❝

Let them say she was stubborn. Let them call her difficult or too much. She would rather carry the weight of her own choices than ever bow to the shallow comfort of being small. In a world that expected her to shrink, she built her own shelter from laughter and sharp words, loving like a storm and refusing to flinch when the wind changed. She was not here to be rescued. She was here to see what she might become, unbroken, when no one dared to tame her.

❞

ㅤdo notㅤㅤ approach me with any kind of real-world bigotry toward people's race, gender, religion, or culture. Extremism of any kind is not welcome in my space, as such I expect my RP/Gaming partners to treat everyone with kindness and respect. I want all of my friends, no matter their lifestyle to feel safe and welcome.

ㅤdo notㅤㅤseek to roleplay with me if you or your character are under the age of 21+ | I am aware that the legal age is 18 in most places, but that does not matter.

ㅤdo notㅤㅤassume that just because I didn't post in a timey matter or took a day to myself that the RP is over. I do attend college classes & have OOC obligations.

ㅤdo notㅤㅤcome to me looking for a romantic or sexual OOC relationship. Just because I am poly and have partners, does not mean I want a relationship with you. Yes, this has been a problem in the past. I am happy taken IRL.

ㅤdoㅤㅤKeep things simple, I'm just here to have fun and find a few fun roleplay/gaming partners. While I love detailed and complex stories, I don't want to jump threw hoops just to put our character in the same room or to meet for the first time.

ㅤdoㅤㅤApproch me for roleplay if you are 21 years of age or older! I would love to hear your ideas or what you find interesting in my request..

ㅤdoㅤㅤcommucate with me! If you have questions, feel free to ask.

ㅤdoㅤㅤask to be friends! I love doing stuff like content & talking about our muses.

ㅤdoㅤㅤ understand I have a family, health issues, and OOC obligations. If I can not roleplay with you, it does not mean I don't want to. I might be slow to get into the game some weeks, if at all. As such, I do prefer Discord as an alternative means of writing as I can get to it any time of day from my phone or computer.

ㅤEquipmentㅤ

ㅤThe Tome of Ashes: ㅤ A massive, battered chronicle, its pages a patchwork of parchment, skin, and metal, inscribed with her hauntingly beautiful accounts. It endures as she does, a testament to her duty.
ㅤServo-Skull Scribe:ㅤ A half-broken drone, its flickering optic mirroring her golden eyes, tirelessly transcribing when her hands falter.
ㅤFragmented Quill: ㅤ Forged from a shard of the plasma pistol that first killed her, its sharp elegance binds her to her original self.

ㅤFlawsㅤ

ㅤFragile Psyche:ㅤ Endless rebirths unravel her sanity—she hallucinates fallen comrades and forgets which millennium she inhabits.
ㅤReluctant Beacon:ㅤ Her beauty makes anonymity impossible, pulling her into conflicts she’d rather avoid.
ㅤCursed Observer:ㅤ Bound to watch history unfold without altering it, her impotence gnaws at her.

ㅤSexual Personalityㅤ
Spero’s sexual personality is a quiet, conflicted thread in her tapestry—a guarded, emotion-driven impulse tempered by cynicism and defiance. It’s not a driving force but a rare flicker, born of her need to reclaim her humanity or connect with another soul amid her endless task. She’s selective, haunted by past loves, and fiercely autonomous, her intimacy a fleeting defiance against a galaxy that’s taken everything else. It’s a piece of her, not the whole—subordinate to her duty, her ghosts, and her unyielding will to endure.

― history

ㅤI. Early Life and the Thousand Sonsㅤㅤ
Spero was born on a scholastic world in the Segmentum Solar, amid towering librariums where knowledge was revered as sacred. Her beauty and intellect marked her as exceptional, and she trained as a scribe and artist, dreaming of preserving humanity’s legacy. Recruited as a Rememberancer during the Great Crusade, she was first assigned to the Thousand Sons under Magnus the Red.Among the psychic warriors of Prospero, Spero thrived. She documented their arcane rituals and conquests with a mix of awe and unease, her sketches capturing the shimmering spires of Tizca and the eerie glow of warp-touched sorcery. Her beauty softened the Legion’s aloof mystics, and some even indulged her questions about the Emperor’s grand vision. Yet she sensed an undercurrent of hubris, her quill noting the Sons’ growing reliance on forbidden knowledge—a foreshadowing she’d only later understand.

ㅤII. Transfer to the Luna Wolvesㅤㅤ
As the Crusade progressed, Spero was reassigned to the 63rd Expeditionary Fleet under Horus Lupercal, Warmaster and Primarch of the Luna Wolves. Her transition from the esoteric Thousand Sons to the brutal pragmatism of the Luna Wolves was jarring. She recorded their relentless victories—Compliance after Compliance—her prose praising their unity while her private notes hinted at Horus’s subtle shifts in demeanor. Her beauty caught the Warmaster’s eye once, earning a rare nod of approval, though most Astartes saw her as a fragile distraction. She persisted, her idealism clinging to the hope of a unified Imperium.

