Altani Highwind, Steppe Warrior

Altani Highwind is an ex-pirate, a mercenary adventurer, and a carpenter. She is an xaela au ra female. She swears, enjoys bawdy jokes, and generally is not lady-like. She has a cottage in Limsa, but spends a lot of her time in Ishgard when not traveling.

As for hobbies, she enjoys a night out at the tavern, making furniture, sparring, and reading trashy novels. She doesn't talk about the novels to anyone unless they admit to reading them first. She likes to spend time out of doors swimming, gardening, or hiking. The offer of a good sparring session is always appreciated. She typically doesn't enjoy fancy parties, but she has come to enjoy dancing. She likes the look of pretty clothes, but hates actually wearing them unless they are comfortable. She is of the Borlaaq tribe from the Azim Steppe, but is estranged from most of her family.

She is generally very friendly, but doesn't like pretentious nobles, those who think xaela are savages, or being treated like she is an idiot. Her hackles raise whenever she is called short or stupid. Loyal to her friends, she will also fight on their behalf if they are insulted.

Julixsoix "Jules" de Fain - coming soon

Sizha'to, second son of clan Nelha - coming soon

Bayarma Borlaaq - is an elder sister of Altani Highwind, along with Chimeg and Sarnei. She is three years older than Altani, and the only sibling Altani routinely wrote to while traveling. She is an xaela au ra female who has just left the Steppe. She speaks Xaelan and Doman very well, but is still learning Eorzean.

She is traveling through Eorzea as a nomad. Rather than using her martial skills, she would run from a fight unless startled or pressed into it. Bayarma has suffered from the violence prevalent on the Steppe and prefers a quiet existence.

Before leaving home, her chores among the tribe were child-rearing and cooking. Sometimes she misses teaching the young ones.

Altani knew that Zenos was goading her. This was the weekly ritual. He was alive. He was sitting on a chair she'd made and complaining about it. This once empty room in a small building near the Last Dregs had become his dwelling. It was still derelict in her opinion, but she had begun to turn it around. The building was stable with a little help from some other denizens. Once that was finished, she had started making furniture for the pouting prince. It was more for her than for him. She wouldn't have housed a dog in the ruins before. When she learned that he was staying in this empty house, lying on the floor in the dust, she immediately began to rectify the situation. The seats in the Last Dregs were fine for a short café visit, but she was spending more time here. It made sense to have a place that she could rest. Zenos might not care about his lodgings, but she wasn't going to sit around in the dark like some sort of wretched animal. Before she had devoted her time to the scions, she was a carpenter. It was always nice to return to her roots. Unlike her work in the firmament, all the furniture she'd made for this house was in the Steppe style. Low beds and tables, dozens of rugs and pillows. The bookshelf she'd made was more western in structure, but the carvings on it were from her tribe, the Borlaaq. She had always considered him Xaela at heart. Seeing him among the trappings of her people suited him despite his grumblings. It gave her something to listen to while she worked. There was a pile of wood blocks on the table, next to a knife that had been staked in the center. After this stool, she planned to make something more artistic, like a trinket box. Not that Zenos would ever have any trinkets to put in such a thing, she thought. Still, a house was not a home without a few knick-knacks. "Move to the floor if you truly hate comfort so much," she replied, not looking up from the leg of the stool she was whittling, as he called it. "Misery for the sake of misery is a waste of time. You only think it is less because it is not something you have ever had to do," she said. "Garleans are soft and spoiled, and you are no exception."

Her mother would have scolded her for keeping a pet. She smiled. Keeping a baras indoors would have been less dangerous than what she was doing now. Zenos studied her, but she was unruffled by the length and depth of his gaze. She was never unnerved by him. A puzzle that still fascinated, despite the hours already poured into it. She was often annoyed or enraged, but there was no tension. He'd thrown a knife at her last week, but she caught in her hand and stabbed it into the table. Then she had yelled at him for making her ruin the table. The knife was still there. She had still returned for another visit. "There is nothing about me that is soft," he said. Curious. She hesitated with her carving. Her face made an interesting expression as her eyes darted to look at him before becoming intensely focused on her work, refusing to rest her eyes on him a moment longer. "Spoiled then. You and I had opposite upbringings," she muttered. "No one cared whether you lived or died, but gave you everything. My family and my tribe loved me, but I was given nothing. Everything I had to make for myself. My apprenticeship began at eight, and by fourteen I was making furniture for the tribe to sell." That was true. His belongings had mattered little to him and it brought no joy, but there was an endless supply of anything he might need. As for her, he hadn't given it much thought before.

Who was she before they'd met? When they had clashed at Rhalgar's Reach, he knew little of her other than the murmurings of soldiers. Heroes were nothing to him. He'd ended hundreds of so-called heroes in battles. None lingered in his mind. But her...

Emet looked at the warrior and thought she was wrong, all wrong. From the deep purple of her skin to the chitin of her horns, she was not Azem. Azem had lovely brown skin and ebony hair and she would smile so mischievously at him. She would boop his nose and ask if he wanted to arm wrestle for the last piece of pie. Over dessert, she would tell him stories of all the beautiful places she had been, and all the people she had met. She would scream and jump into Hythodeus' arms and twirl and tell him he was more gorgeous than the last time she saw him. This was not Azem, but her eyes. Oh, those liminal rings. They glowed in the exact shade of magenta he remembered. The grimace of annoyance, and the cadence of her voice. That fierce loyalty to her friends, to what she believed was right. That was the same, and he hated it.