Lucas Vaynard

Blade Vaynard grew up with Bozja's dirt under his nails and its blood in his veins. Born in the slums, raised by the Resistance, he learned early that love for his homeland came hand in hand with hate for the Empire that shattered it. Lucas gets along with most folk well enough. He carries a crooked smile, laughs easy, and has a knack for picking at people just to see how they jump. He watches out for others too. Not with soft words, but with a rough shove or a sharp word when it matters.The wars might have ended, but the fight in him never did. These days, he runs jobs for the Resistance, quiet ones, the kind nobody likes talking about. Off the clock, he throws himself into everything he missed. Cards, bottles, beds. Chasing a good time the way a drowning man chases air.Flirtatious, reckless, and impossible to pin down, Lucas lives the same way he fights. Fast. Messy. All in.

History

I - Dalamud's Mercy

Nought loves another as itself, nor venerates another so, nor is it possible to thought a greater than itself to know.

II - Parabola

Dear Mother, dear Mother, the Church is cold, but the Ale-house is healthy & pleasant & warm. Besides I can tell where I am used well, such usage in heaven will never do well.

III - Unbroken Promise(WIP)

He who torments the Chafers Sprite, weaves a bower in endless night. The caterpillar on the leaf repeats to thee thy mother's grief. Kill not the moth nor butterfly, for the Last Judgment draweth nigh.

Others

I - The Philosopher's Stone

Think not thou cant sigh a sigh, and thy Maker is not by. Think not thou cant weep a tear, and thy Maker is not near.

I - Dark Missionary(WIP)

Soon spreads the dismal shade of Mystery over his head; and the Caterpillar and Fly, Feed on the Mystery.

Screenshot

Artwork

NSFW Art

Lucas Vaynard grew up in Martrvje, a Bozjan port city long eroded beneath the heel of the Garlean Empire. By the time he could form memory, Bozja was already conquered; its people wore the still, resigned expressions of those who no longer dared to hope. Poverty hung in the air like mildew. Orphans nested in alleyways, their sunken eyes tracking passersby who gave neither coin nor comfort. Lucas knew those faces. He had worn them once.His mother had been a prostitute, but when Lucas came into her world, she tried to abandon that life. She turned instead to fishing, rising early to cast nets into the gray waters of the bay. She sold her catch at the docks, hawking small, thin fish to whoever would pay. It was never enough. On days when the nets came up empty, Lucas pretended not to notice when men slipped quietly into their shack. He closed his ears to the muffled voices behind curtains, focusing instead on mending torn nets or cleaning fish until the bitter smell erased everything else.It was this hidden life that eventually hollowed out his mother. She grew pale and sickly, collapsing finally into a bed from which she did not rise. Lucas was ten then, too young to understand why the world seemed inimical to them, but old enough to carry their survival on his shoulders. He took over his mother's tasks, fishing from dawn to dusk. When nets alone could not fill their stomachs, he ran errands for men whose names he never learned. He stole when he had to, fought other children for scraps, and bartered bruises for bread.He never thought to question if life could be different; his only goal was to live long enough to see another dawn.On the day the sky broke, Lucas had convinced an outsider fishing crew to take him onto their boat. It was not charity; he worked hard for every scrap of gil and fish he earned. That day, luck was with him, and their nets filled quickly. Yet as they turned back toward Martrvje, the horizon flashed scarlet, brighter than any flame Lucas had ever known. Silence followed, deep and haunting, and when the fishermen saw black smoke rising from inland, they turned their boat away from shore. Lucas argued, pleaded, then finally leaped overboard, swimming ashore as panic clutched at his chest.

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By the time Lucas reached the city, chaos had descended. Martrvje had not taken the blast directly, but its people fled anyway, trampling each other in blind panic. He ran through crowds to their small shack, only to find it already stripped bare. His mother was nowhere to be found; neighbors had vanished, and the streets stood empty, scattered with broken belongings and smoldering debris.His grief turned to rage, raw and reckless. In his despair, he flung himself at an Imperial patrol, hurling insults and stones. He knew they would kill him, but he did not care. Death felt simpler. Yet before the soldiers could strike him down, strangers appeared from the shadows, swiftly dragging him away.These strangers were the first whispers of rebellion, Bozjans who refused to surrender quietly to oblivion. They spirited Lucas out of the city, hiding him among fleeing refugees. He had survived, but Martrvje was lost, along with any shred of innocence he had left.In the years that followed, the Bozjan Resistance grew around him. Camps turned into fortresses, and scavenged tools became weapons. Lucas had no schooling or teachers, save the men and women who taught him where to thrust a blade. Childhood ended the day they placed steel in his small hands, telling him he was no longer a boy, but a soldier. And though he learned quickly to kill and survive, he never forgot Martrvje, his mother, or the reason he fought: not for ideals or banners, but because someone had to strike back.That was enough for him.