ㅤIII. The Horus Heresy and Her First Deathㅤㅤ
The Heresy shattered Spero’s world. Stationed with the Luna Wolves during the Istvaan III betrayal, she hid among the corpses, scribbling frantic accounts as Loyalists were purged. She escaped the initial slaughter, but on Istvaan V, amidst the Dropsite Massacre, her luck failed. A traitor’s plasma pistol burned through her chest mid-sentence—her final mortal words, "The Warmaster falls," smudged in blood. She died beautiful, broken, and alone.Days later, she awoke amid the ash, her body reformed, her beauty intact—an undying Perpetual. The revelation crushed her. She fled, Tome of Ashes in hand, her restored face a torment as she realized her task would never e

ㅤIV. The Wandering Chroniclerㅤㅤ
Since the Heresy, Spero has drifted across the galaxy, her Perpetual nature pulling her to Space Marine chapters whose long-lived warriors offer a fleeting sense of familiarity. She’s lingered with the Ultramarines, sketching Guilliman’s Codex; mourned with the Blood Angels, capturing Sanguinius’s fall in tear-stained ink; and even shadowed the secretive Dark Angels, noting their veiled shame. Her beauty aids her survival, charming or distracting Astartes long enough to record their tales before slipping away.Yet she’s also drawn to mankind’s pivotal moments—the Siege of Terra, where she hid in the Palace’s ruins; the Black Crusades, where she witnessed Abaddon’s rise; and countless forgotten wars. Each death—by bolter, blade, or warp-spawned horror—resets her cycle, her beauty returning as her mind frays. She avoids other Perpetuals, fearing their destinies dwarf her quiet burden, and presses on, an eternal witness to humanity’s endless struggle.

― strengths

― styles

― flaws

Part I — The Ministry’s New Instrument

Setting: Garlemald, specifically the imperial capital’s Ministry Quarter.
Role: Apprentice Archivist, Ministry of Information (Department of Public Record & Historical Sanitation).
Tone: Cold, institutional, militaristic.
Content:
• Ren’s conscription into the Ministry via aptitude examinations—marked as suitable for “archival operations” at a young age.
• Training under magitek record devices, field-capture protocols, revision techniques, and “compliance narrative” doctrine.
• Frequent exposure to officers from the Populares and Optimates factions—learning early how political neutrality is enforced.
• Indoctrination: History is a weapon. An empire survives by controlling the record.
• Early assignments editing low-level campaigns in Ilsabard, Corvos, and conquered Dalmascan territories.
Purpose: Establish Ren as a product of the Empire’s propaganda machine, not a child formed by family.

― history

Renee dus Varet entered the Ministry Quarter without ceremony, without escort, and without anything resembling a past. In Garlemald, the Empire preferred its citizens unencumbered by trivialities like childhood or sentiment; usefulness was lineage enough. They had scored exceptionally on their aptitude examinations, though no one bothered to tell them which answers had sealed their fate. All they knew was that their peers were routed toward legion training or magitek engineering while they found themself walking marble corridors beneath the steel gaze of portraited emperors long dead. A functionary with a clipped voice and colder smile handed them a slate stamped with their designation: Apprentice Archivist — Ministry of Information, Department of Public Record & Historical Sanitation.From that moment, their life belonged to the Archive.Their first weeks were a blur of rigid instruction delivered in windowless classrooms where the hum of magitek memory-spools resonated through the walls like a heartbeat with no warmth. Senior archivists paced between rows of silent trainees, tapping gloved fingers against lacquered desks as they drilled doctrine into untested minds. History is a weapon, they said again and again, their voices practiced, fanatic, steady. An empire survives by controlling its record. A citizen survives by obeying it.Ren listened. They always listened. But it wasn’t reverence that shaped them—it was calculation. They studied the structure of propaganda the way other students might study tactical formations. They memorized revision algorithms, learned how to manipulate aetheric distortion fields to conceal bodies, and practiced cutting footage so tightly that a trembling hand became a steady salute. Their instructors praised their precision, mistaking their talent for loyalty. They did not see the quiet unease that formed every time they trimmed away a scream or blurred the outline of a burning home.Training soon expanded beyond the classroom. They were given access to magitek field-capture recorders—delicate instruments engineered to survive battlefield tremors and temperamental aether currents. Ren learned to clean their lenses, calibrate their depth fields, and adjust their tonal balance until war looked like order and occupation resembled peace. They attended controlled demonstrations by legion units returning from Ilsabard and Corvos, their role to document their “heroism,” then sanitize anything that contradicted the narrative. They sat through strategy briefings between Optimates and Populares officers, absorbing the unspoken lesson that political neutrality wasn’t wisdom—it was survival.By the end of their apprenticeship, they were no longer being supervised. They were being trusted.Assignments trickled in, each a little heavier than the last. Short reels from Dalmascan annexation patrols. Footage of border expansions into Corvosi settlements. Propaganda segments meant to assure the Imperial citizenry that Garlemald’s dominion grew without blood. Ren handled each project with mechanical efficiency; they adjusted shadows, sharpened armored silhouettes, erased inconvenient details with a few strokes of their stylus. Their superiors marked them as “reliable,” an archivist who could be counted on to deliver clean histories unmarred by doubt.And they delivered.
Because they had no other choice.But as their access deepened and the Archive began trusting them with more sensitive material, Ren felt something shift. The curtain they had helped pull across the Empire’s front lines was beginning to fray—and they were the one being handed the threads.They had been trained as an instrument.
Now, they were being sharpened into something else entirely.

