Nigako Deathstone

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Backstory

Though born beneath the boundless skies of the Azim Steppe, Nigako never truly felt it was home. From a young age, she was unlike the other Xaela children. She had no love for fighting, no patience for shamanistic rites, no interest in tradition. And when a contingent of Sharlayan explorers from the Studium arrived in search of aetheric anomalies, Nigako made sure she wouldn’t be left behind.Thankfully, she didn’t have to work hard to catch the eye of one particular researcher: a Hyuran sage named Thalas Fiondere. He was immediately struck by the young Xaela’s raw aetheric potential—and by the calm conviction with which she asked to leave the Steppe behind. Her quiet conviction, not her desperate circumstances, made the decision easy.The journey across the sea to Sharlayan was difficult. She had not even said goodbye to her birth family. But she endured it with the same quiet determination that would define her later years.Thalas never formally adopted her, but he became, for all intents and purposes, her father. He secured her enrollment in the Studium, where she immersed herself in a wide array of disciplines—from aetheric manipulation to the physical laws of the known world. But the discipline she spent the most time mastering, year after year, was emotional regulation. The Sharlayan faculty deemed it essential for the young Xaela, and they were not wrong in their assessment.By her twenties, tensions in Eorzea had reached their peak. The moon of Dalamud was falling, and the Forum made its infamous decision to seal Sharlayan’s borders. Thalas was furious—publicly so, for the first time in Nigako’s memory. He raged against the Forum’s inaction, and she listened, silently, to every word.When he made his decision to defy the Forum and sail for Eorzea, he asked her to come with him. To help. To stand with him.She declined.He didn’t believe her at first. Not until she turned away from the docks as he boarded his ship did he truly see what she had become: not a passionate Xaela girl from the Steppe, but a cold, logic-driven woman molded by Sharlayan ideals. She had weighed the cost and decided Eorzea was not worth saving.The night Dalamud fell—when the moon split and Bahamut emerged—she felt it. The aether screamed, the very world bending and shattering. And when the first reports came in of what had transpired, she understood what her decision had cost.She buried herself in her studies. Aetherology. Medicine. Somanoutics. Twelve years of relentless focus. By the age of twenty-four, she had earned the title of sage—a healer who commands the flow of corporeal aether through floating nouliths.But she never wore white. Not once.
Not after the docks.
Not after the fire.
Not after the loss.She wore black: a scholar’s robe and a mourner’s garb. Even fifteen years after her master’s death, she has never taken it off.Now she wanders—not exiled, but never quite home. A member of the Studium still, but distant. Detached.Working. Always working.Her emotions, like her past, carefully filed away.

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