PRUNUS SPINOSA

KNIGHT STRAIF

KIN SLAYER .

[...] like the connecting lines of a halo between a demon's horns, he stood as the antithesis of a pious, unyielding statue.

 Weary rager, vindictive wretch. 
Inhabiting the myths of men and fears of children, he scours the world clean of himself — let there be nothing left save the bitter shank of his horns in a swathe of kindred knights.

⚔︎ rule 001.

⸺ lore compliance, or lack thereof. ⸺

  I'm amenable to a little rule bending.  I think FFXIV makes room for headcanons and playing around— this being said, I prefer grounded, immersive RP.         Moderation is key!

⚔︎ rule 002.

⸺ power scaling. ⸺

  If it's believable, considerate and reasonable, I'll accept it.     This counts for even powerful characters. In FFXIV, the world has exceptional people. All I care about is not being made to play sidekick or punching bag for your OC. IC power may, and should be inequal, but all characters are important.

⚔︎ rule 003.

⸺ privacy & consideration. ⸺

  I RP as an occasional hobby.     Please, please, please do not chase me down or harass me for RP.
I appreciate the interest, but I maintain the right to refuse RP for whatever reason. I do not view it as a transactional exchange, it is for fun, and you should not rely on me for it or put me in 'debt', per se.
I am an adult. I am busy. I also enjoy my privacy.

⚔︎ rule 004.

⸺ virtue signaling. ⸺

  Surprise, I don't want certain people interacting with me.     I will not engage with you & blacklist you if you're a freak and/or asshole. Your bigotry is gauche and embarrassing to be around.
If you have AI art or, god forbid, you use AI writing in a writing hobby, I will blacklist you.
I am extremely harsh about this. No exceptions.

⚔︎ rule 005.

⸺ banned concepts. ⸺

  I will not roleplay or interact with any of the following:    
· Racist, stereotypical characters. I don't care if it's canon compliant, it's bad there too. 'Tribal' miqo'te, weeaboo-esque au ra, etc;
· Fantasy racists. Racist Garleans, Ishgardians, etc;. Not my struggle, not my place. Don't like it, I won't RP with it.
· 'F*tas', 'traps', or any other transmisogynistic archetypes are not accepted. Trans people are not and should not be your fetish.
· Any concerning depictions of lalafell, padjali, pelupelu, etc;
· Under no circumstances, EVER: sexual assault, pedophilia, or incest.

⚔︎ rule 006.

⸺ out of game friendship. ⸺

  It's not likely.     I appreciate if you've had fun or if you enjoy my character, or even me! However, outside of rare instances, I prefer to keep things ingame. I'm sure all of us have at one point or another have had a bad experience with other RPers in this game. Let's keep it slow and steady!

⚔︎ Knight Straif.

⸺ Wandering Kinslayer

❝ he was the color of blood, not the springing blood of the heart, but the blood that stirs under an old wound that never really healed. ❞

  PERSONALITY    A man dedicated to appearing as though he isn't a man at all. The knight orbits civilization with nary a word spoken; all cruel, ugly metal barbs, and a domineering intensity that chokes the air only half as much as the pungent stench of iron. He had, perhaps, at one point in his life, been more than the ancient oath he carries— but for all he shows, the armor may as well be bereft of an entity at all.

⚔︎ history.

              The Knight Straif is a drifter down from Ishgard— an elusive wanderer in the Black Shroud seemingly escaping conviction for his many crimes of vigilantism within the Holy See. Deemed 'kinslayer' as more an honor than a derision, he hunts down the maddened of his peers; those who fell victim to their own Darkside.

               It is a rarity that elezen of such advanced age escape service in the Dragonsong War, where even the height of nobility see some call to enter the fray and place their mortal lives in danger, and he was no exception to this rule. Scouted for the war effort as soon as he had grown of height and body for it, the Knight served for a time as a common pikeman before his skill and dedication entered him into the unfathomable training regiment of the Knights Dragoon.

                As ever, the brutality of the war and the suicidal nature of a dragoon soldier formed a natural pipeline from loyalty to disillusionment. In Ishgard, through battle there is either zealotry and discontent born as everyday men and women fall through the cracks in the name of the Fury. During his thirties, the Knight was betrayed and left to die, his arm mauled beyond repair and his tour permanently ended in disgrace and slander.

               Enraged by a life hard lived and the corrupt indulgences of his leaders and so-called betters, the ingrained call of combat and iron arose once more—and in his own kind of zealotry, he would be the arm of Halone, her honest and bloody justice.

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⚔︎ dossier.

strengths

weaknesses

flaws

  + ADDITIONAL DETAILS    His extreme silence is only matched by his internal neuroticism. The knight exists in a state of general paranoia, endlessly suspicious of those around him and always on guard. His favored solution has ever been violence, and his desperate cling to sanity is all that prevents his lashing out.

⚔︎ physical.

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  APPEARANCE    A towering elezen clad in chain and steel. His oppressive aura precedes him like smoke through grass; the man is inapproachable to the average civilian. His Coerthan heritage, not unlike the Wildwood's eyesight and Duskwight's hearing, possesses him with longer limb and broader frame. Beneath the armor is an aged man, wrinkled and grey with a sharpness of feature matched only by his temper.

