ㅤdo notㅤㅤ approach me with any kind of real-world bigotry toward people's race, gender, religion, or culture. Extremism of any kind is not welcome in my space, as such I expect my RP/Gaming partners to treat everyone with kindness and respect. I want all of my friends, no matter their lifestyle to feel safe and welcome.

ㅤdo notㅤㅤseek to roleplay with me if you or your character are under the age of 21+ | I am aware that the legal age is 18 in most places, but that does not matter.

ㅤdo notㅤㅤassume that just because I didn't post in a timey matter or took a day to myself that the RP is over. I do attend college classes & have OOC obligations.

ㅤdo notㅤㅤcome to me looking for a romantic or sexual OOC relationship. Just because I am poly and have partners, does not mean I want a relationship with you. Yes, this has been a problem in the past. I am happy taken IRL.

ㅤdoㅤㅤKeep things simple, I'm just here to have fun and find a few fun roleplay/gaming partners. While I love detailed and complex stories, I don't want to jump threw hoops just to put our character in the same room or to meet for the first time.

ㅤdoㅤㅤApproch me for roleplay if you are 21 years of age or older! I would love to hear your ideas or what you find interesting in my request..

ㅤdoㅤㅤcommucate with me! If you have questions, feel free to ask.

ㅤdoㅤㅤask to be friends! I love doing stuff like content & talking about our muses.

ㅤdoㅤㅤ understand I have a family, health issues, and OOC obligations. If I can not roleplay with you, it does not mean I don't want to. I might be slow to get into the game some weeks, if at all. As such, I do prefer Discord as an alternative means of writing as I can get to it any time of day from my phone or computer.

― strength

― flaws

― history

ㅤbiographyㅤ
Ash Marchand entered the world on a cold Ishgardian night, beneath a sky streaked with frost and the distant roar of Dravanian wings. Her birth was no grand affair—no noble banners hung, no priests chanted blessings. She was born in a merchant’s manor, lavish yet lacking the ancient stone and sacred lineage of the great houses. Her family teetered on the edge of something greater: almost wealthy enough to rival the elite, almost respected enough to sit at their tables, almost legitimate enough to silence the murmurs of shady dealings that clung to their name like damp rot. Almost was a bitter word, and Ash learned its sting before she could walk.Her father, Armand Marchand, was a man carved from ambition and shadow. A merchant lord with a hawk’s eyes and a serpent’s patience, he had no title to boast of, no ancestral vault of gold—but he had something better: leverage. His warehouses brimmed with goods the nobility craved yet could not procure through honorable means—spices from distant lands, steel forged beyond Ishgard’s borders, herbs whispered to heal wounds the church deemed divine punishment. When the war with the Dravanians bled the city dry, the proud houses turned to him, their disdain masked by necessity. He thrived in their desperation, a vulture feasting on carrion they refused to acknowledge.Ash grew up in this world of veiled transactions and unspoken power. Her nursery was not a cradle of lullabies but a ledger of debts owed. Her father saw no need for a son—sons were liabilities, brash and eager to prove themselves, apt to topple what he’d built in a fit of pride. A daughter, though? A daughter could be honed, molded, sharpened into a blade that bore his mark. From the moment Ash’s tongue formed words, Armand fed her the language of survival: coin, contract, consequence. She perched on a velvet stool at his knee during late-night meetings, her dark eyes absorbing every gesture—the way a noble’s lip curled when outmaneuvered, the tremble in a rival’s hand as he signed away his fortune. She learned that power wasn’t a crown or a sword; it was the invisible thread that bound men to your will.Her education was relentless. Tutors drilled her in arithmetic until she could calculate profit margins in her sleep, taught her the labyrinthine etiquette of Ishgard’s courts until her curtsies were flawless, her smiles lethal. She memorized the noble houses like a litany: House Durendaire’s martial pride, House Haillenarte’s fractured alliances, House Fortemps’s quiet honor. She knew their feuds, their scandals, their soft underbellies. She studied rhetoric and charm, how to disarm with a laugh or a well-timed blush, how to make a lord feel he’d won even as she slipped the knife between his ribs.Above all, she internalized her destiny. Armand had forged House Marchand from the mud of obscurity, his hands stained with the grit of his climb. Ash was his blood, his legacy distilled into a single, perfect vessel. She would not—could not—let it slip away to some preening noble who’d wed her for her dowry and chain her to a hearth. If she married, it would be her choice, her weapon—a union to elevate her, not constrain her. The game was hers to play, and she intended to win.

