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CrookedTarot · **11-14-2014, 12:42 PM**

"So, let me make sure I have this right, sir." The tone was very tense and not a little sarcastic. More so then was probably needed given the situation. Of course, it was to be expected; it wasn't often one walked up to a complete stranger (in a manner) and asked them to tell you about a group of people in what was more or less a Free Company that was relatively private. "You want to know about the Free Company Crooked Tarot is working with right now? Why? You owe him money?"

"Not quite," the stranger replied with a shrug of his shoulders. He had nice full shoulders; a handsome face that was set with a look of trained discipline--enough years to know what he was doingf but not enough years to look terribly old. He had to be brushing thirty, but his bearing made him seem a bit older. He didn't stand out much from other adventurers. A long rapier on his belt, two daggers--the usual. His dignity and bearing marked him as maybe someone who had military experience? That was possible, the blacksmith thought as he regarded the stranger.

"You got a deathwish then? Cause trifling with Crooked Tarot when you're not wanted is a financial deathwish--hell, trifling with him WHEN you're wanted is a financial deathwish!"

"This is less a matter of debt or business and simply a friendly visit. I am only passing through Ul'dah and would like to see who he is working with at the moment. That is all. I was told you have regular business meetings with him and so, here I am."

The man ran a hand through his shortly-cropped hair, the sandy brown catching hints of faded gold in the bright sunlight of the city in the desert. There was only the vaguest signs f sweat on his brow; the man wasn't quite used to this weather yet.

"Well, if you're that insistent, then he's working with some group of arses called the 'Astral Agents'. Have a house out in the Goblet. Got a buncha training dummies out front, near the edge of the goblet on the canyon side. You can't miss it."

The blacksmith had to wonder why Tarot, a man with all that money, would slum it in a tiny house like that, rather than dipping in with one of the more massive houses that were literally right down the street. Eh, maybe his reputation preceeded him--Hells knew that it did in nearly every other city.

"Thank you for your time," the stranger bowed, his hand resting comfortably on his rapier. "You are a credit to this city and its ability to inform."

"Why does that not sound like a compliment...?" the blacksmith muttered as he watched the stranger depart, the man's gait as practiced as disciplined as the rest of him--no energy wasted with THAT walk, that was certain.

"Gods I need to stop talking to strangers..." the man added before returning to his work.

Jancis · **11-14-2014, 05:58 PM**

Jancis prepared for the night in her room, removing the heavy robes she had dressed in. They had been not needed, but the cloak she had brought proved to be useful as a makeshift sheath.

Unwrapping the cloak, Jancis hefted the sword. It wasn't the easily blade to manage, for her at least, and for the most part it was clean. She should take more care of it. A whetstone would be over the top for the circumstance; Jancis doubted it would be used soon. But to make sure it was utterly clean and oiled would be ideal.

She didn't own much for metal tools and having oil wasn't something to keep in her space. Getting up, she went over to Iron's wardrobe and dug through it. Sure enough, he had some for his armor. It would do.

Sitting on her bed cross-legged, she cleaned and polished the blade. She couldn't sleep yet. It was a dark night, the fog upon the shore clearly a show of comfort and protection from the elements themselves. The Twelve were close.

She would have to return and check upon Sir Glacier and return his sword. The chaos of the house might fade with time; but Jancis was concerned if wounds would be tended to. Wounds that were not from blade or club.

Most of the night until she fell asleep, she cared for the blade. Next to her a book of words and poems.

You build on failure. You use it as a stepping stone. Close the door on the past. You don't try to forget the mistakes, but you don't dwell on it. You don't let it have any of your energy, or any of your time, or any of your space.

Kellach Woods · **11-14-2014, 09:40 PM**

Docked and resupplying for the next stage in their trip, the crew of the Trader's Delight had no time to spare for their extra passenger that had asked, and paid for, a ride to this backwater town, merely a spot to pick up some specific items on the way to the Far East. Still, he smiled and warmly waved off the crew once they had finished their loading and resupplying. It would have been rude not to.

Kellach had finally returned. As he expected, nothing had changed in the hamlet's harbor. Even if he wasn't wearing as much lip paint and powder, his hair had grown so long and sultry that scarcely anyone recognized him. Granted, he hadn't been seen in town for months, and he'd spent more time working on the farm than in the actual town. Still, he'd drop by the merchant's stall, needing a few things for a proper visit to his father's Tree, as required by the rites that their people followed.