― A Career in Erasure

The Hall of Verity was nothing like the training rooms where Ren had spent their first months as an apprentice. Those spaces had been sterile, instructional. The Hall was sanctified—at least in the way Garlemald understood sanctity. Its marble floors gleamed like polished bone, and its vaulted ceilings were carved with reliefs of past emperors towering over kneeling subjects. Rows of magitek terminals stretched into the distance like an army of unblinking eyes, each connected to a spool banks humming with the weight of the Empire’s captured memories. History was curated here. Refined. Cleansed.Ren was assigned their station with little fanfare, a curt nod from a supervisor and a stack of crimson-sealed memory-spools indicating campaigns requiring “urgent revision.” They took their seat before a polished brass console fitted with a projection lens and a control array of dials, aether conductors, and stylus inputs. With a smooth click, they loaded the first spool, footage from a skirmish outside Corvosi farmlands, and the raw images sprang to life.A legion unit advancing through a burned wheat field. Civilians scattering. A soldier stumbling as a magitek cannon misfired. None of it was suitable for broadcast.Ren exhaled softly and began their work.Frame by frame, they removed casualties from the field using precise aetheric masking, erasing crumpled bodies until the ground looked untouched. They stabilized the soldiers’ movements, smoothing hesitations and fear into crisp, disciplined strides. A terrified family sprinting from their collapsed home became an indistinct blur. A toppled barn was cropped out entirely. By the time they finished, the footage depicted a clean and orderly “liberation,” suitable for the Imperial newsfeeds.And it was only their first assignment.The days bled together in a rhythm of sanctioned distortion. Doman civilians weeping over fallen relatives were edited into silent silhouettes. Ala Mhigan conscripts begging for mercy were transformed into traitors attacking legionaries. Bozjan ruins were brightened and color-corrected to hide ash on the wind. With every reel they altered, their supervisors murmured praise.“Your revisions strengthen the populace’s confidence.”
“The Emperor’s vision remains absolute because of your diligence.”
“You have a rare instinct for excising the unnecessary.”Ren learned to operate clockwork imprint recorders, delicate devices that captured battlefield impressions with eerie accuracy, and they became fluent in the nuances of magitek memory-spool editing. Their precision earned them increasing responsibility, and soon they were deployed as a documentation assistant alongside VIIth Legion units. They recorded regulated “operations” that were little more than staged displays for the Archive: soldiers handing out rations that had been withheld earlier, officers patting children’s heads under threat of reprisal, “rejoicing civilians” reciting lines fed to them moments before the lens activated.They learned to film quickly, silently, invisibly.
They learned which angles made destruction look like salvation.
They learned how easy it was to hide the truth when the Empire demanded beauty.And through it all, they felt the weight of something they could not yet name. An unease they buried with every cut they executed.But the Archive was patient.
And the Empire always had a use for sharp tools.It wasn’t until the day they received a sealed order bearing the sigil of the VIIth Legion, assigning them to document a “pacification action” in a border city resisting annexation, that Ren realized the Ministry was about to show them a truth they could not edit away.

Part II — Architect of Imperial Histories

Setting: Garlemald’s central Archive Hall, “The Hall of Verity.”
Role: Revision Wing Operator / Field Documentation Assistant.
Tone: Clinical, oppressive, quietly horrifying.
Content:
• Assigned to the Revision Wing: the department tasked with converting raw wartime footage into official Imperial history.
• Daily tasks include:
– removing casualties from magitek footage
– replacing civilian panic with militarily “acceptable” conduct
– adjusting Legionary conduct to appear orderly and heroic
– framing conquests in Doma, Ala Mhigo, and Bozja as “liberations”
• They learns to operate clockwork imprint recorders and magitek memory-spools.
• Superiors praised them for “ensuring the Emperor’s vision remains unmarred.”
• They begin accompanying VIIth Legion units on controlled operations to capture initial recordings.
Purpose: Show how deeply they are embedded in Garlemald’s machinery of information warfare.

