RPC has moved! These pages have been kept for historical purposes

Verad · **01-07-2015, 03:56 PM**

There was a special loathing in Verad's heart for Vesper Bay. He'd been unable to put his finger on the why of it for some time. In the past, he'd attributed his dislike of it to the ostentation of it, the splendor, the luxury, the sheer undubiousnessÂ of the place. From its ability to house any ship Limsa could provide to the grand statue of Lolorito in its plaza, a display of the Syndicate lord's self-image made flesh, to the lack of grunge or grime beyond the workers - and they were kept well out of sight -it was all so respectable.

Those reasons still held true; even now, as he surveyed the surroundings, he had to fight to keep a sneer of disdain off of his face. As he had learned some moons ago on the cliffside of the Silver Bazaar, however, there were other reasons for his dislike, and it was those reasons that brought him here today.

First, he had to confirm the truth of what he'd been told, of what that boy had said as he'd thrown Verad's gil over the cliff side, for himself. A simple plaque near the Bay's offices of noteworthy benefactors was all it took, though Verad had never felt himself quite so sickened by reading a pair of words.

From there, it was a short march into the offices themselves, where he placed his hand on a receptionist's desk too quickly, spoke too quickly, to be asked if he had an appointment, or if there was prior business, or any other means of seeing him away. He put on his best, most dazzling smile, one known to blind those with exceptionally keen sight (or so he told himself).

"I do beg your pardon, ma'am," he told the man before him, who looked up from a set of papers with appropriate confusion. "But I was curious about the collective ownership of the Bay. Are the records of investors open to the public? If, say, one wanted to learn how much of a stake a company had in the enterprise?"

The receptionist was quick to offer a shake of his head. "Nay, sir," he replied. "That information is available to the investors themselves and through appropriate brokers, but not to any duskwight that comes in off the street." He gave Verad a pointed look. This only broadened his smile.

"Ah, but I am hardly any duskwight!" He bowed his head in his usual elaborate flourish. "Verad Bellveil, ma'am, of Bellveil Enterprises, as the plaque outside indicates. I've come to claim my dividends."

Melkire · **01-10-2015, 05:21 PM**

Chitter, chitter, chitter, squeak, chitter, squeak.

The lone midlander crossing the cobblestones at Oschon's Embrace heaved a sigh as he adjusted his rucksack, shifting its weight over his right shoulder. He paused for a moment to stare at the sky and the setting sun. Satisfied, he then glanced back and down at his heel with a scowl.

"Sod off," he growled. "Git."

Squeak, chitter, chitter,Â squeak, squeak, chitter.

Damnable. The rutting bastard, he had to admit, was a rather cute little beast: large beady eyes, buckteeth, a small coat of fur that looked like it would prove soft to the touch, a large fluffy tail... recipe for disaster. And the way it wriggled its nose up at him....

Kanaria'd love this.

He had picked up the tail, so to speak, back at the warehouse in Candlekeep Quay, and the tiny fellow - who, on second thought, wasn't really all that tiny, being the size of his own head - had picked up a prize somewhere along the way. Looked like an acorn or some such thing.

The midlander turned and knelt, drawing a knife and brandishing the blade in front of the nutkin's face.

"See this? If y'keep this up, I'll have no choice but t'skin you and have me some mittens made out o' your pelt."

The nutkin stared up at him with wide gleaming eyes, sniffed twice, spared a glance for the knife, then set its prize by the man's grip, clambered atop the acorn, leaned against his fingers, and sniffed his hand and the hilt, chittering all the while.

Osric Melkire hung his head in defeat. He perked up at a sudden breeze that carried the fresh coastal air to him, and took his time in looking about. He'd been born here, more or less, five-and-twenty cycles ago, long before the destruction wrought by the Calamity had severed the Gods' Grip from La Noscea and forced the Lominsans to construct the Embrace. Though the moon had been wrong for it, his parents had chosen to consecrate their first-born son to Oschon, god of wanderers, for they'd been their way to the Torch when he'd arrived. He huffed a breath, now, an age and a lifetime later.Â

"I ain't religious... but if the Old Man sent you, it'd be damned inconsiderate and ungrateful t'turn you away. So come on, then." He loosened his grip just enough to waggle his first two fingers. "If I'm t'be stuck with you, better that y'don't slow me down."

