Does your character have a backstory? If so, what is it?
I saw a thread like this a couple days ago but it only got 2 replies, which is sad because something like this is super interesting to me in something like an MMO.
What did your character do before coming to their starting city state? Do they have a goal? Who were they before they became the Warrior of Light?
Here's mine, just as an example:
Negative Space, the last of his clan, came to Eorzea from the faraway land of [unidentified] to learn the coveted art of Sharlayan astrology in a futile bid to bring his kind back from the aethereal sea. Unfortunately he ended up being inadvertently scooped up by Hydaelyn, and though his original goal has since fallen by the wayside, he has decided that saving the star from the Empire and otherworldly forces was more important for the time being, since he can't bring his clan back if the star is gone or under the yoke of a tyrant. Since he has joined with the Scions, and has used their resources (unbeknownst to Tataru) to study his original goal, deciding to further pursue Sharlayan technology in his bid, between Alphinaud and Alisaie breathing down his neck to go murder something.
He has since gotten very tired of being shaken around like a chore-doing ragdoll, and fully intends to blow a hole through Zenos' head with a noulith and flip Hydaelyn the bird before going back to his homeland at the end of Endwalker... if he gets there.
'Negative Space' isn't his real name, as he doesn't want to be connected to his clan just in case the ones who wiped them out come to finish the job. He intends to keep this name until either his clan is recovered, or if he ever determines this to be impossible.
(Disclaimer: I did look for an RP/AAR subforum and didn't find it, so if there's somewhere else this should be then I apologize in advance)
They named her Serenity Reaver part 1
They named her Serenity Reaver because the elders could never agree whether she was peace incarnate or the harbinger that would rend their world. The only daughter of Nhaama and Niziim, she was born before the shaping of the Au Ra—when the world was still a place of raw, living aether and the great wyrms governed the tides of fate. Even as an infant she was an anomaly: short in stature but perfect in compact, with short raven-black hair threaded through with silver like moonlight torn through ink. Her right eye drank the dark like an abyss; her left shone cold and pale as the moon. Her lips were small and perpetually pursed in a contempt she had not yet learned to mask. Her pale, moonlit skin was patterned in dark, star-pricked scales that ran like constellations across her shoulders. Two large, elegant horns crowned her head; a second, smaller set rose where ears might have been on lesser things. From her back erupted wings of burnished gold—large, feathered, and impossible against the night-slate of her scales.
The wyrms Nhaama and Niziim loved her in different ways. Nhaama taught her patience, the slow, patient turning of seasons; Niziim taught her violence, the hunger of storms. Where one sought balance, the other sought dominion. Their quarrel was the slow weathering of a continent—an argument about how aether should be held and who ought to answer to it. Serenity grew between those voices, learning to temper the first’s mercy with the second’s edge. She listened to both, and in that listening something in her answered that neither parent could truly claim.
When the first need for a fixed anchor of aether arose—so that travelers might cross songless wastes and fledgling peoples learn to bind themselves to the world—Serenity went where neither wyrm dared. She walked into the raw vein of the planet’s heart and offered herself not in hatred but as a tether: a living lattice, a sacrifice so that aether might be made fixed and known. In the slow, bright agony of crystallization her essence splintered into new things—hard, singing nodes that would later be called aetheryte crystals. Those crystals became beacons and crossroads for everything that would come after, and in that moment the first true boundary between Nhaama and Niziim was drawn. Each claimed her offering in different words: one said she had sanctified the world, the other that she had been taken by theft. Theirs became a rift over ownership of what her death had wrought, and from that schism the first factions arose that would, ages later, shape the blood and customs of the Au Ra
They named her Serenity Reaver part 2
They named her Serenity Reaver
Serenity’s crystallization was not kindly: it was a stasis without promise of return. For centuries her name became a whisper and then nothing. Whole cultures learned to use the nodes her body birthed without ever asking what the living anchor had been. Her story became a rumor in the margins of wyrm-tales, then a fable, then dust. Nhaama and Niziim changed too—hardened by blame, their threads in the world pulled apart until they spoke at cross-purposes, shaping different lines of progeny and different doctrines about aether. The creatures who would become the Au Ra were born into the shadow of that quarrel, inheriting scales and horns and a reverence for crystalline anchors without knowing the woman who made them.
Then, in the fourth year of the Seventh Umbral Era, a tremor ran through the net of those ancient nodes. A party of scavengers and scholars, following an odd aetheric signature beneath a ruined plateau, shattered a long-dormant crystal—and in the slow, terrified spilling of light, Serenity unfolded. She did not return aglow with wyrm-essence or the blazing authority of a dragon; she stepped free carried on breath and memory, mortal, bewildered, and without the celestial power that had sustained her as an anchor. The world had forgotten her names and kept only her work. Where she had been the heart of aetheric law, she woke merely a woman with a past worth kingdoms.
Her body bore the proof of both sacrifice and reprieve. The star-scales had not vanished; the dark of her right eye still looked bottomless, and her moonlit left eye still caught and gave light. Her golden wings folded about her like a relic kept from a dream. But the songs of wyrm-counsel no longer rose in her veins. She felt hunger, cold, pain, the clumsy treacheries of mortality. Memory returned in shards—snatches of Nhaama’s lullabies, Niziim’s thunderous commands, a corridor of light and the smell of forming crystal—but never whole. More troubling: when she reached out to touch the crystals she had birthed, they answered with echo and not with kinship. The nodes were useful, holy, desired—but they no longer recognized her as their maker.