AVAGNIR, a story of poison, prayer, and reclamation.
Altani
Avagnir
content warning
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This story contains themes of captivity, religious trauma, psychological abuse, sexual & physical violence, and emotional manipulation.Reader discretion is strongly advised.
Rules
important please read the following before attemping to interact!
out of character
I am not my muse. Altani’s voice is sharp, cold, and shaped by things she endured to survive—I am not. Please keep IC and OOC separate at all times. While I enjoy deep, immersive roleplay and complex storytelling, I’m also here to have a safe, respectful, and clear creative space.Roleplays are highly selective, and written with long-form, character-driven plotting in mind. I prioritize quality over quantity, and emotional depth.I am also taken out of character, and will not write romantic or intimate content with anyone but my partner.
dark themes & warnings
this character explores mature, heavy themes drawn from the darker roots of ffxiv’s world: trauma (religious, cultural, and personal), manipulation, emotional numbness, captivity, and non-explicit responses to sexual trauma. these are written with gravity and care—never for shock or fetishization.This Carrd is pre-tagged and exists as a content warning in itself. If you choose to read, you acknowledge the tone and the subject matter. I do not take responsibility for discomfort if you've chosen to proceed.Any form of intimacy—flirtation, closeness, or trust—is strictly reserved for my real-life partner, my husband.
Altani does not open herself to anyone else, and neither do I.Respect that boundary please!
interactions
This is a story-heavy, canon-rooted, muse. Altanis is not a “nice” character. She is not meant to be liked easily. If you're here for soft, low-stakes or low effort-based roleplay, this probably isn't the place.That said — I deeply value character chemistry, poetic tension, and writing that has teeth. I’m especially interested in interactions with:- seeker miqote / tia / nunh- characters tied to grief- Outcasts, and magic users- summonersAltani works best when she’s either intrigued by you or plotting around you. Please do not force ships or one-sided affection—she’s not written to be conquered.
dynamics
Altani is not a romantic muse in the traditional sense. She has no interest in casual intimacy, and any form of affection is rooted in power, trust, or something deeply earned.ERP is never on the table. Sensuality may appear — especially in plots involving manipulation or seduction as survival — but it will never be for erotic content. She knows how to fake closeness. She rarely feels it.Her strongest bonds are forged in shared violence, quiet understanding, and unspoken loyalty.
miscellaneous
I am a longform writer by heart. I enjoy emotionally detailed prose, introspection, and narrative flow. That said, I’m not picky — short replies are absolutely welcome if they keep the story moving or suit the tone of the scene. Quality always over quantity.I use D&D stat sheets for combat-based plotting or PvP moments. If you’re interested in writing fight scenes or duels, I’m more than happy to share mechanics or roll-based outcomes for fairness.Altani’s lore is heavy, but that doesn’t mean every thread has to be tragic. If your muse offers tension, rivalry, politics, or even reluctant trust—I’m all in.Muse and mun are both 28+. This blog is not for minors.
Bonds
those who are precious and those of whom we hold dear.
Biography
notes on a woman once known asLyenna
The Basics
full name Altani Vaelmont
years old 32 (62 years in Viera)
birthday 16th Sun , 5th U. Moon
pronouns she / her
gender female
orientation demisexual / straight
nationality Skatay Range
species Viera (Veena)
accent old Icelandic
languages Common Eorzean
he touched me like i was still someone.
Touch is not kindness. I remember what it used to mean.
positive trait vigilant.
positive trait graceful.
positive trait spiritual.
positive trait self-possessed.
negative trait emotionally distant.
negative trait paranoid.
negative trait secretive.
negative trait distrustful.
The Looks
skin tone pale; bruises easily
hair color violet (dyed white)
hair style thick, waist-length
eye color jade green
scent old incense (dragonblood)
height 5'6" (168 cm)
weight light, but enduring.