The little beast squeaked an affirmative, climbed onto his fist, turned around to pick up the acorn, then proceeded to use it as a front leg to scramble up his arm and come to a rest atop his shoulder.

The midlander rose and readjusted his rucksack.

"I hope Jasper eats you, little poet king."

Chitter, chitter, squeak, squeak, chitter, chitter.

Ligardian Dreamer · **01-13-2015, 06:56 PM**

The freelancing adventurer seems to be progressing decently in his endeavors with the adventurer's guild. Taking up many requests have been demanding, but he cannot deny that the work and effort has been making him stronger and stronger... But as he progressed, doubt was settling in little by little... Once or twice, he would find himself sighing, as if the effort was proving to be discouraging...

But it was not because of his personal progress, no. Why, with him granted permission to venture into other city-states and learning of new battle crafts to take up and advance his abilities, it was hardly all in vain.... No... See, among the mass amount of people that were present in Ul'dath, the greenhorn adventurer found himself discouraged... It felt like his younger days when he could not succeed in instigating and communicating with people so as to develop acquaintanceship with individuals... especially those who are proactive adventurers...

Besides the embarrassment of his rewarded equipment presented in a way that they mismatched together and having no known way to resolve this fashion dilemma (though he did not consider himself fashion-minded), he found himself to be intimidated by the large number of people, a feeling of which he did not expect to feel. Surely, there are likely to be those who would welcome anyone, old or new, just from a simple greeting, those who were easygoing and approachable... But how to begin? What could he say afterwards to keep the exchange alive and establish a meaningful communication? On other note, he has noted, during his times out in the fields of Eorzea, that there are, indeed, many strong adventurers out there... What with powerful armor and weapons or unique sets of clothing and gear as well as a number of skills and crafts both for battle and for miscellaneous desires and whims... Most exceptionally, these well-fitted individuals had well-fitted allies as well... and he has observed and noted a few who seem to be in good-standings with each other... Whether the way that they communicated to each other freely and affectionately... or how they support one another during unfortunate circumstances...

He was not quite successful, in his youth, with establishing such connections with others... Will he, too, be able to make friends as his parents have, or will he end up in this world alone?...

Though as doubt ensnares and entangles his mind and resolve with its thorns of discouragement, Alexander decides that he must press forward in his 'ventures... Maybe, in due time, things will change for the better...

Jancis · **01-14-2015, 08:38 PM**

In the cities and the centers of villages, tripods of spears are tied together. The ground around them littered with gerbera flowers, crops, coins, even some with animal offerings.

Though some people circle near them, looking at the sacrifices, no one dare touch what is left there.

The hardy, strong and able, make their way north. To the cold, to the snow, to the blistering winter. "We go to honor The Fury" "I go for strength" "I take my men up there to show them true determination" "I want to see the warriors" "My pa was a good man, I go to remember his sacrifice"

The bells ring soon, pilgrims.

Kellach Woods · **01-15-2015, 08:04 PM**

Kellach had finally gotten out of the house, and immediately started worrying about his own safety. That he was even allowed to leave was testament to his own resilience, toughness and perhaps, just perhaps, the lack of malice in the person who'd... captured him. Yes.

Axe in tow, mask on, he set on towards Ul'dah. He'd been setting off this guild adhesion for such a long time since he'd grown uneasy surrounding their members, with only a few exceptions not only gaining his trust, but his friendship as well. Yet people who openly flirted with the abyss were not the kind of people he'd want to be. However, his hand was forced due to a very particular encounter which shall not be recounted here, due to its bizarre nature and outright impossibility of the event.

