...It feels like an expanse so wide it seems that there’s no point in even attempting to bridge the gap. A gut instinct that the second you dare cross the threshold that binds you to your current self, and you’ll slip under that silky surface, never to reemerge.
|Height:||5 fulms, 10 ilms|
|Nameday:||21st Sun; 4th Astral Moon|
Tio doesn't quite see the world as others may. His vision lies betwixt the objective and the subjective, emotions given colour and coalescing in the people he has any measure of feeling towards. These colours have tastes, textures, smells... some have said that it's a form of aethersight, but he doesn't seem convinced.
The Weight of Emotion
For a long while, Tio simply didn't understand emotions that weren't "moderate". Concepts such as love, hate, and deep, wretched fear were beyond him for the longest time. It's only recently that he's had these things shown to him, the bittersweet bite of feeling something so heavy that it burns in his chest when he breathes. Regulating it when they overwhelm him is... difficult. It feels like too much and nothing, all at once; the slightest touch becomes a blade in his back and the air in his lungs isn't enough to let him breathe.
Notes on the Wind
Being a Bard, Tio often busks in the city states, most frequently in Limsa. That said, his songs have been heard the realm over. If one were to venture out onto darkened streets in the late night hours, they would be like to hear melodies which tow the line between despairing and hopeful, with lyrics that can only be described as indecipherable and yet so easily felt.
There have been very few constants in Tio's life. And almost every time he thought he'd found one, it would crumble. Shatter at his touch and slip like so much sand through his fingers. In time, he's learned that he can't trust people's words. That actions are the only thing that can be truthful. And that, in time, each and every person he's come to love will abandon him...
“Black is… the sensation of silk brushing against you; a fleeting touch that cannot be replicated on purpose." 🞁
“It’s warm, and yet freezing. Boundless, but contained. A loose stain so quick to grip whatever it touches.” 🞃
“Grey is… I don’t know. I’ve never thought much about grey. Maybe there will come a day when I can put a meaning to it, but for the time being, I… I can’t.”
“Someone once told me that I was grey. That at first it seemed more like misery, but when you look closer there are many colours within it. It’s… a cute way of looking at it. And I’m honoured that someone would see so much in me.” 🞃
“But even so, I realised what grey is, to me. It’s… nothing. It’s apathy. It’s distance.” 🞃
“It’s the feeling of crippling loneliness despite being held tight to another. The sensation of lips against your own, but they don’t kiss back. The cold chill of a winter wind whipping through your window and cutting you so deep, chilling you to the bone.” 🞃
“It’s everything and nothing and so much and not enough and it will never be enough but it’s there is and it’s all you deserve because you’re not enough and you’re never going to be enough and it’s nothing it’s nothing it’s nothing it’s nothing--” 🞃
“White is… the feeling of staring over a great void. I’m too scared to look further in, lest I lose myself in it.” 🞃
“Red is… a lone rose. A spark, so definite, but you have no idea how to kindle it. It is the feeling of stepping over a cliff and feeling the wind whip through your hair as you fall. It’s adrenaline in your veins, and bile rising in your throat.” 🞁
“It’s hard to find red. Sometimes I glimpse it in the distance, but up close I realise I was deceived. I can only recall one time I’ve truly found red…” 🞃
"Orange is… calm, and yet with so much potential. Soothing to behold, but exciting - new - unrefined and pure." 🞁
“It feels like a stone tile steeped in sunlight, scathing at first touch but then so enjoyable to soak up.” 🞁
"To me, yellow is... the warmth of summer on your skin. A wildflower, late to bloom. An emotion beyond description. It's... wistful. Hopeful, but terrifying." 🞁
“It's wistful, like an echo on the breeze and you don't know who spoke it but you know it was meant for you. It's the feeling of staring over a deep, deep canyon, but knowing that you'll make it if you jump. It's... encouraging, but scary all the same.” 🞁
“It’s… cheeky. It tastes sour and sweet at the same time.” 🞁
“Green is... difficult to look at. There are times when it is beautiful, like teal, but sometimes it twists into a horrible marshy colour. But I can't hate it because of those shades. I still love it because of what it can be, and what it was… It feels like a cool breeze, on a humid day. Not entirely unwelcome, but missed when it stops…” 🞁
“It’s an ugly truth. A punch in the gut, and a slap to the face; salt in your open, bleeding wounds as you beg for the pain to cease yet cry for it to continue. But it's also the longing for something to just stay.” 🞃
“Blue is… a lullaby. It stills your nerves and sets you at ease. It wraps you in its richness, but lets you breathe when you feel as though you’re suffocating. It’s the feeling of being clutched in someone’s arms, and the feeling of brushing your fingers through someone’s hair, only for it to slip away for the last time before you say goodbye.” 🞁
“It… smells like fresh baked bread, and tastes like sweet cream.” 🞁
“Yet it is a resignment. Contentment with a situation, no matter how incontent you should feel. And it is bitter and salty like unfiltered seawater, ripe with dead fish and algae.” 🞃
“Purple is... comforting. If not a little impassive... It's strange to say, but it feels different to other colours." 🞁
“It’s my favourite. I couldn’t put a reason to it, it just feels so… right. As if I could allow myself to slip under its surface, and it would still allow me to breathe.” 🞁
“Purple is safety. It’s like an old down blanket that you've had for years but even after all this time it's still soft, and it smells like nostalgia…” 🞁
“And… it’s an inevitability. As if all things eventually return to purple, its pull inescapable. No matter how you try to twist your way from its gently caressing binds, it draws you back in and begs you to stay and accept it.” 🞃
“Pink is… an unknowable enigma. It’s a sweetness that lulls you into a serene sleep, and the dream which yet clings to you when you wake so suddenly. It feels like so many fingers tracing your skin, with an indecipherable touch.” 🞃
“I find pink in so many things. In the reflection of the rain as it falls. In the mellow warmth in your throat after alcohol. In the glint of a blade as it catches in the low light. It is everywhere and nowhere all at once.” 🞃
“I… hate pink.” 🞃