#whose fur is so long and messy and scraggly they just look like a ball of unimaginable fluff

[snowe-zolynn-rogers]

How do they shed if they’re made of nanonmachines?

I would imagine they’re using nearly dead nano machines for fur so they wouldn’t be like a sphinx cat so they’d appear more ‘desirable’ to take care of for Sun. Like, nanos that are barely functional and are on their last leg of function all get used to create fur and the ones that die become shed fur.

If they were made of all functional nanobots, they likely wouldn’t shed at all. But we know from Monty that nano machines can become anything they think of and I’d imagine they would scrape together whatever’s even barely functional to survive and use it as excess things like fur to make them more ‘appealing and cute’ so Sun would be more inclined to not hurt them again.

[braden-ffxiv]

Pretty-Boy and the Queen

The caw of a gull; the soft hush of cool waves lapping long against white-sanded shores. The creak of feet traipsing along the timbers of a boardwalk; a warm and unsullied sun soaring along a sky blue as the sea. That hint of salt in the air as strong galleons plied the breezes close to the horizon.

A day paradisaic - or, it would be, if not for blood spat from battered lips, painting the water flowing along the docks an inky crimson.

"I warned you!" Tall and thin, like a tree-root stood on-end, firm muscles hid beneath skin lightly gilded by the sun's glow, skin covered at odd points with scars; some scaly, some pink and raw. Today the sun spat at his bared back, its surface criss-crossed by a webwork of healed wounds; loose cotton pants shuffled against his lanky limbs as he did his best to at least imitate the quick, bobbing footwork of the fighters he'd seen sparring back at the compound in his childhood. Straw-blonde hair hung in a messy swathe about his shoulders, wisps of it extending halfway down his back; his young eyes were hungry (nearly as hungry as his stomach), but maybe just as scared as they were starved. His long-tipped, blonde-furred ears sat with an eerie, placid stillness along his head.

He'd been caught doing what he did best, and the gangly assortment of seabitten, sunworn criminals circled around him on the remote La Noscean dock hadn't quite found it in their rotten hearts to forgive. The first to step up to challenge the blonde thief had swung what the burly highlander clearly felt would be a knockout blow; instead, the young rogue's lightning-speed saw him duck beneath the wide arcing strike, and a counterstrike square to the jaw knocked teeth from the pirate's gums and threw him reeling to his knees, blood dribbling over the edge of dockside and into the seawater. Dazed, the blonde Seeker's opponent's eyes dilated, trying to make sense of the bloodthirsty roar of his crewmen and the blurry flow of blood and water he stared into.

The scrapper's emerald gaze scanned the gathered crowd - wrapped in tattered clothing scavenged from last decade's fashion trunks, their expressions gnarled as an old oak by the whipping, salty sea winds; their faces , twisted by a warmonger's hunger, blurred into a tapestry of hellish rebuke gathered to marshal the would-be thief off the edge of the dock and into the water. He'd tried to snap up just enough pilfered ore from the pirates' berth to exchange for some bread.. and he would've gotten off with the loot, too, if not for that damned, leathery-skinned skeleton in the rigging of the galleon docked nearby, crawling like a spider along the ropes and of the ship with its hull painted a ghastly blood-red and a sickly green, like poison ivy in spring.

"Step aside, Bull," came a derisive crowing from the crowd; and surrounded in a raucous cheer, a handsome, broad-chested, black-haired man pushed through the crowd of ne'er-do-wells. A smile wide on his lips, his chiseled pectorals half-exposed from the low cut of his silky-white shirt, he seemed like he belonged on the slickly-illustrated cover of a tawdry romance novel, not here, among men missing both style and plenty of teeth. Jaw squared and unblemished, he radiated an almost irritating amount of confidence. Matching the miqo'te's height, though more full on muscle than the thief, the newcomer's hands came up to defend himself as he taunted the blonde Seeker, beckoning him forward.

"Kick th' lilly purty-boy's arse, Machismo!" came a heckling shout from a man who seemed older than the ocean itself, his eyes glassy and his sadistic grin all gums.

"Neh, go easy on 'im," another voice chimed, this one addled with a crackling insanity, belonging to an emaciated, scraggly-haired midlander with a maddened sheen across his eyes. "I wanna hear 'im squeal while I ROAST him," he threatened, conjuring a faint spark of wicked flame at his fingertips.