Part III — The Purge That Broke Her

Setting: A border city in Ilsabard that resisted Imperial annexation.
Role: Lead Documentation Officer attached to a Legionary purge.
Tone: Visceral, morally suffocating, intimate.
Content:
• They document a full “pacification action”—what the Empire calls a purge.
• Their supervisor stands behind her in the Revision Wing, stylus tapping:
“Excise the weeping child.”
“Replace the fleeing citizens with wind-distortion.”
“Remove the fire-mark—blame it on rebels.”
• Screens flood with flame, smoke, and collapsing architecture.
• Their assignment: convert it into a triumphant liberation broadcast for the Imperial newsfeed.
• But one sequence refuses to fit—one woman screaming as the Legion advances.
• It becomes the moment they cannot edit out… the moment she stops breathing.
Purpose: Their conscience fractures; their loyalty dies.

― The Purge That Broke Them

The transport bound for the border city rattled like a dying creature, its magitek engines whining against the cold Ilsabard wind. Ren sat among VIIth Legion officers and documentation personnel, their recorder case clamped between their boots, their hands resting lightly atop it as if it were a living thing that needed calming. No one spoke. They didn’t have to. The seal on their assignment papers—a red sigil marking the operation as a pacification action—spoke louder than any briefing ever could.Their stomach tightened as the transports descended through a curtain of acrid smoke. The city below was a jagged silhouette, half-swallowed by fire and falling ash. Legion magitek armor marched through its streets in ordered lines, their halberds drawn, their visors reflecting the orange glow of burning homes. The moment Ren stepped off the ramp, the heat hit them—dry, sharp, carrying the unmistakable scent of fear baked into stone. Civilians huddled behind barricades of overturned carts and shattered masonry, their eyes following the legionaries with a mixture of terror and exhausted defiance.They activated their magitek recorder. The lens whirred open with a soft click.A centurion approached them without breaking stride. “Focus on the rebels,” he said. “Avoid unnecessary… collateral.” His meaning needed no clarification. He walked on.Ren’s throat felt tight, but their hands were steady. They always were. They moved behind a shield wall of legionaries as the VIIth advanced into the heart of the district. At first, the resistance was scattered: a few desperate shots, thrown stones, shouts swallowed by the roar of magitek cannons. They captured everything—angles emphasizing legion discipline, minimizing civilian panic, framing the assault as controlled and inevitable.But the city was not dying quietly.As they pressed deeper, the screams grew louder, sharper, echoing off stone walls blackened by fire. A child clung to the body of a fallen parent until a soldier pried her loose and shoved her aside. An elderly man was cut down after raising empty hands in surrender. A home collapsed from a cannon blast, its occupants spilling into the street like broken dolls. Ren filmed it all, because stopping the recorder was worse than defiance—it was treason.Hours later, back in the temporary field hall repurposed as a revision station, they sat before a console with the footage still fresh on their skin. Flames. Blood. Faces twisted in terror. Officers shouting orders over bodies.Their supervisor stood behind them, stylus tapping their chair in steady rhythm.Tap. “Cut the mother clutching the corpse. Leave the rubble. It reads as rebel sabotage.”Tap. “Remove that child crying in the frame. Replace with smoke distortion.”Tap. “Blur the civilian who was shot. We don’t need the panic.”Ren obeyed. Frame by frame, they carved away the evidence of suffering until the purge resembled a clean liberation. But then they reached a sequence they couldn’t look at without their vision blurring.A woman sprinting barefoot across fractured stone, her face streaked with ash and tears. She screamed for someone just out of frame—screamed in a voice that cut through the fire and the smoke, raw enough to pierce bone. A legionary’s halberd flashed, and the woman fell—ragged, brutal, final.Ren lifted their stylus.
Their hand did not move.Tap.The supervisor’s breath hovered at their ear. “Remove it.”Tap.Ren tried. Aether distortion refused to sync. The frame jittered. The cut wouldn’t settle. It was as if the recorder itself rejected the lie.Tap.“Varet. Remove it. Now.”They lowered their stylus.“No,” they whispered—too soft to be defiance, too loud to take back.The supervisor froze.
The tap stopped.And in that instant, Ren understood the terrible truth: they were no longer just editing history. They were complicit in its murder. If they kept cutting, they would carve away the last shred of themself the Empire hadn’t claimed.Something broke inside them—not loudly, but irrevocably.They finished the reel mechanically, but that woman’s scream echoed through every edit, every breath, every final export.It would follow them all the way out of Garlemald.