physique Lithe and lean
complexion cool-toned bronze
mental severe touch aversion; sensory flashbacks tied to sound and scent
notable features
Burn scars arc over Lyenna’s ribs and back like roots. Her fingerprints are gone—seared smooth during her time at the Crimson Cup, leaving her without the sense of touch. She never meets a man’s gaze directly unless forced, a behavior born of deep-set trauma and survival instinct. Her lips, most often drawn in a hard, silent line, rarely curve into a smile—and when they do, it’s either unkind or untrue. wardrobe
Her wardrobe is deliberate. She wears tailored silks dyed in tones of deep wine, soot-black, and desaturated gold. Tight-fitting clothes cinch her form, laced intricately for control more than allure. Veils are part of her ritual garments, worn only during sacred ceremonies, never for concealment. On her fingers are rings, engraved with the names of her fallen parents and worn like quiet charms of memory.She wears sandals laced to the knee; outside of that, soft leather boots. She owns no heavy armor. miscellaneous Lyenna refuses to wear any tribal symbols, feeling they belong to the dead now. She eats little, and only food she’s personally prepared or watched being made—distrust bleeds even into her habits of nourishment. She does not allow men to touch her, nor to linger close; proximity alone can ignite panic. Always prepared, she carries fire-starting supplies tucked into her belts: a blade, flint, and a pouch of salt. And when sleep finally claims her, it is in the fetal hush of a corner, back to the wall, one hand curled around a hidden weapon—just in case.
# beneath silence: Ruin.
backstory
I. Where the Crystals Sang
The night her soul met the world, the moon hung low and swollen, casting an ethereal glow over the jungle canopy, like milk cascading over ancient stone. The thick foliage of the Skatay Range lay untouched, far beyond the reach of any scholar's pen or ink, where the mysterious contours of the land defied borders. Here, a clearing throbbed with the energy of an ancient ceremony. The Veena, a secluded tribe nestled among roots as old as time itself, gathered in this sacred space, where time wove its dance in circles rather than lines.Mist slithered low among moss-covered stones, kissed by the gentle lavender luminescence of ceremonial braziers. The flames, ethereal and ghostlike, flickered with a blue hue, swaying gracefully without consuming their surroundings. They were summoned not by mere sparks but by the mystical dance of aether.At the center of the glade lay a shallow spring, shimmering like liquid water crystal, its surface unperturbed by breeze or beast. Encircling it, twelve figures moved in perfect harmony, dancers of the tribe—Veena, both male and female, their roles blurred under the weight of ancient tradition. Garments crafted from fine silk and thread whispered softly against their pale skin, while anklets chimed in synchrony with their steps. Every fluid motion fed the flames, which glowed with an ever-intensifying blue, brighter and purer with each passing moment.A birth was imminent. A sacred event awaited.High Matron Sylvha stood at the water’s edge, her eyes locked on the laboring form of her own daughter, Aeryla, who lay atop a bed of petals and woven grass. Aeryla gripped her swollen belly with trembling hands, her knuckles white, her back arched in waves of anguish. Sweat glistened on her brow like morning dew, and her breath came in sharp, desperate gasps. The pain was primal.She did not scream, not at first. But as the contractions grew fierce and unrelenting, a single cry tore from her lips, high and sharp, breaking the reverent silence like thunder across still water. The dancers paused, but did not falter.With a final push, Aeryla gave birth. And unlike the stillness that preceded it, the child emerged with a voice that shattered the night.A sharp, keening wail—so piercing and pure that the flames erupted in a sudden, violent crescendo. The spring rippled. The dancers halted mid-step, and then——they cheered.A sound of awe, of joy. Their cries rang through the jungle like birdsong woven into wind.Matron Sylvha took the slick, shivering newborn into her arms and raised her into the moonlight. The child's skin, soft as snow’s first melt, bore an extraordinary mark—a smoldering brand in the shape of a curling flame that stretched elegantly from collarbone to breast.The child was small—far smaller than most Veena babes born before her. Her limbs were delicate, her fingers curled like wisps of smoke, and her breath came quick and sharp, as though the world had rushed to greet her before she was ready. This tribe were known for their lithe and slender frames, their bloodlines traced through generations of subtle, quiet people who moved like leaves through the wind. Even among them, she was a slip of a thing.The moment was sacred. There were no commands, no pomp. Only bowed heads and reverent silence, save for the newborn’s cry—an echo of fire in the heart of the wood. This was how the tribe greeted their young: not with fanfare, but with awe and devotion. A celebration not in sound, but in spirit. . There were no commands, no pomp. Only bowed heads and reverent silence, save for the newborn’s cry.