"He'll get what he deserves," came the response from 'Machismo', who squared up with the thief. Green eyes locked and studying each motion, the blonde saw his new opponent may have had a lot of gusto, but the sluggishness in his steps and the showy way he guarded himself with fists held only loosely near his head spoke of a fellow who belonged in a street-brawl like he belonged in a pirate crew.. which is to say, considering how nice his teeth and his boots were, not really at all.

"I'll give you one opportunity," Machismo taunted, his voice as square as his jaw (and as irritating as his arrogant grin). "Give back what you stole, apologize.. and maybe the men will go easy on you, eh?" A taunt from a man like -that- did little to dissuade the feisty, long-haired thief, who now glowed with his own, chip-on-the-shoulder confidence at seeing his burly, muscled, and clearly -incompetent- opponent.

"I think I'll take my chances," came the response. The crowd roared in murderous glee. Machismo shrugged, advancing with slow steps, tossing a few cautious jabs. None connected, and he laughed, as if they'd been warning shots; bluffs.

"Luck runs out eventually, young man, and your cargo manifest is looking a little-- low!" He punctuated his ridiculous poesy with a wide uppercut; it missed by a mile, and the Seeker darted left, answering with a quick blow to the body. Machismo bent in the direction of the punch, quaking in pain, though he brushed it off with another brash laugh.

"No more practice," Machismo spoke warily.

"Do you always talk this much when you fight?" the smart-mouthed thief retorted.

"Fresh, are we?" the muscled man responded, his laugh now lifting into a scoff. "Very well. You asked for IT--" He lunged, as if to once more finish his sentence with a punch, but the blonde had grown tired of the theatrics, and stuffed one bloody, tape-wrapped fist straight into Machismo's mouth, busting his lip open with a splash of crimson. Shocked, Machismo blinked; knuckles brushed across his lip, he saw blood and his eyes widened in rage.

"You smart-arsed little bastard--"

Another punch followed, and another. This young guy had no form; he threw punches wildly, clumsily, and it became abundantly clear he had the upper hand only because he had speed, strong legs, and at least a sense of positioning. Still, the flurry of blows shut the broad-chested, black-haired buffoon up; a hook, then another, and another; finally, a blow to the right cheek so hard it cut a deep gash along the curve of Machismo's cheekbone, rouge issuing along the fresh tan of his skin vividly as he spun with the force of the blow and plopped almost comically onto the creaking planks below.

"Fock-arsed pretty-boy!" A lout whose bare torso carried inked dragons twined along his spine stepped forward; a single, well-placed punch cut his cheek and sent him twirling to the ground next to Machismo. The crowd howled, a mix of frothing rage and rum-fueled, bloodthirsty elation. They closed in on the thief, fists balled and curses hurled; having finally broken a sweat in his blinding flurry of thrown fists, the blonde wiped his brow, smearing hints of perspiration and blood along his skin.

"Sweetskin! Give 'im s'more scars!"

"Cut 'is bloody 'ead off!"

Now cornered at the edge of the dock, it was fight, or swim; and while he could swim just fine, he certainly couldn't swim forever; certainly not with an angry crew of pirates swimming after him.

Then, they came; a flurry of bodies, one-by-one, snarling and biting and punching. First an elezen; the scoundrel laid him flat with a quick blow to the chin. Another, a miqo'te with eyes the color of blood, came next; the thief sidestepped him, letting the charging pirate soar right over the dock and into the water with a yelp. The thief dove to the other end of the pier, evading a few angry boots along the way; a hard elbow-shot right to the eye met another pirate, who staggered back and fell across the legs of a group of scalawags, the lot of them tumbling along the dock.

"Co an' clear, 'e's ready fer a good simmerin' in the pot!" A roegadyn with a gut as wide as the thief was tall barreled through the crowd, a skillet as big as two mens' heads grasped tight in his fingers, scars and scalds from splashes of hot oil and burning ovens cresting along his fingers and arms. He gritted his teeth and swung the massive pot backward, winding up for a blow to the thief's head.. only to accidentally knock one of his fellow pirates right in the forehead with his backstroke, leading to a chorus of angry screams. The pirates jumped on their own, piling onto the roegadyn; the thief tried to keep clear of the melee but they kept coming at him, nearly overwhelming him as they dragged him into a fist-flying mass of bodies.

"Kill 'm! Kill th' pretty boy!"

"Doc! I need Doc! Medic!"

"Bite 'is fockin' ear off!"

"MY FACE! He CUT my FACE! The bastard!"

KA-BANG!

