#quiys

All right, Quiys! One of my shortest lived toons.

Pros:

Was low-maintenance as hell.

Took very good care of herself and her things.

Had plenty of money to spend.

Knew what it was like to be utterly devoted to someone.

Had badass war stories.

Cons:

Looked like a man pretty frequently and feminine clothing didn’t really suit her. Paging Brienne of Tarth.

Would’ve been disgusted with you if you didn’t take very good care of yourself and your things.

Wasn’t very experienced sexually and wasn’t at all experienced romantically due to her job.

Her pod twin, to whom she was utterly devoted, put a stop to any and all romantic interests she had whether he realized it or not.

Quiys has never had a romantic relationship, so as far as a poor sexual relationship goes, it was probably some nondescript prostitute who failed to deliver to Qui’s expectations.

Costumes, games, revelry, songs, drinking, a good excuse to show more skin than usual, a lack of insipid sincerity—what’s not to love? Athrë’s favorite holiday is Mad King’s Day by a mile.

Though it’s only come around once so far, Fiatri has very fond memories of the Dragon Bash festival. The decorations, candies, and costumes were all fantastic, and she could play Dragon Ball until she falls out from exhaustion. Now that Mordremoth is dead she hopes everyone will be willing to eventually do it all again. The Lunar New Year comes in as a fairly distant second.

Considering the person he is—kind, tactful, and gentlemanly, that is—it should be more or less easy to guess that Finn best enjoys the holiday centered around togetherness and leisure. Wintersday is a time when he can afford to slow down, sit in ease with his closest friends, and have lovely conversation over a warm drink.

Quiys has never paid much mind to holidays or special occasions of any sort; in fact she has faithfully chosen to spend them all in the field with her eye down the scope of a rifle. It helped assuage the pain of missing her lost pod twin, Llucia.

Quiys is a busy person. She spends her days training hopefuls in the Mists, occasionally scouting, and her nights watching the door (or her back) with her beloved twin. She isn’t at all devoid of wants and desires; it’s only that she’s scarcely able to make time to see to them.

In her younger days she struggled a lot with her image of herself. So many other sylvari are tall, thin, and gorgeously colored; Quiys, by contrast, was squat and straw-toned. At least she had her impossibly long, voluminous vines to redeem her.

Nowadays she’s satisfied with her musculature and height: They helped her survive too many years at war in the Mists. Her color has faded to dun and her vines are long since gone, but she prides herself in her almost disparate appearance.

I don’t give a fuck what the menders think. You keep me dry for three weeks and the dam’s bound to fuckin’ break. Maybe if they’d actually done a fuckin’ thing to help or at least put me outta my misery shit’d be different. Way it stands, though, fuck ‘em. Worthless fucks. ‘S not like they’ve never seen the shit anyway. Don’t know why it was some big surprise.

This is why I quit comin’ here.

Three rounds in the chamber. Four days’ rations left. Twelve ribs snapping. One man behind that knoll. Five in the lean-to. Eight hundred in the camp. One thousand sixty-two paces to the bottom. Seventeen years of this shit. Two bullets to end it.

No rations. Starving to death.

You were my mirror once. We were never beautiful except in our own eyes, but we didn’t care. The world was ours. Life was spread enticingly out before us. All we had to do was stay together.

We’re going to die. We’re going to die. We’re going to fucking die.