II. Family Traditions
She was named Lyenna, a name whispered with reverence. By the age of five, her tiny feet were already tapping out intricate rhythms on the packed earth, mirroring the heartbeat of her tribe. She was the embodiment of balance: unwavering devotion fused with rigid discipline. While other children played in the sun-dappled glades, Lyenna practiced beneath the watchful eyes of the elders. While others dreamed of distant lands, she held onto vivid memories of fire dancing in the night.Yet, her life wasn't solely marked by solemn rituals and strict discipline. Her childhood was suffused with a gentle warmth and familial love. Her father, a man with a voice like a gentle stream, would wake her in the misty pre-dawn hours. Together, they wandered the damp forest, his melodic hum of tunes from ancient times guiding them as they gathered wild ginger, berries, and sprigs of bayleaves. Their laughter filled the air as they returned home, shaking dew from their tangled hair.Her mother, a huntress as silent as a whisper with eyes the color of stormy skies, led Lyenna into the shadowy depths of the woods. There, Lyenna learned the art of stringing a bow, the subtle skill of interpreting the story told by hoofprints pressed into the mud, and the elusive ability to meld with the shadows. As dusk wrapped the woods in its embrace, her mother would light their path home with jars filled with fireflies, their gentle glow a beacon in the gathering darkness.And through it all, there was dancing—a constant, rhythmic thread woven into the fabric of Lyenna's life. For her tribe, there was no separation between life and spirit. The hunt was a sacred act. The harvest, a time-honored rite. And the dance—above all else—was the essence of life. Lyenna danced beside her father, his songs a tapestry of sound, and beside her mother, who rested her spear against the gnarled roots of ancient trees. In those moments of unity, the mark on Lyenna's chest would warm with a gentle heat.The elders, taught her to honor the flame, to soothe it with her breath, and to cherish its warmth without succumbing to its allure. Her people held firm in their belief that the Ifrit, a powerful spirit of fire, still lingered, half-asleep in the hidden folds between worlds. Their dances were not acts of worship but gestures of appeasement, offerings to the dormant force.It was whispered that the Flameborn, those like Lyenna, carried within them a fragment of the Ifrit—a shard too stubborn to fade after the great Sundering. Not summoned, not vanquished, merely biding its time. Thus, Lyenna was shaped like glass blown in fire—elegant, cool to the touch, and imbued with an alluring yet perilous beauty.Yet beyond the protective embrace of the trees, the wider world watched with hungry eyes. Other tribes, driven by necessity rather than tradition, saw Lyenna's power as an opportunity. One such tribe approached, a suitor in their ranks. They came bearing gifts wrapped in fine cloth, words honeyed with promises. But beneath the surface of their offerings lay the bitter sting of betrayal, waiting to strike.
III. Betrayal
They arrived under the guise of unity. Draped in exquisite leathers and silks, the emissaries of the Blackroot Tribe were adorned in hues as bright and rich as foxglove, a striking contrast against the verdant backdrop. These representatives bowed deeply, their gestures smooth and practiced, as they presented an offer of peace. At their forefront was Vaelhyr, a silver-tongued diplomat with a voice as smooth as polished stone, who bore gifts of shimmering trinkets that caught and scattered the light, and bottles of nightbloom wine, their deep, intoxicating aroma filling the air. He did not seek Lyenna’s hand in marriage, he claimed, but in a union of spirit.The elders of her Tribe wavered, their suspicion evident in their furrowed brows and tense silence. Yet Lyenna, simply nodded. If this union would benefit her people, she would shoulder the burden.But the union was a ruse, never to be consummated. That very night, betrayal unfurled its dark wings. The Blackroot Tribe unleashed their treachery under the cover of darkness. Blades gleamed like spectral apparitions in the moonlight, and the serene stillness of her Tribe was shattered by the cacophony of smoke and screams. Homes, meticulously carved into the ancient trees, were engulfed in flames that danced with a voracious hunger, consuming the sacred blue fire with their own violent red. The dancers, who had once moved with such grace and precision, were the first to fall, their ritualistic steps cut short. Children’s cries mingled with the elders’ wails as both were ruthlessly bound and dragged into chains.Lyenna fought embodying the very essence of wind and fire. Yet for every blaze she ignited, a dozen more were snuffed out. She was overcome, her strength no match for the treacherous tide. Bound and defeated, Lyenna watched as her tribe lay in ruins.Their enemies called it a cleansing, a profitable sacrifice. But for the
IV. The Crimson Cup
