody that may as well be his funeral dirge.The Twelve seemed to have other plans, however.When next he found himself awares, he was not floating in the Aetherial Sea but offered a plate of fish with a smoky, charred aroma. On instinct, he found himself devouring it like a hungry Coeurl. Only when the second serving was gone did he think that perhaps he should have spared some for the bard who had graciously prepared it. Suddenly, his stomach felt sour.“Sorry, but my parents are dead and my sister is gone,” he said cheekily before lowering his eyes.No, that was not true. He lost his sister. The guilt had him mumbling under his breath, “I should have died, too.”“We’re kindred spirits, you and I. Now drink your fill.” He was caught by surprise by the bard’s candid reply as a flask of water was pushed into his hands. He was too proud to ask what ‘kindred’ meant but somehow understood they shared similar pain.“Aren’t you going to ask who I am?”“Would you be so inclined as to tell me?”‘How uppity!’ the boy thought, but he was too tired not to acquiesce. “… L’aurehn.”The bard seemed to consider it for a moment, absently stroking his instrument as he sang in a low voice:

“♪ Aye, the sun burns hot but the shadows are cold,
One need not glitter to be gold.
To live off the land—reborn again,
Thus began the ballad of Jeannot and Rehn. ♪”

Something inside of the boy stirred, though he could not say just what, and he felt a pang of something more than just strangers plucked together by strings of coincidence and circumstance.