Growing up, he always saw the road separating the farm from the town as a long and arduous trek. These days, it was merely the matter of walking for an hour, and with all of his adventures lately, he'd grown into someone who would find this walk child's play. He began the last stretch of his temporary return, the sea breeze soon replaced by an in-land wind that he welcomed with a smile. Wind loved smiles, it seemed, as his hair was gently caressed by the breeze.

When his childhood home came into view, he was astonished by how it hadn't changed much, just showing minor signs of maintenance not met. Einrich had to do this all on his own, after all. He sighed - he'd hoped that his mother would have finished grieving, but it seemed not so. After all, she was the most skilled carpenter in the family, and would never leave the fences in such a state.

Kellach took the time to appreciate a scenery he'd not seen in months - The cows slowly eating grass, the sheep doing the same a bit further. A figure afar getting the earth ready to accept the beginning of a new harvest season, and the gentle sounds of birds chattering among themselves, a few of them seeking to steal a few seeds for a change in their diet. He sighed happily, the past few months being particularly hectic.

Not seeing his mother in the fields, he could only surmise that she was holed up inside and thus he walked up to the door and knocked. Taking the few seconds it took for his mother to answer the door, he'd clear his throat and put on the best smile he could muster.

As she opened the door and realized who was standing before her, she ran into his arms for a sturdy hug and kisses on her son's cheeks. She's forgotten how long it'd been since his gentle face had been around the house. She knew why he was here, and while this was making tears well up in her eyes, the joy of seeing her son again overcame her grief for a brief moment.

"Hello, mother." Kellach said gently, making sure to not hug his mother too powerfully. She did not expect him to stay up with the weight she threw behind that hug, but was pleasantly surprised that he did... and that he was not even winded from that long walk!

"My Kell. My sweet little Kell... welcome home! Come in! Come in!" she cried out, her voice creaking under the emotion. "I can tell you've grown strong in those few months. Einrich will be glad to see you, too! I'd hoped that Karle would still be with us when you first visited, but... Let's not dwell on his death. Tonight we should celebrate... but first we need to do something about that hair! By Fire's radiant heat, you should know better than to not take care of your hair!"

Kellach could do nothing but comply, even if he had taken the utmost care of his hair while in Eorzea. His mother had her image of the perfect little boy, and she would get her way so long as he was there. He owed her that much.

Awhile later, while Kellach was sitting, exchanging little stories of his time in Eorzea to his mother while she replied of farmtales. Einrich stepped inside the house. Einrich was a comparatively short man to Kellach, though built in a much more stocky manner. His hair was disheveled somewhat, but in such a way that showed the results of hard work, rather than being unkempt from neglect.

"Mother, I've moved the cattle, so you should be able to work on the fences without bothering the her... By the Earth's ample bounty, is that you Kellach!? I know I said you should visit father's Tree but I never thought it'd be that fast!"

The family, as reunited as they could be, shared a small moment together, for mother and brother needed to work on the farm, and Kellach needed to return home, but not before offering gifts to both the living and the dead.

Adrian · **11-16-2014, 08:19 PM**

Character: Staelufre Lysmerl
Watching: Oscare Iono

The basement of the Still Shore was a restful place. She enjoyed the cushioned chairs that sat in the library, and the expansive map table that told of all of Eorzea. Not even Valenor's room bothered her, despite how odd it smelled at times. No, she quite liked the quiet little place that no one but the officers seemed to remember. The books were fascinating enough to take up bells of time, while she sat in odd positions on the rugs or in the chairs. ConversationÂ drifted down, but she primarily ignored it. People came and went. That was, until something made her ears prick. An unknown male speaking, saying, "The rancor exists. I hear their screams, the yelps of all those dead that I murdered with my own hands." Intrigued by who was speaking about murder in the common room, the miqo'te crept up the stairs and perched upon them.

His voice kept on, clearer now that she wasn't hidden behind bookshelves and a ceiling. "My lover bleeding within my own arms and sentence of death. The Calamity is the only reason why I'm alive. It allowed me my escape." The Calamity? And who was this unknown man trying to escape from? She leaned against the wall, letting her body go utterly still. Listening, rather than watching this time around. If he did not want everyone to know it, she felt it proper that he should speak of it in a more private place than the lounge of her free company's house.