Ul’dah’s rough-hewn sandstone streets stretched out under a harsh sun, their scars etched deep without a single whisper of forest shade. The Viera arrived like an omen of lost wonder—chained and shrouded behind diaphanous veils, each breath of her carried the cloying scent of rare perfumes and foreign flowers. Her presence was paraded as an exotic marvel. In the heart of the city stood a pleasure house known as The Crimson Cup, its walls adorned with sumptuous fabrics and the glint of expensive gold; yet behind every gilded corner lurked a debased world where lavish beauty traded in secrets and bloodied suffering was delicately masked by artistic decadence.Lyenna never stepped onto the stage with honor. In the lavish halls reserved for the city’s noble qins layered in soft silks and an air of haughty superiority, she was seen only as an impossibility—a myth come to life, a living legend that men and women scoffed at. Her dances, once sacred offerings to the eternal flame, were secreted away like priceless relics, sold for clandestine viewings behind heavily lacquered doors where the world’s wealthiest peered in not with admiration, but with a possessive hunger.To the common onlookers, she was reduced to mere skin and silhouette: a veiled treasure wrapped in whispered mystery, an object of exotic desire recounted in the husky tones of opium dreams and boozy laughter. They called her "Altani," a name etched into a registry as though branding her for perpetual loss. They stripped away her past, her true identity, leaving nothing behind but an empty husk.Every time she defied their decrees, punishment was swift and brutal—starvation that gnawed at her stomach, the suffocating weight of enforced silence, and isolation so complete it swallowed any flicker of hope. The crimson silks forced upon her, rough against her skin, chafed like iron cuffs; they emblazoned her body with vibrant rouge and shimmering gold dust, turning her lips into burning embers and softening her gaze with dark, sooty lines. No one would utter her true name. To the attendants she was reduced to a pet; the clients, even cruder names. Day after day she was made to smile emptily, to serve without question, to endure the relentless erosion of her inner self.The touch of another was no solace but a violent invasion—a betrayal that shattered her core memory. Each grasp recalled the tender warmth of flickering flamelight on her skin, her father’s careful guidance as he led her small fingers over a fragrant sprig of flameleaf, and the distant echo of her mother’s call through sun-dappled woods. Now every intrusive caress unraveled another delicate thread of her soul.One day, in the solitude of her cramped chamber, she broke down completely. Kneeling by a basin filled with cold, water that could wash away nothing of the lingering stench of strangers, she allowed herself a single, silent, shuddering breakdown—a private collapse marked by trembling shoulders and fists gripping.And then—he appeared.A Hyur scholar, his clothes flecked with dust and ink from countless pages and aged scrolls clinging to his person, entered her world. He came not lured by pleasure but driven by an earnest quest for truth. Sitting quietly amid the derision of sneering onlookers, he began asking her simple, sincere questions. And when she offered no answer, he remained—steadily a silent presence in her existence. In his quiet visits he brought her small tokens of beauty: fragile, dried petals, a stack of dusty books filled with forgotten lore, and a silver hair comb, left carefully on her small table without a single word.He once sat and watched as she danced—her body moving with a pained poetry that recalled lost rituals of the flame. When she finished, instead of clapping, he merely bowed, an act so low-key and profound it resonated more deeply than any thunderous ovation might. At first, she loathed him for dredging up echoes of who she had once been. And then, gradually, the sharp edges of hatred softened into pity—then fear—for him. Soon, an unexpected need took root in her chest.In whispered exchanges beneath a veil of night, he taught her the names of faraway stars while she, in turn, recounted the intimate secrets of the ancient trees back home. In the dark, they conspired with fervent murmurs about freedom, healing, and a silence free from the relentless screams of their daily torment.Together, they plotted an escape.Yet, the watchful eyes of Blackroot were never far behind—its wealth trickling through the city's immoral gutters like blood through open wounds, each coin a testament to the price of her suffering. For she was no mere priestess with divine favor but a living monument to profit—a profitable ghost strung along the decadent strings of the powerful.On the night of their daring flight, beneath a moon that shine bright like on her birth, they slipped unobserved into the winding corridors of the Sagolii. The cool, endless desert stretched before them, its sands smooth and quiet, absorbing every desperate footstep.It was then that they were caught. As he bled in her arms under the merciless scrutiny of the desert night, her scream cut through the silence—a raw, wrenching cry that split the wind and shattered something deep within her.And then Ifrit stirred.Not summoned by incantation or ritual, but suddenly released—a feral, unstoppable force. The sky burned red, and the desert ignited into a ravaging bloom of flame. Silica transformed into glistening shards of glass, flesh was reduced to drifting ash. The notorious Blackroot names dissolved into the swirling smoke, forgotten as embers in the night. However, few of them managed to escape.In the aftermath, only Lyenna remained—her eyes empty yet hollow with unspoken grief, her hair charred to an ashen white, and a persistent mark upon her chest that flared up as if in remembrance. No longer a mark of warning, it flickered now as a solemn promise. In that haunting glow, she embraced her destiny and took on the name Altani.