― The Defector With Stolen Truths

Ren didn’t flee the Hall of Verity that same night. Treason in Garlemald was never a single choice; it was a series of razor-thin calculations, each one a step across a collapsing bridge. If they ran too soon, they would catch them. If they hesitated too long, they would learn their hesitation and remove them quietly. The Ministry had no tolerance for archivists who faltered. History needed obedient hands, not thoughtful ones.For three days after the purge, Ren returned to their station as if nothing had changed. They edited reels from Dalmascan patrols, logged compliance reports, archived memory-spools in the deep vaults beneath the Hall. But something in their expression must have shifted. Supervisors began hovering longer than usual. A centurion from the VIIth Legion stared at them too hard during a briefing. A clerk they barely knew asked if they were “feeling unwell.” Every glance felt like scrutiny. Every silence felt like suspicion.They kept their breathing even. They kept their edits perfect. They kept their hands steady.Inside, they felt like they were burning.On the fourth night, they slipped back into the Revision Wing after hours using an archivist’s override code they should not have known. The lights were low, the hum of magitek engines muted. The spools they had carefully prepared earlier in the day, their own private cache, waited inside a secured cabinet. Six memory drives, each containing raw footage of the purge, untouched by revision. Untouched by lies.They loaded one onto their console. The woman’s scream filled the projection lens again, bright and unbearable. The unedited truth. Ren stared at it until spots danced in their eyes. They stretched out their hand, touched the glowing frame with their fingertips, and made themself a promise they did not speak aloud:I won’t let them bury you.They copied the files onto a set of cracked, unregistered memory drives—illegal, fragile things that they had bartered off a quartermaster months ago. Drives meant for smugglers, not state-sanctioned archivists. They wiped their presence from the system logs using a borrowed signature of a junior optio, then returned the original spools exactly where they’d been. They didn’t dare delete them; any missing material would raise alarms. Instead, they left every piece of evidence untouched, as if they had never opened it.The escape itself was a study in patience. They filed a falsified request for reassignment to a border documentation unit, forged the approval, and walked out of the Hall of Verity carrying their recorder, their gloves, their stylus, and a satchel heavy with stolen truth. No one stopped them at the door. No one questioned their credentials. They had worn the Ministry’s mask too well.It wasn’t until they reached the edge of the city, where Garlemald’s immaculate streets gave way to the frostbitten plains of Ilsabard, that they let themself breathe. Not relief. Not victory. Just air that didn’t taste of iron and smoke.But the Empire did not forgive. It did not forget. And it did not lose its tools without consequences.Tracking squads were dispatched within a day. Legion posts along the southern trade routes received their name and description. Defectors were hunted like feral animals; most never made it past the border.Ren traveled under assumed identities, cutting across snowfields lit by aurora and the glow of pursuing magitek armor. They skirted occupied settlements, hid among migrant caravans, bartered favors with smugglers, and paid for silence with whatever coin or service they could spare. They kept the drives strapped to their body, wrapped in layers of fabric beneath their coat, terrified that the cold might crack them or that Garlean hands might snatch them from them in the dark.Weeks bled into months. They crossed into Thavnair under forged papers, spent time adrift in Radz-at-Han’s crowded alleys, then secured passage aboard a trade vessel bound for the only nation Garlemald feared:Old Sharlayan.A place beyond the Empire’s reach.A place where knowledge was valued more than obedience.A place where they might finally breathe without expecting a stylus tapping at their back.They watched the Sharlayan coastline emerge from the mist like a promise.And for the first time since the purge, Ren felt the faint, frightening stir of something they had forgotten:Hope.

Part IV — The Defector With Stolen Truths

Setting: Ilsabard’s wastelands → Thavnair smuggler routes → Kugane black markets.
Role: Fugitive from Garlemald.
Tone: Tense, sharp, survival-focused.
Content:
• Ren copies the unedited purge footage onto cracked magitek memory drives, storing them in a reinforced datacase.
• They mask their absence on the Archive logs by forging signatures from a low-rank Optio.
• With falsified dismissal orders, they flee the capital.
• They follow smugglers’ routes south, crossing into Thavnair using forged identification papers.
• Garlean pursuit squads track defectors ruthlessly, they learn to live under assumed names and mistrust all uniforms.
• They eventually buys passage on a ship bound for Old Sharlayan—the one nation Garlemald cannot intimidate.
Purpose: Ren chooses truth over survival, then must survive anyway.

Part V — Scholar of Truth in Old Sharlayan

Focus: Ren reinvents themself in the one city the Empire fears.
Tone: Wary, rebuilding, intellectually hungry.
Content:
• Arrives in Sharlayan exhausted, nameless, undocumented—yet determined.
• The Studium accepts them provisionally when they see their technical skill.
• They studies documentary recordkeeping, historical ethics, visual anthropology, aetheric imaging.
• They learned what it means to record truth without destroying it.
• Professors called them meticulous; peers find them sharp, observant, sometimes unsettling.
• They thrives academically but struggles emotionally—Deprogramming isn’t gentle.
Purpose: This is where Ren becomes their own person—not an Imperial tool.

