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 with a daring cabal of operatives and assassins during the Garlean occupation of Othard, 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.
Her horns are seashell-shaped oddities framing a pretty, pale face. Like conch shells, they unwind upon themselves, tapering into thin, taffy-twisted spirals. Like porcelain, her horns are smooth and almost silky to the touch, shining with a peachy glow in the sunlight.
Unusual, too, are her scales. As if shaped by the hand of a dollmaker, they are molded in a lace-like pattern that seems far more decorative than functional. Any dips, folds, or ridges are staggeringly shallow, terraced so uniformly that they look fake; in the places they grow thickest—which isn't thick at all—they are even pockmarked with little, symmetrical shapes of absolutely no function. She is illustrated all over, her body a most unusual canvas.
She is, put politely, dainty. Frail from head to tail to toe, the contours and ridges of her bones create for her a figure more than any curves do. Her ribcage juts from under her clothing more than her breasts swell; her legs, with her feet put together, only touch at the knees. With the move of a finger comes the twitch of a tendon on the back of her hand; her wrists look as though easily snapped—one looks like it has been snapped. Emaciated is one way to describe her—but that's rather impolite.
She wears her hair parted down the middle, often pulled into two low pigtails. The hairstyle compliments her facial structure. Framed by her long bangs, her gentle features are made gentler, eyes promising understanding and warmth, and lips promising plush and plentiful 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.
Distinguishing marks:
Common accessories:
She’s a people-pleaser, ever at the mercy of her loved ones when it comes to emotional stability. But she’s too 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 gift anything that comes straight from the heart.
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’s very talented at keeping herself distracted and her hands busy.
She blushes, stammers, and covers her mouth with her hand when she smiles; she’s known to trip over words when flustered—which isn't too uncommon. For this reason, she often finds herself at the end of harmless jokes that she takes far too seriously. 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.
Aspects that stand out:
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