Then, of all surprises, a familiar voice spoke. Solkeim, the Blessed Violet. Perhaps this should not be so shocking. Solkeim carried great love and care for the whole realm, and it would be well within her capabilities to tend to someone who sounded so torn up about their past. "War and the Calamity have torn many. The few it have not are really the outsiders. Need not carry that burden; many can handle your pain and is much easier to bear with more shoulders holding it." She did not understand, it seemed, to heed the true message of his words. But the sentiment was sweet. She was offering this stranger help with the torments he suffered. Pure, kind Solkeim. Such generosity was rare, and thus Staelufre coveted it as much as she feared it'd be taken advantage of.

"I don't think you understand, the Calamity wasn't what caused all those deaths. My entire cohort... I personally wiped them out, one by one." Cohort. Her ears perked. Cohort was an Imperial term. She knew of no one within Eorzea's continent to assign cohorts of troops about. This man who Solkeim cared for so was of the enemy's allegiance. A Garlean. Yet a traitor to his own kind. Did this make him safe, or only more dangerous? To have systematically destroyed one's own cohort showed a dangerous inability to feel empathy or loyalty. It made him more dangerous, in her mind. If he could not even ally himself to his own nation, what did that mean for him in a land he did not grow up in? She seethed, but remained silently sitting. It would do no good to interrupt now.

"To escape? To leave the duress they pushed upon you? All hate war... 'I hate as only a soldier who has lived it can, only as one who has seen its brutality, its futility, its stupidity.'... must needs not leave out why." Solkeim was seeking reason for his traitorous behavior. She wished to believe, and Staelufre's heart yearned for her friend. Do not so easily believe a man who could kill his own friends, she begged silently.

"I overstayed my welcome for now. I need to head back to the Agents. Stay safe, and heal nicely..." The rest he mumbled, but she caught "...thank Byregot..." before they both moved for the door. The agents? Staelufre's tail twitched, fluffed up in irritation. She could not trust this shadow of a man. Waiting many breaths, she followed out the door and walked right past them, before rounding parallel to the aqueducts and hiding beneath the wall. They said their farewells, and nothing more was caught. Staelufre couldn't resist. She popped up and asked the ever-yearning question.

"Who was that?"

"Is Oscare, fairly good hunter and something of a friend. Very lost within his own thoughts though, sadly. Is all I can do to try to lead him out of them to the confident man he once was," explained Jancis. Oscare. She had the name now, and knew who to be wary of. She'd seen his face, and his posture. If he was not silent of his heritage, Staelufre felt it only safest to warn those who could protect her home best.

Clover · **11-18-2014, 04:02 PM**

When Clover saw Xydane again, he was as broken and worn out as his armour looked. It might have become a habit of his, losing pieces of himself in the faraway lands heâ€™d always return from. He brought roses this time; ephemeral, fragile, and much more alive than he was.

â€œYou are no longer in the battlefield,â€ Clover said, but neither Lilithiumâ€™s motherly food nor reading books in the warmth of a fireplace would make him forget about the weight of his armour. Then, when his eyes were filled with tears and his voice broke with tales of death, when his rough hand guided Cloverâ€™s to the scars of his cheek, she believed that perhaps she could understand a part of what sheâ€™d never fully do.

â€˜Ahâ€¦ so thatâ€™s how it isâ€¦â€™ sheâ€™d think in the end. â€˜The battlefield is you.â€™

Gegenji · **11-19-2014, 09:38 AM**

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They had locked him away in a cage almost too small for him, squirreled away into a corner where he wouldn't be a bother. He had dealt with it all before. They didn't know if he truly was a baby behemoth or just some piglet twisted by the touch of the Void. All they knew was that he a problem - a troublemaker - and they wanted him gone. Preferably for a profit, always for a profit.

That's how most of his young life had been - being handed off from swindler to swindled, changing hands through the twisted road of a silvered tongue. Bumped and jostled, paraded and purchased. What few moments he had free from his confinement were used to stretch his legs, and doing so oft led to his return to his too-small prison. And, if possible, a return to the latest snake oil-seller what sold him.

He had traveled many malms in this manner. Moved from market to market as the locals grew wise to how much of a "troublemaker" he was, and thus made him a harder sell. So many suns had come and gone in this way that, even if he could have kept tabs somehow, he would have lost track. All he knew as a blur of bipedal forms, interspersed with a few crisp definitions of someone's face twisted in anger and horror.

He was never happy with it, but he had long since grown accustomed to it. Get somewhere, get handed off, stretch his legs, get crammed back into his cage. There was a methodical sameness he had grown used to, albeit unwillingly. Most of his days would be spent flopped dejectedly on the cold floor of his cage, perking up only when he was brought to the fore. After all, it was his only chance to escape his prison, if only for a little while.