― The Training of a Predator

By sixteen, Ash was no longer a spectator. She was a player.Armand, ever the pragmatist, saw her potential and loosed her on small tasks—negotiating with minor traders, overseeing shipments of contraband silks, penning letters to their less savory allies in the Brume. Each was a test, a gauntlet thrown at her feet. He watched her with the wariness of a man who trusted no one, not even the child he’d raised. But Ash didn’t merely rise to the challenge—she soared.When a wool merchant tried to shortchange House Marchand, passing off inferior stock as premium fleece, Ash sniffed out the lie in a single glance at the ledger. She didn’t confront him outright. Instead, she invited him to dinner, all sweetness and deference, then fed his competitors whispers of his deceit. Within a fortnight, his contracts were gutted, his rivals enriched, and House Marchand quietly claimed a percentage of the spoils. The merchant never knew who’d undone him.When a lesser noble—a swaggering third son of House Dzemael—cornered her at a ball and pressed for a betrothal, assuming her a decorative trifle, Ash turned the tables. She feigned interest, let him boast of his lineage, then unearthed a gambling debt he’d buried. A few well-placed rumors later, his own kin cast him out, leaving him a pariah too broken to pursue her. She’d smiled at him across the room as he fled, her expression a mask of pity.In Ishgard’s glittering halls, she became a phantom—present yet untouchable, welcomed yet untrusted. She wore the role of the merchant’s daughter like armor: soft-spoken, modest, a vision in silks that belied the steel beneath. But in the shadowed parlors and back rooms, she hunted. Every overheard slight, every slurred confession from a wine-soaked lordling, she hoarded like gold. She knew which knight had sold his honor for gil, which lady wept over a lover lost to the war. Knowledge was her currency, and she spent it sparingly.By eighteen, Ash was no longer just Armand’s shadow. She was a predator in her own right, her name whispered with a mix of awe and unease. She craved more—not just survival, but dominion.

― The First Betrayal

Power demands sacrifice, and Ash’s ascent painted a target on her back.House Valmont, a noble line crumbled by missteps in the Dravanian war, saw House Marchand as their ladder back to grace. Ash had been sparring with their heir, Edric Valmont—a golden-haired peacock with a quick smile and a dull mind. He thought their exchanges a dance of equals: her wit against his charm, her deals against his lineage. He fancied her a prize to be won, a merchant’s daughter dazzled by his noble blood. She let him believe it.In truth, she’d been baiting him for months. She dangled crumbs of information—half-truths about Marchand shipments, hints of vulnerable allies—watching him scramble to seize an advantage. All the while, she wove a trap: a trade deal that would bind Valmont to Marchand’s terms, indebting them until their name was a footnote in her ledger. She was days from closing the noose when Armand struck.He’d been watching, as he always did. Suspicion gnawed at him—not of her competence, but of her independence. He summoned her to his solar, his voice a low growl as he accused her of overreaching, of gambling House Marchand’s stability for personal glory. She protested, calm and precise, laying out her plan’s perfection. He didn’t listen. To him, her initiative was rebellion.In a single, brutal stroke, he tore her scheme apart. He leaked the deal to Valmont’s rivals, exposed their desperation in open court, and crushed them—not with Ash’s elegance, but with a hammer’s force. Valmont reeled, humiliated, and Edric’s flirtations turned to venomous glares. Armand’s message was unmistakable: House Marchand was his domain, and Ash was still his tool.But he miscalculated. That night, as she stood in the wreckage of her plan, Ash felt the scales fall from her eyes. She’d always known her father’s ruthlessness, had admired it even. She’d assumed he’d one day see her as his equal, his heir in truth. Now she saw the lie. Armand had shaped her not to inherit, but to serve. If she wanted his empire, she couldn’t wait for his blessing.She would have to seize it.

