Dearest Elder Seedseer,

As I soar through the skies of Eorzia, my heart remains grounded in Gridania. I may still be a stranger in your realm, but the love I possess for you is as primal as Bahamut himself. Not even Odin's mighty sword could render it twain.

Neither could our difference in years. Rumors suggest you look young for your age. I prefer older women anyway. I myself am no spring flower who naively boasts of delivering letters between neighbors or culling the pests of the Shroud. I have more valiant quests to my name and the crystals to prove them, but surely a woman of your experience has no need for a narcissist. I would happily smile and nod as I listen to your wisdom, enthralled by the melody of your voice. My harp fails to do it justice.

The threat of the empire drags me away into battle, but should you call, know that I would always return to you no matter the cost, even if it were a thousand gil. T'would be a bargain to gaze at your beautiful face again. Not even the elementals themselves could banish me from your sight, and if I were to suffer greenwrath for such blasphemy, I would gladly be buried knowing that I would rise again among the oak in the South Shroud. Patiently, I would wait for the day a botanist came to chop me down so that a carpenter could fashion me into a staff made just for you. The primals would not rival the magic of our union.

Please be my Valentione, Kan-E-Senna.

Eternally yours,
Angela Ciel'a of Marlboro

P.S. Pardon my boldness, but would you happen to have Noble Barding? I would like it very much.