What a surprise, then, when - in the markets of Ul'dah, amongst the bustling of the Jewel - that the baby behemoth would find freedom. A home. A name. A purpose. All in the shape of a green-haired boy with glittering violet eyes.

Gran opened a lazy eye, giving a sideways glance to the Lalafell who sat happily on the river rock beside him. Both were still damp from their wrestling in the water, out of breath from their play. It had happened as a kind of accident before, but now it had become a common occurrence for them - an enjoyable ritual to help them cool down after an afternoon run.

"C'mon, Gran!" Chachanji chimed, hopping to his feet and squeezing some of the more stubborn water from his tunic. "Time ta go home 'n eat!"

The baby behemoth clambered to his feet as the Lalafell sprinted across the water, pausing only to beckon to the purple porker to follow once on the other side. Calling him to give chase, to go with him, to be with him. And, as he bounded his way after his master with his tail whipping about, Gran noted - as he had found himself thinking many times since that fateful day...

That this wasn't so bad at all.

Kellach Woods · **11-19-2014, 02:20 PM**

In the Tangle, the mighty Tangle, the Kellach fishes tonight. Pinchyshell at his side, trusty crab/hat that he is, trying to help its master friend capture some fish. He'd tried his hand at fishing and gotten hooked, enough so that he'd started fishing to kill time in-between adventures and just talking to others. If there was a body of water, he'd pull out his bait and tackle.

"Pinchyshell, I'm starting to think that we've as much luck at this fishing hole than I have in love. Which is to say, not at all."

Pinchyshell, smart crab that he is, gently patted Kellach's foot with its claw. The other claw kept trying to catch the tiniest fish possible. Then, it got bored, and started feasting on some plankton. Kellach himself let a sigh through before smiling. Fishing was very relaxing, and while it was all good news lately, overwhelming emotions, be they positive or negative, had a tiring effect on the midlander's psyche. He needed time to himself with his rod.

Without hearing anyone behind him, he could hear a slow, guttural voice come from over his shoulder. Surely a fellow adventurer, likely Roegadyn from his stature, accosted him. Pinchyshell, however, was clearly not used to such a large man, and retreated into its custom pocket. He was crabby with strangers.

"Fish bitin'?" he asked, very loudly. Kellach did not flinch. Anyone who'd been at the Drowning Wench in Limsa Lominsa would not flinch from such a loud voice - Sea Wolves were particularly loud when intoxicated.

"Not at all, friend. I've gotten a few bites of bone crayfish, but no fish to speak of." Kellach answered back. Naturally, as he says this, a strong force pulled on his rod. He immediately tried to maintain it to reel the fish in.

"That's a shame. Fish'd be a delicious morsel, though not as much as you." the adventurer said. Oh, flirting, were we? Kellach blushed, but still liked the compliment. Even as inexperienced as he was, he'd long come to terms with his attraction to... well, practically every single person he'd encountered. However, to be hitting on him in such an environment.

"Thank you, but I hardly think this is the best environment for flirtation." Kelllach answered, grunting through as the fish was ferociously fighting for survival.

"Oh, what I wouldn't give to wrap a tentacle around some luscious adventurers..." the voice said out loud, to no one in particular. Kellach was too busy concentrating on the fish to notice the strange word usage of the other adventurer. With one massive heave, he'd pulled out a sizable catch - an Ilsabardan Bass.

"Ah! Finally! Well now, why don't we both go back to the Seventh Heaven and see... where... this... takes... us..." Kellach turned around. What had talked to him was not a rugged, sexy, flirtatious Roegadyn adventurer as he had assumed.

It was a talking morbol.

Never before had Kellach ran this fast.

Jancis · **11-19-2014, 05:28 PM**

In the towns and roads of Eorzea, more than the common merchants and simple travelers can be seen.Â

Groups of people in travelling clothes walk upon the roads and stay in the towns and cities. Some simple guards in white plain tabards without marks accompany them.

Temporary tents and camps are set up at night for some, others stay with friends and family in the residential areas of the cities.

The tone of the travelers is jovial, hopeful, and in good spirits. Songs and music can be heard from the gatherings. By-passers and onlookers are welcomed over to share in drink, particularly cider.