― A Search for the Perfect Pawn

Now twenty-one, Ash wages a silent war. Her battlefield is the drawing rooms and ballrooms of Ishgard, her weapons words and secrets, her armor a smile that never reaches her eyes. Armand still calls her his pride, his invaluable daughter, blind to the venom brewing beneath her loyalty. She bides her time, studying him for cracks, sowing seeds for the day she’ll topple him from his throne.She cannot do it alone.She needs a husband—not a soulmate, not an ally, but a puppet. A nobleman with a name to unlock doors she cannot yet breach, yet pliable enough to bend to her design. She’s begun the hunt, a spider spinning her web across Ishgard’s elite.She courts them with precision. To the ambitious—like Ser Guilbert, a knight with dreams of command—she offers flattery and coy promises, only to retreat when his hunger turns possessive. To the competent—like Lord Renaud, a sharp-eyed widower—she tests their mettle, probing for arrogance she can exploit; they’re too dangerous, too aware. To the useless—like the dissolute heir of House Borel—she offers pity, but their squandered potential is a liability she can’t afford.Her ideal prey is specific: wealthy yet weakened, titled yet teetering, desperate yet oblivious. A man who’ll sign her contracts, parrot her words, and vanish when she’s wrung him dry. She plays the ingénue flawlessly—eyes wide with wonder, laughter a delicate chime—while her mind tallies every flaw, every lever she can pull.When she finds him, she’ll strike. She’ll drape him in affection, murmur vows of devotion, and bind him so tightly he’ll never see the threads. Ash Marchand will rise, not as a merchant’s daughter, but as a queen in all but name—her father’s empire hers, her enemies ashes, her future forged in gold and guile.

Settings

Places

Underhand & Blackmail.

It is known that the Marchand House has had dealings with less-than-legitimate sources across Coerthas and Dravania, though their claims that such only began after the end of the war are only just convincing enough to avoid censure. Rumors of even more unethical practices abound, though proof is scarce as warm weather in Ishgard, and Armand guards his family's secrets jealously.

A Morally Gray Patsy.

It does not matter how one gains power, just the fact they are able to hold onto it and not get caught. It is this mindset that has led Ash into doing things that might get the young woman into a lot of trouble. Doing what she has to to earn the favor of the rich and powerful. Favors? Task? Schemes?

Her Father's Daugther.

Daughter of Merchant Master Armand, Ash knows the interworkings of her father's trade routes. Because of this, the young Merchant's Daughter knows how to get her hands on not only trade goods, but artisan furniture, luxury items, wines, liquors, and high-quality clothing and jewelry.

A Way to Her Heart.

Ash walks a familiar path to those trying to climb the social ladder - a charted path toward Nobility and the wealth and prestige it brings: Ash is, in fact, looking for a husband. Wishing to be among the rich and the Nobles.

Breaking The Chains

Having been removed from her family home for her own safety, Ella was sent to the far East until personal family matters were handled by her father and brothers. However, Ella was never keen with being kept under lock and key… a caged bird wishing to fly free. So, despite her father’s wishes she left her protection in hopes of making her own way.Now without her families money, Ella has taken up work in a well-known brothel. Offering both her body and skills to pay for her high maintenance lifestyle.

While in Ishgard, Ash learned many skills that she felt might keep her a good husband – Cooking, Cleaning, Sewing… and a bit of masseuse work to help ease any man’s pains.

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― Screenshots by me