Part VI — The Documentarian Who Walks Eorzea

Focus: Their current life as an adventurer, photographer, and historian.
Tone: Confident, guarded, quietly fierce.
Content:
• Travels Eorzea documenting war, diplomacy, ruins, and marginalized communities.
• Their lens is unbiased, unsparing, and compassionate.
• Becomes known for refusing bribes, refusing censorship, refusing to “clean” history.
• Guards their drives like a lifeline—because they are.
• Makes friends carefully, lovers rarely, enemies inevitably.
• No one knows they once rewrote truth for the Empire.
• No one knows they still carry the raw footage of what Garlemald tried to erase.
Purpose: The history they record now is the apology for the history they were ordered to destroy.

― The Only Truth Worth Keeping PT2

Old Sharlayan was nothing like the Empire had taught Ren to expect. There were no patrols marching in formation, no propaganda banners fluttering above the streets, no checkpoints demanding identification at every turn. The city breathed in a way Garlemald never had; quietly, steadily, as though knowledge itself were the tide that rose and fell along its marble canals. Even its cold was different: crisp ocean air, not the metallic bite of magitek and military order. Ren stepped off the ship with their satchel pressed tight to their ribs and felt, for the first time in months, the ground beneath their feet soften.The harbor official barely looked at their forged papers before stamping them. Sharlayans, they realized, did not care where you had come from. Only what you knew.That suited them just fine.Their first weeks were spent hiding in the Bibliotheca stacks, sleeping between shelves when they had nowhere else to go. They lived on stale bread and lukewarm tea from street vendors, clutching their recorder like a weapon and watching scholars drift past in quiet, contemplative flocks. No one questioned their presence. No one reported them. Knowledge-seeking, it seemed, granted a certain invisibility. But invisibility was not enough. They needed legitimacy, an identity that wasn’t built on fear.They found it in the Studium.When they approached the admissions desk, the clerk’s expression hardly changed. “Your discipline?” he asked without looking up.Ren hesitated. Then they placed their recorder on the desk. “Visual documentation,” they said. “Field record. Historical verification.”The clerk blinked, finally meeting their gaze. A Garlean accent in a field they shouldn’t know. A magitek device they shouldn’t own. A confidence they shouldn’t have.“Demonstrate,” he said.They led them into one of the smaller lecture halls where a crystal projector waited. Sharlayan technology, elegant and refined. They synced their recorder to it, hands steady out of instinct rather than calm. The footage they chose was careful: not the purge, not the atrocities they carried like hidden blades, but a neutral sequence of their own revision work; unpolished, unedited, raw. The projection lit the marble floor in stark monochrome.Their audience was small: two professors and an archivist with ink-stained fingers. But their silence was sharper than any Garlean scrutiny. They watched the way Ren framed subjects. The efficiency of their lens discipline. Their instinct for angles that revealed rather than concealed. One of the professors scribbled a note.“You understand composition,” she murmured. “Not propaganda. Truth.”Ren didn’t respond. They weren’t sure they believed it.By day’s end, they were accepted on provisional status into the Studium’s Visual Ethnography and Documentation discipline. The first time they held the bronze student insignia, it felt too light for the weight it carried.The months that followed were a slow, painful unlearning. Their instructors challenged them to record conflicts without manipulating their meaning. To document hardship without turning it into spectacle. To capture moments of cultural importance without erasing the people behind them. They learned aetheric imaging techniques that made their Garlean machinery look crude. They studied with archivists who treated truth not as a weapon but as a responsibility.And still, they jumped whenever someone walked behind their chair. They kept their drives locked in three nested cases. They sat with their back to walls and their eyes on exits. Their classmates noticed their brilliance long before they noticed their caution.Sharlayan gave them knowledge.
It also gave them space; something the Empire had never allowed.
And in that space, they grew into someone sharper, kinder, and more dangerous than any weapon Garlemald could have forged.By the time they completed their studies, Ren was no longer running.
They were searching.

Settings

Places

Secrets in the Silence

Underworld & Shadow Economy

Ren moves through the world like a keeper of broken stories. Their life is pieced together from censored files and memories stamped with someone else’s seal, each fragment carrying the weight of a truth nearly lost. They are drawn to the quiet spaces in history; the gaps where something once mattered, the silences carved by fear or intention. Old crimes, forgotten letters, codes without answers…...they feel them like a tug behind the ribs. Secrets recognize them, and they recognize them in return. Whether they wish it or not, they are always the one who steps into the shadows where the truth shivers, waiting to be claimed or set free.

A Past that Follows

Past Connections

No matter how carefully Ren shapes their new life, the shadows of the Ministry cling to them like ink that never washes clean. Their past surfaces in quiet ways: a silhouette lingering too long at the edge of a crowd. A name they haven’t heard in years murmured over a tavern drink. A question only someone from the Hall of Verity should know how to answer.They walk as though they are always one breath ahead of recognition. Caught between being hunted for what they escaped and summoned for what they cannot forget. Some secrets refuse to stay buried. Some truths refuse to release them.