"We make our way to Gridania in honor of Nophica." Most pilgrims say, though their reasons were all personal.
"I wish for blessings for my crops." "We are newly wed and wish for blessings for a strong family and children." "I want to know more about the Matron." "I've always wanted to travel and see the conjurers. This is the safest way to do so." "My mother wanted to make the trek, but she cannot so I'm going for her."

In La Noscea, Limsa and the Mist, the healthiest and merchant of the pilgrims still linger there. Elders of the town talk about Nophica and their own pilgrimages, encouraging the younger folks to go on their own. The docks and ferry have the last of the pilgrims making paying their way across.

In Thanalan, Ul'dah and the Goblet, pilgrims stay with friends and relatives in their homes as the travel through. They shop and sight see the tall buildings and wares of the Jewel and share stories in the Quicksand. Upon the roads and towns workers and refugees welcome travelers and swap the news of the days and other generic troubles of life.

In the Shroud, Gridania and the Lavender Beds, those pilgrims who make it early meet up with friends and relatives, staying together. Conjurers and botanists tidy up the city, preparing the grove by the Stillglade Fane and raking the fields by the Botany guild to make ready for gatherers and people to sit upon.

Priests and devotees for Nophica celebrate in their home towns, passing out apples and small maps encouraging friends who are able to make the pilgrimage should go.

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Parvacake · **11-19-2014, 06:22 PM**

"I'm getting to old for this shit..." Lili muttered to herself. Her long hair was in a braid and she wore some of the simplest clothes she could find that she didn't mind getting sweaty in. Moving boxes, furnishings, adjusting some of the newer pieces they purchased now that they had more space to work with...

It was beautiful. Moreso then she imagined it could be.

From the box she just brought in stuck out a rolled up thing of parchment that she plucked up before unrolling to view the contents. With a house this size, it could work. Finally. She had been waiting for this day since she was a child. Setting the parchment to the side she quick ran to the other side of the room at the sight of Ado trying to clamber up the shelves for some cookies.

As she left it in place, the parchment slowly unfurled to reveal not only the makings of an airship...but multiples.

And.

An airship workshop.

CrookedTarot · **11-22-2014, 03:29 PM**

There was a subtle romance to the action and feeling, there really was.

1-2-3
1-2-3
1-2-3

It was difficult to describe it to the outsider, to the layman on the street that would, undoubtedly, frown upon him for the action. It was understandable and he didn't resent them. They weren't unwashed masses that didn't 'get it'. They simply never experienced the thrill and feeling of it. The subtle art of it.

1-2-3
1...2...3
1-2-3
1-2-3

There was another attempt to break free and it was quickly stopped again. All the training in the world wouldn't save him. One could argue that it all led up to this moment--and even if someone could say that this was no act of the gods--well, he wouldn't argue. It was, to him at least, more an act of men--you simply either were prepared for a moment like this or you weren't.

1-2-3
1...2...3
1-2...3
1-2-3

This man wasn't. He could feel that now, as if everything else didn't say as much. As the powerful arms tightened, locking inexcoribly tighter, the pulse could be felt, the breathing was stopped and the heart struggled in its now broken rhythm. Actually, now that he thought about it, no--this wasn't art. Not really. Maybe math and a sheer set of numbers. A formula that led from the beginning to this end result.

1-2-3
1...2...3
1...2...3

No, this was a job--just like any other--that relied on simple math. This man had trained, according to what his assailant had figured, approximately five years in the art of pugilism. So, by that logic, he, his assailant, who had trained for almost three times that, would be the most obvious winner. This guy was good--but his assailant was simply better. Speaking of math..

1...2-3
1..2..3..

It had been a good run, his assailant supposed. Five years of training, of making oneself better. He could appreciate the philosophy of it. After all, how many other lives had this man defeated with his own 'numbers'? Ah, but he was letting himself get philosophical again, wasn't he? He really didn't have time for this.

1...2...3...
1...2...--SNAP.

The body was dropped from the man's arms, the assassin flexing his fingers as he stood up from the hold he'd locked onto his 'fellow' assassin. "See now, I went and started mentally meandering." He looked down at the man on the ground, the mask on the man's face denoting him as being one of the 'Faces of Mercy' or some other silly nonsense like that. "I've got work to do and you got me turning killing into math. For shame."Â

He turned and started away, leaving the fallen pugilist and assassin of five years dead, his neck snapped and body lifeless--maybe one of his fellow Faces would find him, who knew? The assassin with the superior number of years had someone to find and he couldn't do that if these Faces guys did it first.

"Always hated math."

