.

In the days when the Twelveswood still murmured nursery‑rhymes to the moon and the evening mists waltzed with will‑o’‑wisps, there paddled a peculiarly curious Namazu named Manservant. While his kin fussed over river‑shrines and fishy fêtes, Manservant nursed an itch no scale could soothe: he wished to watch the wondrous whims of mortals, to see them dance unburdened by scruple or scorn. Thus did the silver‑bellied dreamer quit the Azim Steppe, toddling over dale and dune until, by happy accident (or perhaps by the quiet chuckle of Fate) he met Ingrid Gaal, a wide‑eyed Xaela.
Together they discovered, half swallowed by ivy and half by moonshadow, an abandoned lodge in Gridania’s deeper green. The cellar yawned into a cavernous maw where warm, star‑speckled steam curled upward: a natural bath that gurgled with magic. Farther in, a shimmering veil revealed itself, a portal to the riotous Fae‑wilds, that honey‑sweet chaos where flowers debate philosophy and libraries sprout like copsewood. With twinkling glee the pair resolved to plant an establishment upon this threshold, a house where desire might bloom as fragrantly as lilac in spring. And so The Dark Garden was born, its chambers strewn with fae‑kissed vines and its corridors humming with half‑forgotten lullabies.
Yet the Garden proved mercurial; without wards the wild magicks warped hallways into hedge‑mazes and turned doorknobs to dreaming lilies. Still, Manservant, placid as moonlit water, quietly observed while Ingrid guided patrons through marvel and mirth. For a spell all was splendid.

Alas, the Fae are fond of tangling threads. The same capricious power that perfumed the venue began to burrow into Ingrid’s mind. Wanderlust soured to restlessness, laughter to lament, and at last affection to something sharp and ravenous. One frost‑bitten evening in far‑off Garlemald, her sanity snapped like brittle pine. Steel sang; strangers fell; Ingrid, once a star, collapsed amid crimson snow.
It was there that Baldryck Rhiadra, taciturn lover of melody and master of witty pun, stood above her. Seeing the carnage she had wrought and the madness that yet glittered in her eyes, he braced his heart and struck the fatal blow. When word reached Gridania, Manservant greeted the confession with a solemn nod and, in quiet mercy, forgave Baldryck, “for woes are weeds, and thou hast pulled the worst,” his silence seemed to say. Henceforth Baldryck assumed the mantle of Head Courtesan, coaxing shy souls from their shells with gentle song and clever charm.
Yet death, like spilled ink, births unexpected shapes. In the very heartbeat of Ingrid’s demise, a figure manifested upon the corpse: a woman wrought of shadow‑ink: Raine. She donned a coat marked Euphemia, trudged to Camp Broken Glass, and pieced together tales that named Ingrid her foe. Guided by a distant tug, she arrived at the Garden, whispering lies of simple employment. Manservant, eyes glimmering with unspoken lore, perceived her ruse but welcomed her nonetheless; he adored the theater of unfolding stories.Raine commenced evildoings in the shadows, whispering questions of Ingrid, and even etched a death‑mark upon the palm of Kirali, the charming bartender who replaced sorrow‑struck Vulkan, insurance against betrayal from a man who sells trust by the tumbler. Over time, she had found charm in the lands that had given her life, shifting from Eldritch guidance to adoration. Even forging a slender tower as her first tender act for a lonely wanderer named Rose, who later slipped back to realms unknown. And eventually, wove sigils of protection round the Garden, caging capering pixies inside a hearth glamoured as a roaring fireplace that demands unattended garments for fuel, an ever‑merry nuisance.

.

.

Soon arrived Inspector Seethem Tiddies of the Bureau Overseeing Official Business In Eorzea (B.O.O.B.I.E.), shaking dossiers and demanding answers to Ingrid’s vanishing. His magnifying monocle traced clues from Gridania’s wine‑stained lounges to Garlemald’s frozen grave. In time he confirmed Baldryck’s tale, declared the Garden compliant with every regulation, and with a flourish, filed the case.In the interlude, the rakish Roegadyn barkeep Vulkan had wandered in grief, only to stomp back one evening brandishing a rune‑covered tome. Finding vines curling over thresholds and sigils aglow in cedar planks, he accused Manservant and that “witch Raine” of meddling mischief. The Namazu merely whispered “Feet,” vanished, and left a mocking glyph in sawdust. Thus did Vulkan commence a creaking hunt for containment runes, swearing to set matters aright.
When seasons turned and the portal’s seams frayed, magic leaked like starlight through a colander. Lively shelves sighed, vines grasped, and fae whispers thickened. Patron and staff alike gambled memories in riddling games with sprites, winning back stabilising glamour. In that auspicious dusk, Raine, having renounced the eldritch patron who once shackled her, erased Kirali’s doom‑rune, knitting instead a sigil that set his spirit as sentinel over the bar. Thus the drinks now sparkle with subtle wards; each clink of glass is a quiet chime against fae mischief.And what of the cave? There it yawns still, mouth agape beneath the Garden. Within, captive pixies titter from their ember‑prison, threatening to munch socks and sashes should guests flout posted propriety. Steam curls along stone like a cat upon cream, carrying laughter to the portal arch where night‑bloom roses exhale dreams. Beyond the portal the garden stretches: colonnades of towering tomes entwined with glow‑leaves, where knowledge hums lullabies and corridors rearrange themselves for those who ask the wrong question twice. Past that stands The Tower, spired and silver, a needle sewing hope into the starry quilt overhead. And somewhere in a forgotten alcove, Manservant presses scaly fingertips to an ancient sigil, coaxing pathways the fae would rather stay veiled, while Raine’s aether‑dark fingers trace counter‑glyphs in quiet defiance. The Fae hiss, threatens, cajoles, but the Garden persists, a paradoxical bloom of liberty and law, wildness and ward, sorrow and song.

.

Moon‑kissed arches beckon the bold,Perfumed secrets curl through the leaves;Wishes are weighed on scales of gold,Sorrows are traded for silken reprieves.Laughter rings bright, then fades to a plea,In the Garden, no one comes for free.

Hooks

Rates

RP1.5 million gil per hourGposeFeel free to check out pricing and packages here!

• Chisavelle Eupraxia
• Raine Euphemia
• Sorbet Kokaji
• Rose Frilla
• Stheno Sai