Sana Sunada
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Sana Sunada is the furthest thing from a curious figure. She isn’t interesting, compelling, nor is she especially talented in any extraordinary thing. That’s how it seems, at least, upon first meeting the girl—she’s terribly simple-seeming; it’s almost tragic. She’s square as a sugarcube and disinteresting as dust gathered in the attic; she’s a flower pressed between the pages of a book, dry and dead and faded to a pale shade of periwinkle. But of course, she has her own secret chronicle of adventures—she grew up in Doma during Garlean occupation, then sailed across the seas to Eorzea, seeking refuge. For a time, she worked as a housekeeper; for a time, she did nothing, simply existing in inn rooms. She was a lost dandelion set adrift on the wind, writing songs and poems and collecting books to learn the language. And once she’d gained her footing in her new home, fate saw it fit to undo everything in a scattering spiral of unspooling constellations and aimless stars. Fate saw it fit to tangle her in a cosmic dance that she can’t step away from.
She is easily overlooked, especially in a crowd of her own people. Everything about her is prim and pretty, but natural and understated—a beauty not unlike that of a wildflower.
She is, however, remarkably dainty. Thin and frail from head to tail to toe, the sharp contours and curves of her bones are more far apparent than those of supple sinew. Her wrists and ankles look dangerously thin, as though she’s like to topple over or break in half at any time. With virtually no curves to speak of, her bust all but disappears underneath her clothing. Her tail, too, is skinnier than average. It whips and flicks like lemongrass turning on the breeze. If it weren’t for the singsong cadence of her voice, it’d be easy to mistake her for a young male.
Typically, she wears her hair parted down the middle and pulled into two low pigtails. The hairstyle compliments her facial structure—framed by her long bangs, her gentle features are made gentler, bright eyes promising forgiveness and warmth, lips promising petal-soft kisses. The soft swell of her cheekbones and the dip of her brow into the shallow slope of her nose draw the observer’s gaze to her sleepy, half-lidded eyes, that, in the right lighting, appear dark and sultry. Her irises are the color of pale tundra flowers under an evening sky.
Most things about her are flowerlike—from her eyes to her wisteria-whispering voice to the perfume of sunlight and soil that scents her vicinity, she’s a garden of a girl, a bed of sunflowers and daisies and ruby-red petunias that nod and dance on the wind. When she talks, she’s quite animated—but the way she covers her smile with her hand and twists her hands together suggests that she’s trying to subdue herself.
Aspects that stand out:
First and foremost, she’s a people-pleaser, ever at the mercy of her loved ones when it comes to her emotional stability. But she’s ever so quiet—she just can’t overtly ask for the love that she needs; instead, she’s forever trying to subtly gain it through small, silent gestures: making rosemary tea, mending clothes, listening to woes for hours on end, or tidying up living spaces. She likes to bring people pressed wildflowers and butterfly wings as little favors of her love, but can never bring herself to put together bouquets of flowers from her garden.
If there’s one thing Sana is good at, it’s cleaning—she’s a only clear-minded person because she makes a habit of straightening things in houses. She’d like to think that she has a spotless mind, but it’s quite far from being so. She’s only very, very talented at keeping herself distracted and keeping her hands busy.
She blushes a lot and covers her mouth with her hand when she smiles; she’s known to stutter and fumble over her words when flustered—which isn't too uncommon. For this reason, she often finds herself at the end of harmless (or, actually, not so harmless) jokes that deter her from ever trying to make casual conversation again. She always bounces back, though, usually with the help of someone looking to be in mild distress. She is always one to help a stranger in peril, and that, too, lands her in a lot of trouble.
She pays attention to the tiny, easily-overlooked details, like the beetles living in her garden, or the phases of the moon.
She is a moongazer; a dreamer; a philocalist.
Aspects that stand out:
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