BadDJuJu · **11-25-2014, 02:14 AM**

You can do this. Â You've made it this far, Jujah'to thought, gingerly entering the kitchen of the Bismarck. Â The dark featured Miqo'te desperately clung with both hands to a round wooden tray, stacked with various plates and cups, their contents consumed. Â All about him the restaurant bustled; waitresses glided in and out of the dining area, guests talked among themselves, pots and pans clanged, and food sizzled and simmered. Â It felt like a battlefield.

And there was Jujah'to, inching along. Â He could call upon the elements to move Earth, Air, and Water, but he couldn't carry a blasted tray without white knuckles. Â He could swear those waitresses had to be unnatural. Â They carried these damnable trays one handed, for Twelve's sake!

WHOOSH! Â â€œPardon--!â€

Too late. Â It was as if time slowed, yet he felt like an Acorn Snail. Â The tray teetered and he watched as items slipped from it. Â It was all he could do to save a lone cup among the symphony of shattering dinnerware. Â The whole restaurant had come to a standstill to hear its ballad. Â Of. Â Course.

Pale-faced, Jujah'to caught Jossy, the supplier behind the front desk, glaring at him. Â In an instant the restaurant resumed its commotion, with a mix of reactions within the kitchen, from shaking heads to grinning chuckles. Â Lyngsath watched from his perch, tight-lipped for a moment, then his jolly enthusiasm returning. Â He had more important matters to oversee.

â€œYou had better get that cleaned up before Jossy, over there, melts the fur off your tail with just the look in her eyes.â€

Jujah'to bent quickly and began gathering larger broken pieces onto his tray. Â I bet it will be easier to carry now, huh? Â He looked as a light skinned, male, Hyur crouched to help. Â He was about to thank him, until--

â€œYou!â€

â€œYeah, Iâ€™m sorry about that,â€ the Hyur scratched the back of his head, â€œI move a bit too fast sometimes.â€

Jujah'to glared at him, then let his anger go. Â He couldn't blame this person for his ineptitude. Â â€œIht's okayâ€¦ Thank you.â€

â€œDon't worry, we'll get this cleaned up,â€œ the Hyur waved a hand lightheartedly, â€œyou're new, yes? Â Well, commis de debarrasseur, you might want to use one of those wooden bins. Â Less balancing. Â Besides, you can hold much more than one of those trays. Â Just donâ€™t bring it to a table with you. Â Be quick about it, I'm sure there's a few more dishes that still need collecting out there, then I'll see you down in the scullery. Â I bet Lyngsath has go you on double duty for now, eh? Â I'll fetch the broom and get what's left here.â€

Jujah'to nodded, prostrating with a much more stable tray. Â Turning to be off, a hand grabbed his arm. Â He looked back at the smiling Hyur.

â€œOh, and welcome to the Brigade.â€

Gegenji · **11-27-2014, 01:27 AM**

"I'm not lyin' ta myself."

Chachanji's blows fell quick and unfocused on the striking dummy, still dwelling heavily upon what Mahana Mana had been saying back in the Quicksand. Just thinking about how she had insulted his Doman heritage - one of the few who even knew of such thanks to a slip of his tongue during his first couple suns within the Jewel. Back then, it had been a pair of strangers - a Roegadyn and a Miqo'te - that had come to his aid. He had been without their help this time, and had somehow managed to overcome his nervousness when confronted by her.

"It has feelin's!" he had stated, speaking of a Carbuncle that had been the target of the female Lalafell's ire. She had flippantly told its owner to dismiss it, as if it was no more than a thing. That had been what had started the argument, and led to the exchange that would set Chachan over the edge. "If'n it's made from a part'a his personality, then his feelin's are in it. So it has feelin's."

"They are imitations of feelings," she had countered flatly. "Not real ones."

"'n how're they any less real?" She had actually provided a few solid reasons, but Chachanji was just being childishly indignant at this point. He simply refused to let a "meanie" like Mahana be in the right about anything. "I bet ya don't think Gran ain't got no feelin's neither."

"... Well, I guess they are more real than what remains of your country. However..."

That lingering nervousness that had gripped him, that childish petulance that had led to this argument, all of it had quickly been replaced with anger at those words. The unfeeling manner to which she described the razing of Doma, her continued persistence that he was lying to himself about... something that she would never straight up name. It had caused something to snap within him and brought out a childish fury that he hadn't given voice to since he got into that argument with his father way back when. He decried her as a bully, a jerk, a meanie who used harsh words to hurt others for her own amusement. The fact that she didn't even seem to react or care about his immature outbursts just upset him further.