V. Ashes That Drift
In the shadow of her destruction, Altani vanished, leaving behind only a barren wasteland of ash, shattered glass, and swirling rumors. Some insisted she had been consumed by the inferno, while others whispered of a spectral figure with a heart of flame, wandering the desolate deserts under the cloak of starlight.She reemerged in the East, where Thavnair’s shores greeted her with the tang of salt and the rich scent of spice, the aroma of incense gently veiling the quiet sorrow she bore. Amidst vibrant silks and bustling market stalls, where merchants hawked wares in a dozen dialects and music danced through the humid air, she found the anonymity she craved—and something else: a flicker of purpose.The Festival of Svaha was drawing near—a Thavnairian celebration held in reverence for those departed. Families crafted floating lanterns shaped like lotus blossoms, each one etched with prayers or names of the lost. These delicate creations, lit with flame kissed by aether, were released into the Font of Maya or carried skyward by enchanted wind. They were said to guide souls through the lifestream, helping them find rest—or their way home.Altani had no kin to write her name. No tribe to call her back. No lover to hold her hand. But as the sun dipped behind the gold-capped towers of Yedlihmad, and the ritual drums began to stir the evening haze, she walked alone toward the lantern grove.The trees above were woven with soft lights—glass petals that cradled violet flames, hung from ribbon and twine, each one dancing as though stirred by whispered memories. She stood beneath the bough of the eldest banyan, her blue robes trailing behind her like morning fog.And she danced.Not for coin. Not for creed. Not for calm.But for him.Every twist of her body was a memory. Every step a heartbeat. The lanterns moved with her, swaying as if mourning in harmony, casting gentle hues over her silvered hair and distant, solemn gaze.Those who gathered did not cheer. Instead, they lit their own lanterns in silence, following her rhythm not with applause, but reflection.When the last note fell to stillness, Altani took one final lantern—crafted by her own hands, painted with a curling flame—and whispered his name inside its glass shell.She placed it upon the wind.
And it rose.Now, she wanders Eorzea, dancing not for coin, nor lust, but as prayer; not a seduction, but a benediction, offered to those who carry quiet sorrow in their hearts.
Headcanons
♡ doesn’t sleep without a locked door♡ obsessed with brushing her hair♡ laughs when she’s afraid♡ has scars on her back she’s never seen♡ counts steps when she’s anxious♡ doesn’t know how to receive gifts♡ trusts animals more than people♡ judges people by their handwriting♡ doesn’t eat sweet things♡ fears softness more than death♡ afraid of being loved back
Whispers
Snatches of truth.
Half-lies. What the city says when her name brushes the wind.
She never screamed.
That’s what haunts me.
| said by former client, noble born | location shadowed room, Ul’dah
I was young. Drunk on coin and privilege. The kind of man who believed suffering was poetic, so long as it wasn’t mine. They called her Altani. Said she was new. Said she didn’t fight back. That was a lie. She didn’t scream. Didn’t plead. But gods, she looked at me like I was nothing. That look—cold, sharp, like the edge of a glass vial—is what I remember. Not the silk. Not the wine. Just the way she refused to be broken. I heard she escaped with some kind of loverboy not long after. Man,.. I hope she remembers me. I hope she does.
She smelled like ash,
...I think?
| said by: merchant of rare oils | location Steps of Thal
She came often—always cloaked, face veiled, quiet. Bought the same vial every time: jasmine steeped in river amber. Said nothing beyond the price. Never haggled.
But her scent was wrong. Beneath the florals, you smelled ash. Like fire that clung too long.
One day, she left coins marked with melted glass. The edge burned my skin.
I haven’t seen her since.
I saw her dance.The fire followed her.
| said by woodcutter near the Shroud’s edge | location East Shroud
Didn’t know what I saw at first. Just a woman in robes the color of deep red, standing barefoot in the grass. Thought she was a ghost. But then she danced.
Not like a tavern girl—like a rite. Like she was asking the forest to remember her.
The wind moved when she did. So did the fire in her lantern. Like it knew her better than we ever would.
When I came back the next night, the ground was scorched. But not a leaf was burned.