A Talent for Erasure

Underworld & Shadow Economy

Once upon a darker life, Ren shaped the Empire’s favorite illusion: clean history, perfectly edited, brutally quiet. They learned to excise pain with the precision of a surgeon. To cut entire truths into silence. To make a scene unrecognizable with a single sweep of their stylus. They swore they would never use those skills again. But the world has a way of seeking out those who can make inconvenient things vanish.People come to them with trembling hands and whispered requests: a record to alter, a moment to erase, a truth too dangerous to leave intact. They try to draw lines between justice and complicity, to choose the secrets they protect with care. Yet each request leaves them wondering whether they are healing the past...... or becoming its accomplice all over again.

Patterns in the Shadows

Occult and Mystory

No matter how obscure the artifact, ritual, or text, Ren sometimes recognizes it—by name, by feel, by a fleeting look of dread or awe. They claim “good guesses,” but their reactions say otherwise......Or wherever Ren travels, they find their way to the stories the church refuses to bless and the state refuses to acknowledge.Lost cults whispered out of existence, obscure prophecies buried under temple floors, local legends recited only after the tavern closes; these are the things that catch their eye. They collect them like other people collect coins or pressed flowers. Treating each half-remembered myth as a puzzle missing its final piece. It’s not academic curiosity, not truly. It’s need. A quiet hunger to understand why certain truths vanish… and what happens to those who remember them.

Haunted by Forgotten Things

Occult and Mystory

Ren is often found in the places most travelers avoid: abandoned ruins where moss swallows stone. Libraries where dust lies thick on books no one should remember. Battlefields where the wind still carries the weight of last breaths.They move through these places with a solemn ease. Lingering a little too long, their head tilted as though listening for something just beyond hearing. Sometimes they grow restless, fingers tapping against their recorder; other times they grow still enough that they seem part of the ruin itself. They never explain what they hear in these forgotten spaces. Only that they feel… pulled.

The Strange Familiar

Rumors

Where Ren lingers, the world sometimes shifts in subtle ways. Birds fall silent. Candles gutter without breeze. Dreams repeat themselves in uncanny loops. Locals whisper of small disappearances or odd lights where none should be, murmuring that a blessing or curse follows their footsteps.Ren only laughs when confronted; shrugs, waves it away. Pretends they don’t notice the patterns themself. But when they wake from dreams that feel like memories they never lived, or when omens gather at the edge of their path like spectators… they grow quiet, very quiet, and refuse to say what they’re thinking.

The Adventurer Who Brings a Camera

Light Hearted / Slice-of-Life

Ren loves “going on adventures,” which, to them, means tagging along behind actual adventurers while carrying absolutely no weapon whatsoever! Unless you count their camera.They appear at dungeon entrances, hunt boards, and aetherytes with the enthusiasm of someone signing up for a guided tour rather than mortal peril. They will cheer, gasp, and duck behind the nearest rock when danger appears, but they never leave; they pop back up with their lens ready, insisting they’re “capturing history in motion.”Adventurers quickly learn that if Ren shows up at their next quest with a bright smile and a packed lunch, they’ve gained a non-combat photographer who’s delighted to record their heroics… and very likely to trip over something dramatic at the worst possible moment.It’s harmless chaos. Pure fun. And they will absolutely send you the pictures afterward.

Collector of Stories, Thief of Lunches

Light Hearted / Slice-of-Life

Ren has a terrible habit of sliding into conversations the moment they hear someone mention “a strange event,” “something unbelievable,” or “you won’t believe what happened yesterday.”They will appear with a notebook, a half-finished pastry, and an eager smile, ready to buy lunch if it means getting a good story. Their favorite places to hunt for tales are cozy cafés, loud taverns, market benches, or anywhere someone is nursing a cup of tea and a memory.They ask questions they probably shouldn’t, laugh easily, and write so quickly it’s a wonder ink doesn’t spill across the table. Some people tell them far more than they planned. Others make things up just to see how they react. They treasure both equally.If you have a story... heroic, embarrassing, spooky, romantic, or absolutely dubious... they will absolutely write it down, and they’ll make you feel important while they do it.

“You Were That Student.”

SHARLAYAN HOOKS

Ren was known in several Studium classes as the student who always:• took too many notes,
• asked one question too many,
• and then apologized with a sheepish laugh.Teachers remember them for their enthusiasm...
... Students remember them for the way they would whisper, “Are we allowed to ask that?” before raising their hand anyway.Anyone who shared a lecture hall might recognize them as: “Oh… you’re the one who corrected the professor during week three.”

“Didn’t You Volunteer for Everything?”

SHARLAYAN HOOKS

Need someone for a field survey?
A library catalog audit?
A boring presentation no one wanted?Ren was always the first to volunteer; usually before they even knew the workload.Teachers loved them.
Students found them endearing or exhausting. Anyone who joined a project group probably worked with them at least once.