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At sixteen, Lucas Vaynard was captured during a failed skirmish. Though hardened by six years in the Resistance, he was still young and far from exceptional. His knack for violence, while instinctive, had yet to become skill. He was taken alive and brought to Castrum Lacus Litore, where the IVth Legion held prisoners for interrogation, experimentation, and forced conversion.There, under the supervision of Sicinius mal Vellutus’s protégés, Lucas became one of many test subjects. Standard auracite procedures failed to produce any reaction. In time, the researchers resorted to a different specimen—an anomalous stone recovered from the ruins of Bozja Citadel, a remnant pulsing faintly with aether. Its properties differed from conventional auracite. Less structured. Less understood. Yet the stone responded. Not to machines or calculations, but to pain.Lucas was subjected to daily experiments. He was cut, broken, and rebuilt. They tested the stone’s response to trauma, believing physical suffering would draw out deeper resonance. It worked. The stone accepted him. Wounds that should have ended him began to mend within minutes. Eyes regrew in sockets. Torn flesh knit itself together. But regeneration was not clean. It came with voices, with visions, and a growing inability to rest. Lucas could not sleep without feeling pulled toward violence. He began to lose track of himself. His own screams dulled into silence, replaced by something older and more primal whispering beneath his thoughts.When the Resistance liberated Castrum Lacus Litore, Lucas was found alive. Though his body had healed, his mind remained fractured. He was silent for days. Then volatile. He drowned himself in drink and vice, and kept to those few who never looked at him like he was broken. Some treated him as a comrade. Others, as something to be feared. Either way, he returned to service.

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He refused rank. Promotions were offered, but he turned them down with a smile and a joke. In truth, he feared responsibility. He did not trust himself to lead, convinced that if he failed, others would die because of him. Instead, he remained in the field, taking on more and more dangerous assignments. His performance changed. He grew bolder, more aggressive. When wounded, he returned faster than seemed possible. Some whispered that he was no longer mortal. Others believed the Garleans had turned him into a weapon. Lucas never answered either claim.Despite the stone’s pull, it was the Resistance that kept Lucas anchored. His commanding officers earned his respect early, and many came to treat him as kin. Over time, he formed bonds that ran deep, even falling in love with a Hyuran girl. That ended in grief. She was slain during an assault, and whatever faint hope he held of a quieter life perished with her.Since then, Lucas has lived without expectation. He drinks. He fights. He laughs louder than he should. To most, he is a brash, foul-mouthed older brother figure. He causes more trouble than he's worth, yet remains indelibly loyal. Only a few discern the truth. The noise, the swagger, and the heedless courage are all a façade, carefully constructed. He has nothing left but the war, and even less to anticipate.Still, he continues. Not out of duty. Not even out of vengeance anymore. He fights because he does not know how to stop.

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The stone embedded in Lucas is a corrupted fragment of auracite, pulled from the ruins of the Bozja Citadel after the Incident. It was never refined or carved into something usable. It formed on its own, shaped by aetheric trauma and dynamis pooled from thousands who perished in panic and fire. Their deaths gave it form; an echo of agony, clinging to the material world. The IVth Legion dismissed it as unstable and inert. But when grafted into Lucas, it stirred.It did not bond with him the way a soul crystal might. It clung. Fed off his anger and need. The stone fused to his aether like a parasite, awakening two abilities not taught, but triggered. Each use frays something inside him. It sharpens his senses, then gnaws at the walls between his thoughts and the stone’s whispers. Still, he keeps it. Not as a weapon, and not as a curse. Just the one thing that always answers back.Aetheric Restoration – The stone accelerates his physical recovery to unnatural speeds. Cuts close quickly, and limbs or organs lost to battle regenerate if the core remains intact. However, damage to the head or aetherflow can lead to long-term mental instability. While his body survives, his memories and perception are not guaranteed to remain whole.Magickal Resonance – Through the auracite, Lucas can manifest spells fueled by emotion rather than training. His abilities mimic those of ancient Dark Knights, drawing on grief, anger, and protective instinct to conjure shields, dark projectiles, or bursts of shadow. These powers are unstable and reactive, more instinct than discipline, and each casting deepens his connection to the crystal’s fractured soulscape.

NSFW

Hello, welcome to this section. I just want to make it very clear that although Lucas lives an incredibly hedonistic lifestyle, that doesn’t mean ERP is all I’m after. While there’s complexity to explore in writing skinship and vice, it isn’t my focus. My writing isn’t pornographic or gratuitous, so none of that hentai shit.Lucas might flirt or tease, but that doesn’t reflect me, the player. That’s him. He’s a character. With that said, if you’re looking for someone who primarily writes in that style, I’d hate to disappoint and would suggest looking elsewhere. Otherwise, it’s plot first.