Ultimately, he had cut his losses and stomped out like a child who had been sent to his room. He had used the excuse of talking Gran for his afternoon walk to get away from the frustrating Lalafell female and her entourage, and had been true to his word. He did indeed take the little baby behemoth outside the walls of Ul'dah, past the collection of ramshackle tents, and down to the riverbed for their post-run cooldown and play. Yet, Chachanji continued to replay the argument over and over in his mind, kicking angrily at the water rather than playfully splashing as he normally would.

When he finally realized that splashing around in the river wasn't helping, he sullenly made his way back to the city. He trudged his way back into the Quicksand, his narrowed violet eyes actively scanning for Mahana, his childish glare daring her to still be there so that he could shout at her some more. For better or for worse, he failed to catch sight of her, and thus made his angry little march back to his room in the Hourglass with little issue.

He still couldn't settle down, though, and that's how he ended up here in the Gladiator's Guild, beating up a defenseless training dummy in order to get his anger out. Again and again, his self-forged blade clanged against the dummy's motionless form, the sound merging with the other sounds of training around him. His face was scrunched, his cheeks flushed so that his freckles looked all the more prominent against his lightly tanned skin, and seemed to be desperately trying to hold back tears.

"You do realize that Doma was razed by the Garleans, yes?"

Of course he knew. He slapped sloppily at the training dummy some more. He was there when they refugees had come to Ul'dah seeking sanctuary, had seen his parents and his older sister along with the rest of them. Hell, he had almost gotten dragged off with them when the city turned them away at the gates. It had only been Ms. Momodi's insistence that he had been there beforehand, and as an adventurer no less, that had kept him from being shipped off to Mor Dhona like the rest.

"And you no longer have anything to return to."

"Doma is gone. Your family may be fine here as refugees, but it is gone."

A harsh screech of metal on metal pierced the normal din of the Gladiator's Guild. Chachanji had slammed his shield against the unwitting training dummy, dragging it back off only to bring it back around and bash at it again. A few of the closer gladiators winced at the sound, moving away to resume their training where the noise would assault their ears less.

She was wrong! he silently seethed. Doma still lived! As long as its people endured, as long as his family was alive, there was still a Doma - and there was still a place he could go home to.

"Then you're not only stubborn, but a fool too..."

"I. Am. NOT!" Each word was punctuated by another clash of either shield or blade against the stalwart form set in front of him. The others in the Guild were just glad he wasn't causing that scraping sound anymore. "I'm NOT!"

"Go on, be offended. People mean little to me," she had stated calmly, with a slight shrug to her shoulders. "If you want kind, loving people, go to Gridania."

Maybe he would! he thought bitterly as he cut a minor gash into the side of the dummy. He had gone there for some training in the ways of Conjury at the behest of Ms. Artemis and her friends. He had arrived in time to behold a celebration for Nophica, and enjoyed music and stories in the grass by the Botanist's Guild. Deep down, though, he knew doing that would just make her the victor - that she had succeeded in chasing out the "lowly, homeless Doman." And his childish heart just couldn't allow that.

"I'm sorry again." There hadn't been even a modicum of empathy or kindness in that statement, it was merely the precursor to a backhanded comment. "That the truth is offensive to you."

"She's wrong! She's wrong, she's wrong, she's WRONG!" It was a mantra to him at this point as he continued his directionless assault. He had shouted things back at her then - belittling her words, calling her a bully and a jerk once again, challenging her to hide behind her concept of "truth" again. Instead, she made as if she hadn't even been paying attention, and that had just infuriated him further. It was then he had fled, that he had made his egress that had ended up where he was now: venting bodily on a training dummy.

"I'm not a fool!"

Crash!

"I'm NOT stubborn!"

Clang!

"Doma is NOT gone!"

Bang!

"I... I still have a home."

Thud.

His shield smacked dully against the dummy, followed by the young Lalafell leaning weakly into it. He stayed there for a while, motionless against the training dummy beyond an occasional shudder. If one could make it out over the sounds of the other gladiators that had long since returned to their own training, one might have heard the muffled sound of sobbing.

Kellach Woods · **11-28-2014, 09:28 PM**

Quote:The spark of Lightning ignites when it strikes, and thus Fire is born.
The heat of Fire renders to ash all that it touches, and thus earth is born.
The density of Earth shuns Sun and harbors cold, and thus Ice is born.
The armor of Ice melts away, and thus water is born.
The moistness of Water mists and rises, and thus Wind is born.
The gusts and sighs of Wind gather the clouds, and thus Lightning is born.