Upon counsel by Eamont, and his own personal experiences, he knew he couldn't wait. Perhaps he would be the worst one of the lot - but he needed to know more. He needed to throw himself to the dark, and become one of those he'd come to assume they would always muck things up when it came to it because they loved explosions way too damn much but shunned any sort of open confrontation.

He had to learn Thaumaturgy - at least on the theoretical level. Even if he'd never cast a Fire spell in his life, if he knew of the Void, he could more adequately combat it... and the resources of the guild in terms of the written word were massive.

Jancis · **01-16-2015, 10:40 PM**

Jancis left the large manor in the deep night, the massive waterfall washing out any other peaceful sounds that there could be. Couples gazed out at it on the boardwalk that hugged the cliff-side.

She had left the long-winded letter in Val's hands. And she figured he could read more of it than he let on.
Had he taunted her? His sense of humor was tricky; but still she wasn't sure if the miqo'te's words were sincere or if he was playing with her concern. Jancis shook off the thought; it was surely the former.

Squeezing her sides while keeping her hands fanned out, as if they weren't there, she made the long trip back to the isle. Surely Val would remember to pass the letter on...

The top parchments had details of the road from Mor Dhonna to Coerthas, the area around it and a list of creatures she saw and encountered up there in relative numbers from her meager attempts to scout. More details followed about the condition around the bridge and wind she encountered while there. The bitter cold made the lifted walkways icy and slippery. The trees offered little to break up the beating from the wind, especially should the weather turn sour.

"Though I know hindering hands is truly not something a fighter would wish, my fingers did take a terrible beating in the conditions and mittens would be a necessity for such cold climates or get immediate treatment less digits risk being lost. My greatest concern is being able to see, though I do expect the best I would be foolish to not think you wouldn't prepare for the worst."

And upon the last page, a brief letter of gratitude:

Dear Lan,

It is quite inspiring in a way how much devotion you show, that this discipline comes into form. Not just within yourself, but that you would rally others and direct their emotion and passion, give purpose to their calling.

Indeed what I know of Halone seems to be shown from you; if that is not too bold to say. Forgive me if it is out of place and I overstep. Yet still, for all the performances and other items the pilgrims offer, a show of military execution and martial talent will bring so much to all who attend.

I would have you know I take care of the trinket plushie and have grown fond of it. Upon my bed it tips over, so I have propped up a book that it might stand up straight. The book is about folklore from the desert and tribes, so mayhaps it is something suitable. At least to the imagination.

I shall see you in a couple suns and wish you well and safe travel.

Jancis Milburga.

Ligardian Dreamer · **01-18-2015, 02:28 PM**

Word spread of a pilgrimage in honor of Halone the Fury. Having heard of a technique named "Rage of Halone" from his Paladin father and those who are in know of it, as well as Oschon, his favored deity, who was considered a close friend of Halone, he decided to take it upon himself participate in the celebration and learn more of Halone. The trip was considered perilous due to his current abilities, but thank the Twelve that he met upon an individual named Jancis, who tended to escorting him to the location beforehand. He would learned, later on, that this same individual who helped him was actually one of the leaders leading the celebration...

He felt slightly chilly in his armor and had taken to wearing his helmet despite his preference not to for the cold in Mor Dhorna. Nonetheless, he kept to the path with the other pilgrims up to their intended location. There, much songs and tales and poems were spoken and Alexander learned a lot of Halone, even coming to respect her more than he ever did before. So, when time came for those who were willing to receive her blessings by one of the priests or priestess or those willing to speak their mind to Halone's Stone, he decided upon receiving Halone's blessing and performing the latter. On a whim, in an effort to throw himself entirely into this act, he walked up to the chilling water and knelt down to his knees. Trying his best to distract himself from the cold, he proceeded to share some words to Halone... Of learning more of her... of his newfound respect for her... and of wishing her to find favor in his efforts:

"...May your Fury be imbued into my sword... and your shield empowering my own to protect those that I care and love and those whom I accompany with in my adventures...."