The ring of a gunshot immediately silenced the mass of gnashing dogs; each took a cautious step back, dazed, glancing down to see if they'd been the one struck by the bullet. Bruised, a hint of crimson at the edge of his lips, the young scoundrel crawled out from the pile, dancing back to his safe corner of the pier, gasping for breath. The plume of black-powder smoke wafting through the air drew his eyes to the deck of the rose-painted galleon docked nearby; atop the deck saw a figure holding the gun aloft, its barrel pointed skyward; barely taller than the ship's rail, he could make out the features of a pirate.. of a -woman- pirate. A long jacket, thick boots, thighs and a corset, proudly accentuating a buxom chest; skin a shade darker than the blue of the sea, and messy hair that erupted in rich reds before lightening to campfire-orange at the tips. At her side stood a highlander thick as tree-trunk and nearly as tall as two of the tiny woman, his face mangled and missing an eye; the other eye narrowed and his lips scowled as he curled fists big enough to crush melons with a single squeeze.

"Cool an' calm an' assemble, ye galley of half-wits, lest the next shot aim fer somethin' other than th' sun!" A shrieking came from the woman, shrill and airy; it nearly made the scoundrel laugh, but to the throng of angry pirates at the dock, the word whipped them into shape same as the hoarse roar of a drill disciplinarian. -That- did make the thief laugh. -That- woman, the terror of the pirates!

"Now, one of y' lollygagging louts're gonna explain, in the simplest terms," she crowed, her voice almost childish yet terrifying firm in the ears of the crew, "where it is yer loving cap'n went wrong in recruiting 'n' training the sorriest sacks of rotten popotos from here t' Kugane!" The crew exchanged bloodied, bruised glances at one another, confused; the 'captain' continued. "Th' lot of ye, gathered an' assembled, and y'couldn't stop a single man! 'f I didn't have so kind a heart as I did, I'd load y'all into me brig and take you ta sea, just so's Conner an' I could pitch each of you into a swarm 'a sharks!"

"Boss-lady, 'e crack 'is way into da gold shipment," the spiderlike man called out, crawling his way down the galleon's rigging to hang on the ropes just adjacent to the captain. "Was clear ta haul it 'cross de dock when I cot me sight 'a him."

"'E knocked out Machismo! Clocked 'im a dozen times 'bout 'is head!" Came a cry of protest from the crowd of pirates, from a voice that mourned the ego-bruising of the romance-novel pirate. The broad-muscled, square-jawed man shambled forward, practically crying at the splash of blood he sported now across his perfect silken shirt.

"I-I-I can't.. I can't see! Oh gods, he- I can't see!" Machismo bawled loudly, hobbling along the dock in melodramatic horror.

"Let us kill 'im, queen!" Came another call from the crowd. The roar of approval as the thief held his fists up again and inched away slowly only seemed to curl the rage-filled distaste on the tiny captain's face further.

"Idiots! Idiots idiots idiots!" she snarled, silencing their calls for blood once more. "The Rose's Thorne, the fiercest ship in all Eorzea's waters, th' nastiest crew ta ever ply th' winds of Vylbrand and its sea, and y' let a pretty-boy, clean-skin steal our gold, and y' fall like reeds 'neath the scythe when 'e starts throwing punches?!"

"B.. but," a voice amid the crowd protested, "bo.. boss-lady, 'e--"

"SHUT UP!" she rumbled, and with a flick of the wrist she appeared poised to load her pistol up with another round. With a deep breath the little, blue-skinned ball of terror closed her eyes to compose herself, slipping her weapon into its belt-holster instead. A silence crept into the air, and the thief's eyes darted to the water - in the presence of this tiny maniac, maybe swimming wasn't such a bad idea, he thought. Finally, the captain's voice, now calmer and quieter, sizzled up from her ruby lips.

"He's a better thief, and a better figher than th' whole assembled lot 'a you," she reasoned. "D'you know what that means, Conner?"

The highlander nodded sternly. The crew watched quietly, perplexed; quietly terrified. Finally, one brave soul hazarded a question.

"...Wh.. what does it mean?"

"It means he's going to pay his debt to us by joining the crew, maybe teaching you idiots a thing or two." Her one-eyed, lilac gaze turned with a wicked little smirk towards the thief, who seemed both dumbfounded and pleasantly surprised. "Isn't that what it means, hmm, clean-skin?"

"Braden," the thief rebutted. If he was going to be a pirate, he wanted to kill -that- nickname before it ever took. "I'm Braden." The busty ball of murder up on deck nodded gleefully.