A copy of Essences and Permutations in hand, Kellach was in an inn room, poring over the tome. Pinchyshell was staring at the Emerald Carbuncle that he had summoned. The Carbuncle, a construct by nature, confused the otherwise valiant crab. The crab poked at Carbuncle, the Carbuncle stood there. The crab poked again and again.

Meanwhile, Kellach had noted down the prayer, and was comparing it to his own mythology. From the Book of Rites, it read :

Quote:There is a precedent with ceremony when thanking the elements for their contribution to the harvest. It is customary to perform this once a year, preferably before the blanket of ice falls upon the land though if it is impossible to do so due to the weather, it is customary to perform an Offering to Ice prior to this ceremony, as it would be intruding on its domain.

Honor Lightning, the spark of life, with creation.
Honor Fire, the light of passion, with love.
Honor Earth, the foundation of strength, with conviction.
Honor Ice, the mirror of calm, with reflection.
Honor Water, the flow of change, with flexibility.
Honor Wind, the whisper of motion, with wonder.

During the ceremony, perform the Offerings in order from Lightning to Wind, completing the Cycle of Offerings with the Illumination.

After that page, it continued in the various details pertaining to each offering which was quite uninteresting, at the moment, for Kellach. Although the Offering to Fire may be interesting if he could get his hands on a document pertaining to ancient Mamool Ja dancing rituals. What was interesting was that there was a common theme between the elements creating themselves in the Essences and Permutations text and the Book of Rites.

Though none had documented the history of his people and their settling the continent, they had obviously come from a similar background than the immigrants to Eorzea to classify the elements in the same manner. More importantly, if there was an universal truth to the order of elemental classification in historical and mythological texts, perhaps there could even be a practical application to this theory in arcane arts. More importantly, could he apply his cultural understanding of the elements to Eorzean practices of aether manipulation?

He'd already performed a feat of incredible knowledge and application of arcane arts, but this kind of heavy thinking was far beyond his knowledge. He decided to take his axe and start swinging at a nearby practice dummy.

Jancis · **12-01-2014, 06:49 PM**

The air had an extra bite than the typical one in Coerthas that evening.

Jancis looked down the high slope she was on, overlooking theÂ Observatorium, as the others checked the snow. It was stable enough, the shelf keeping its grip. It was her and four others, her assignment to cover any injuries and support supplies.

With all the troubles back in the Coral's house, her concerns with Iron Sea and L'aenoh, the nonsense with Darke and the impostor posing as him, she had been travelling back and forth for suns.

They were all weary from the long day, at least it was the last day of this expedition. Many spruce logs were harvested from in careful calculated spots. Some the entire tree, some of the heavier branches. But Halone's furious howl came from the Nail as the winds picked up.

Suddenly, in the wind, a chunk of the debris from Dalamund broke free, slamming down on the hillside above. Trees snapped and broke, leaving splintered branches about and made the snow shudder. Then it rumbled, and seconds later it was moving.

The team was already moving, two up higher than the rest getting carried away in the snow, hanging onto branches and paddling their arms, digging like a swimmer with the current.Â
"Avalanche!"

Jancis and the other two were not so lucky, caught in the curve of the snow and pushed back against the rocks. Pulling themselves up together to the top of the snow, the other side started to give in, threatening to push them back underneath. Calling out to the elements, a large pillar of stone came up, making a ramp for the snow to tumble across while the three hid underneath the makeshift shelter.

Concentrating, the others held the conjurer firm with locked arms, bracing one another as she braced the snow back. Eventually the rumbling stopped.

And they were trapped in the snow.

Melodia · **12-02-2014, 11:29 AM**

Melodia threw the cuffed prisoner into his cell and locked the door behind him, staring through the bars as she grinned. She was pleased by her work. She'd only bloodied him and maybe the bruises would go away before her superiors noticed.

"Enjoy yer stay. We're always willin' t' accomodate ye."

She chuckled and walked to the restroom, washing her hands, and winced silently at the pain her knuckles felt. Staring into the mirror she sighed. Her hair was a mess and glancing down at the yellow top she wore, a streak of the man's blood was present. With a scowl she reached down and wet her thumb before trying to wipe it away, only managing to smear the blood into the fabric, surely staining the uniform.

It was an apt moment of symbolism and wasn't lost on her.

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