❝ A terrible light poured from him like sweat, and his roar started landslides flowing into one another.
his horns were as pale as scars. ❞

⚔︎ Orchestrion

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⚔︎ abilities

⚔︎ biography

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⚔︎ adventure

⚔︎ beginning

It is a warm day in Coerthas when Keiteaux is born by his mother Karlotta and under the anxious, doting watch of his other mother, Odoux. Within the span of a month the babe is taken out to see his first glimpse of beauty in this world—the lush, rolling green fields of the highlands and all its towering pines. The sky is blue, blue beyond measure, and cradled lovingly atop the white peaks of endless mountains.It is a cold day in Coerthas when Killefort is born, too late to meet his second mother as she has already departed for the front. The snow falls and blankets cobbled streets and grass both, and though Keiteaux misses his mother dearly, he is pleased to have the company of a sibling. In his youth, it is only a few years before he stops remembering to ask where Odoux has gone, much to the silent despair of Karlotta.There are no accolades nor honors in war that can justify the void a loss of life leaves, nor the pain of watching it gradually fill in with dust. The world moves on, and so do children—even when they should not. Even when it is the last thing that should be possible.Odoux Monois lives on as a pair of words in an engraving, and not as a loving parent. Her two sons grow up failing to think of her often, and Ishgard fights its eternal Thousand Year War with its perpetually replenishing stock of soldiers.

Most every child born in Ishgard will inevitably face the call of battle. From the day they open their eyes they are immersed in the culture of battle and faith; the worship of Halone, in which combat is holiness and hapless sacrifice valor. The city from its foundations to its spires is built for war and revels in it. Tournaments, gallant knights, myths and heroes grown around truths like a pearl around a piece of sand. A dazzling, idealistic world of chivalry and purity.The young Kisarre boys enlist for war as soon as they are able. It is there in their training that they are weathered by noble suffering and moral blood lust. To die in glory is the highest honor, nearly the sole salvation of the sinning soul. To die for Ishgard is just. To die for Ishgard is your purpose. It is the decree of the Fury. You are her tools. You are her weapon.A dragoon's Drachen armor is specialized. A suicidal suite of metal, pocked with blades and spikes so that in the inevitable moment they are seized by a dragon and its kin, they are to cause as much damage as possible while devoured alive, kicking and screaming.Idealism dies. Keiteaux watches an endless march of lives throw themselves into the corpse pile.

⚔︎ middle

So too in terrible pain in war there is glory. Disregarding of the horror and terror, the accolades and kills are means to lavish your life in Ishgard. To kill a dragon is to become rich in standing, to kill multiple is to toe the line of legends.Keiteaux is an efficient killer, hiding his apathy and despair behind a glittering smile and affable manner. He is popular among the troops he supports, and catches the eye of many hopeful newcomers. When the Heavens' Ward decree him serve his goddess in righteous service to the archbishop, he denies the call, jokingly citing an unwanted vow of celibacy.To turn down such an honor, and so brazenly, incites jealous rage. In a single moment he finds himself the enemy of many—and most especially his covetous younger brother, who had grown to despise his growing lack of faith in the war. For those with lack of power, opportunities must be made with subterfuge and wit.On a dual strike with his brother on a lone dragon, Keiteaux is betrayed by Killefort and left to die alone. In his extended absence and haggard wound-sleep, his reputation is dashed on the rocks and his stardom is ended.

⚔︎ end

In the aftermath of his fall from grace, Keiteaux tries to pick up the pieces of his life and resume it in relative comfort and obscurity— made difficult by the scars and disabilities war had left him with. Chronic pains, a missing limb and fading vision due to head trauma. For a near decade he shambled through Ishgard as more ghost than man, his wounds no longer a badge of honor as much as something people wince and turn away from.In an attempt to restart his life and make something good from the salvage, the remnants of his war profits and disintegrating reputation allowed him to curry aid from House Durendaire, the very house which his traitorous brother assigned fealty to in order to propel himself upward in Ishgardian society. Under the auspices of the noble house, Keiteaux began a library of the name 'Heavens' Word', and through its monetary gain began a project of greater proportion.A school was his intent. An academy with the intent of allowing students of all stripes attend, whether they be lowborn or high, Ishgardian or otherwise. Such idealistic goals were a bad fit for an aging man, and a worse fit for the conniving hands of his superiors within the city. At every turn, he was given just enough to scrape by and nothing more, kept under the thumb of his more socially influential sibling.

At some point in the endless toil and the withering of his wits, the rage and sorrow began to metastasize. Solidifying in his heart and soul like a calcified stone, a needling, dark little thing. And it grew. It grew, and grew, and grew, as years marched on and conditions failed to improve. A lifetime of turning his cheek to the quiet and constant horror and abuse surrounding him— the complacency to look away as those around him are beaten into the mud again, and again, and again.And not only that, he was one of them. A victim of the endless bloody runoff of Ishgard, red spilling down those lofty spires and buttresses. The city is propped up on nothing but blood and suffering, down to the very marrow.In an instant a small thread within snapped. As if it had been there all along, the stone appeared in hand, and from frightened stories whispered in hushed tones he knew what it was. From then on, each night, Keiteaux would descend into the Brume and further into the labyrinthine alleys and tunnels of lower Ishgard, collecting occult knowledge and eldritch truth like coin and gem. Spiraling into the abyss—his own cultural heritage.Taking lives was familiar. The sense of justice a comfort. In Ishgard, the cycle of vengeance goes unbroken by all.

⚔︎ bonds

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⚔︎ worlds

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⚔︎ verse name

⸺ verse subtitle ⸺

• about
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• about
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⚔︎ verse name

⸺ verse subtitle ⸺

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⚔︎ memoir

⸺ all art by me. ⸺

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