If You Want the Truth...

WORK / PROFESSIONAL HOOKS

Ren has built a reputation across Eorzea’s city-states as a documentarian who records events exactly as they are... not as the client wishes they were. This absolute refusal to sanitize their work has earned them respect, friction, and a long list of whispered commissions.They are often hired to:
• photograph destroyed settlements after raids,
• record political negotiations for neutral archives,
• verify the authenticity of historical documents or battlefield sites,
• gather testimony from victims the Grand Companies overlooked.Their name circulates among investigators, diplomats, and scholars who need a steady hand, an unbiased eye, and someone who will not bend under pressure.
But it also circulates among those who would rather certain truths stayed buried.Anyone who needs documentation, proof, or clarity... or anyone wishing to challenge their integrity... has a reason to approach them.

The Dust Hasn’t Settled

WORK / PROFESSIONAL HOOKS

Ren is known for appearing in dangerous places after the danger has barely passed: the smoking edges of a battlefield, the aftermath of a failed summoning, the ruins of a village swallowed by war or weather.They interview survivors while the shock still clings to their voices.
They photograph evidence while it is still warm. They write with the precision of someone who understands that a single detail might one day save lives — or damn someone powerful.Their presence is often requested by:
• local leaders seeking accountability,
• mercenary companies wishing to clear their name,
• researchers examining aetheric distortions,
• or refugees who want their story recorded before it disappears.Their work can bring justice. Their work can destroy reputations. And their work often places them in the paths of those who fear what they might uncover.Anyone tied to crisis, aftermath, political tension, or investigation can step naturally into their orbit.

Whispers From the Past

No matter how far they wander, Ren drifts toward the places where the past still breathes... ruins crumbling beneath city stones, shrines swallowed by ivy, midnight markets where relics slip from one shadowed hand to another. They move through these forgotten spaces with quiet purpose, asking questions that sometimes win them allies… and sometimes draw wary glances from those who guard their truths closely.Each fragment they uncover; a chipped coin. A coded diary page. A mural abandoned mid-stroke... seems to tug them deeper into histories the present would rather ignore. The search always feels urgent, inevitable, as though the city itself is offering clues meant only for them.But the more they dig, the more a single question follows them: are they chasing answers… or fleeing the ones people might ask of them?

... Rumors bloom in their wake.
... Some call them curious.
... Some call them obsessed.
... And some whisper that what they unearth is not nearly as dangerous as what they might be burying.Rumors swirl that the right artifact or legend might unlock more than forgotten history. Some are eager to chase those mysteries; others would rather they stay buried.

Some nights, they sleep with the satchel pressed to their chest, the drives resting against their ribs like a second heartbeat; steady, relentless, and impossible to silence.People wonder if they’re being targeted by old enemies, blackmailed for their knowledge, or simply caught in someone else’s power play. But sometimes, the best answers come from those brave enough to ask the wrong questions in the right moment.

The Memory Drives

At the bottom of their satchel lie a few cracked magitek memory drives, wrapped in cloth as if they might splinter... or awaken. Inside them lives the purge as it truly unfolded: the screams they weren’t allowed to archive, the fire they were ordered to erase, the woman whose death refused to be rewritten no matter how steady their hands once were.Ren has carried these drives across continents, through smuggler tunnels and Sharlayan lecture halls, always intending to cast them into the sea or consign them to flame. They have stood at cliff edges with their arm drawn back, breath trembling, ready to let gravity erase what they no longer can. But the release never comes.The drives remain.They are the proof they stole, the confession they have never spoken aloud, the last unedited truth binding them to the night they fled the Empire. Everything they ran from, everything they still refuse to forget, lives in those fragile shards of metal and memory.

The Unquiet Ledger

Ren’s records... their photographs, interviews, fragments of overheard conversation, and meticulous written notes... have turned them into an accidental guardian of some living living history. They preserve faces, names, and fleeting moments that others allow to fade. But recently, things have begun to vanish in ways even they can’t explain. People disappear not just from registries, but from recollection; events once spoken of openly crumble into doubt the moment they mention them.So the questions start. Quiet at first, then urgent.
Did this person really exist?
Was that event real?
Can you show us proof?Ren becomes the one people seek when the present starts to forget itself. They gather testimonies whispered in back rooms, hunt for missing records among dusty archive shelves, and compare their notes against slips of memory that feel increasingly fragile. Each truth they confirm has consequences: a reputation saved, a crime exposed, a lie dismantled. Each truth they withhold may spare someone, or condemn an entire story to oblivion.

In a world where memory is beginning to erode, Ren stands at the thin edge between what survives and what is lost. Every choice they make shapes what history will remember, and what it will quietly allow to disappear forever.It isn’t long before others come asking for favors... some desperate for them to keep their secrets, others demanding they expose a rival. And a few simply want their help piecing together a life that feels like it’s slipping away.

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― Screenshots by me