|Occupation||Trader of Interesting Goods|
|Height/Weight||6' / thin|
Appearance & Personality
Flavie is quite short for an elezen, standing 6' even. She is friendly enough on approach, though perceptive people will notice that she most often only uses conversation with strangers as a way to size people up for being useful. Flavie maintains a classy personality, though does this to her advantage as she is not bothered by getting blood on her knuckles to get what she wishes. Or... you know. Blood on the knuckles of someone else. Blood stains are a pain to get out of anything.
She can most often be found sipping an umbrella'd drink and people watching in public areas, or, if occupied in seedier areas, nursing a hookah in a corner and taking in her surroundings.
Flavie was born to poor parents in Ishgard, living out her childhood in the Brume. Being poor in a city with such intense disparity being the wealthy and the poor, Flavie learned quite early to neither like nor trust any person born to wealth. Her experiences with the Halonic theocracy of Ishgard only served to instill the same distrust in her of those she considers too devoted to the Twelve. If one day she sees the Twelve do something for her with her own eyes, great. Until that day, she considers them nothing more than inflated nobles that are probably too big for their celestial britches. And of course, as many a duskwight do, Flavie never learned the acquired taste of wildwood company.
Being poor meant going many a day without supper. Flavie learned very quickly the trades of diversion, quick hands and running like the Hells are at your heels. She stole with a code, however: those so poor as to be forced to live in the Brume she would not take from. The Pillars, however, were a different story. Rich people food tasted better, anyway.
At the age of fourteen, her father had the misfortune of being seen unknowingly conducting business with a wanted heretic. To this day, Flavie does not know what became of him, aside from being spirited away in the night. Her thievery grew more incessant, now having to help look after her aging mother. Soon, Flavie fell in with a gang by the name of the Grey Knives, a duskwight supremacist group bent on making wildwood and hyur alike pay for their perceived privilege with their purses, and (more often than not) their blood. The end result was a comfortable cushion of gil for her mother, but the price was too much for Flavie's conscience. Killing those that she felt deserved it failed to inspire a pang of guilt, but Grey Knife attacks were frequently random and without assessment of the victims. By the time Flavie decided to escape, she was too far deep. She knew that if the Grey Knives knew of her intent to leave they would kill her without a second thought.
Hatching a plan, she visited an elderly alchemist that was known to live under a bridge. Flavie purchased a potion that would change her appearance and allow her to escape with her mother, but the potion was defective and did not change her enough. Her face and body remained mostly the same, and when she tried to collect her sole remaining family member and leave anyway, her mother went missing in the crossfire. Flavie barely escaped with her life.
Flavie escaped Ishgard bruised and beaten, spending several moons wandering Coerthas seeking shelter and purpose. Eventually she wandered south, finding herself in Mor Dhona. Seeing that wealthy nobles with fat pockets were in short supply for the preying, she took a job gathering Garlean scrap metal from the Fogfens. The stream of gil was slim, but more than enough to eat and to plan.
Before long, she noticed an odd habit of her employer--the elderly hyur would lock himself in a back workshop for what seemed like hours, oftentimes even all night only to emerge, exhausted, in the morning to lock the door shut behind him. When asked, all he responded with was a wave of his hand, muttering, "Nothing, nothing. An old man has his hobbies, doesn't he?"
To a curious elezen such as Flavie, this proved nothing shy of bait. On a rare night in which the old man slept in his bed rather than his shop, she slipped through the door and found herself standing before a single-seated, tiny airship. Air rowboat, morelike. She wasn't sure what to call it, aside from the name scrawled across the side in paint--Skyblade.
She stole it. Who wouldn't? I mean... right?
The speed was unreal. Faster than a charging chocobo, faster even than Thanalan's trains! Skyblade lent itself well to building a career as a delivery girl. A year passed, then another before she learned the tricks of bargaining. How to cut a deal, how to play customers... Trading was the logical next step. And the best money was in free goods, pilfered from fat, poorly guarded caravans owned by wealthy merchants who could stand to miss a meal. No overhead!
Naturally, her market was the most profitable in Limsa Lominsa. Soon she could afford to put gil away, rather than spending it all on food and ship repairs. More gil than she knew was to do with. More than anything however, she missed her home in the Brume. This shocked her more than anything. Her childhood wasn't exactly full of cuddly, cozy memories. But that couldn't happen, not with the Grey Knives looking for her.
Then she thought of it. Her stockpile of gil was just enough to afford a hit from the Rogue's Guild. She passed the fat purse to her contact, and after two moons of hand wringing, the job was done. That easy. Just like that, the head of the Grey Knives hit the dirt of the Brume with one well-placed swing in the dark.
In the days that followed, a sad realization hit her. Killing the head of the Grey Knives brought her no joy. He deserved it, obviously. She could return to Ishgard whenever she wished without fear, but she didn't want to. As her twenty-seventh birthday came and went, Flavie decided it was time for a change. Maybe some of that structure people raved about. Cranking Skyblade's engine, she took off to search for the next adventure...
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