At one point, he was discussing with one of the bards that performed at the celebration regarding the relationship between Oschon and Halone before they were, then, joined by one and two more. However, duty called him, away, much to his reluctance to leave company, to the place of Camp Dragonhead, where the company of the Cerulean Vigil was formed and founded... Hoping that Halone will favor his fights and his efforts, joining the cause of the Cerulean Vigil who desires to bring change to their homelands, and, most importantly to him, having developed many acquaintances in one day, Alexander's resolve to better himself was renewed as he continues onward with his duties...

Berrod Armstrong · **01-19-2015, 08:45 PM**

He wished to survive, but the root did not answer.

His hunger and lusts remained, but the sacral -- it did not crave.

His will remained, yet the solar plexus was stilled.

Ever did his passions burn -- but the flame of the heart had gone out.

He spoke, and others listened, but the throat was silent.

From two eyes did he see, but the mind's had gone blind.

...and the crown. The crown for which he had risked everything; the crown that would deliver enlightenment and bliss...

...the crown was a lie.

Edgar · **01-19-2015, 10:01 PM**

-Music-

Koporo dragged his feet against the icy ground, pushing the snow away with each stubborn motion. In his hand he barely held onto his sword, which dug an indentation into the frost as it slid by, barely gripped by his tiny fingers. The snow blew in his face, sometimes to the point of knocking the poor man over, but still, he trudged onward.

She had left him, you see. What was her name again? He was already beginning to forget, even though it had only been an hour or so since they had separated. Maybe it was the distraction of the cold weather which made it hard to think, or maybe it was an instinctual removal of painful information by a brain desperate to focus in a situation careening on life or death, one that saw the heartbreak as "useless emotion." Whatever it was that prompted him to purge the name from his mind, some bits would still hang on. Her pink hair. Her need for "snacks" and her love of chocolate. Her belief that should she die, she would simply return, in one way or an-

Memeli. Yes. That was her name.

Koporo tried again, fruitlessly, to wipe the frozen tears and dirt from his face, from when he fell face-first into the dirt and pleaded with her not to leave.

"I simply fell out of love with you. I am sorry."

How quaint. How simple. How elegantly it wrecked his soul.

Coerthas was a brutal place for a broken man. Koporo was no weakling, that was for certain...But the land was so barren, so lonely...

And he was so cold.

Parvacake · **01-20-2015, 02:41 AM**

((In response to the initial meeting for the Carrion series of events Smile

))

As Lili strode away from the Canopy, she ran her hand down her face with a sigh. "Go for moons without even hearing his name and suddenly he was everywhere..." She wasn't bothered by it. Moreso because time had healed her wounds and the way she saw the situation before her. But still, it was unnerving.

Were the Twelve sadistic? Was there another plan in mind?

She thought back to the week or so prior. Talking with Kenthy in her workshop and watching the young woman nearly shaking in place as she sat on one of the many crates lining her workspace. Never before had she thought she'd get to see the woman in so vulnerable of a state. Even now, the end of their conversation flowed back to her.

"We both know he enjoys a challenge. You've seen it, as have I. But the last time I forbade him from seeing another woman? He seemed to go after her all the harder." Her pale green eyes observed the sleeping babyqo'te in the basket next to her. "I hope what I have told you only helps you instead of hinders."

Kenthy's jaw clenched as her eyes abruptly lowered to the floor. Oh. "...'ere's to fucking hoping, hm?" Then she slipped from the door, down the hall, and Lili couldn't hear her steps anymore.

Was it that? To help Kenthy? Was it worth it to even worry about it right now? Lili stopped, almost running into an Elezen pair coming up the city trail from the wood. Shaking her head, she placed up a hand to her linkpearl, murmuring into it. She knew all she needed to know (and then some) about C'kayah. The job she was certain would catch his interest.

"Dear?" She waited for a response, letting her eyes remain unfocused to the clouds above. "What can you tell me about someone with the surname Korofi? I'm assuming a miqo'te? Possibly Hyur-?" A minute went by, Lili not moving from place.

"Could you tell me his fir-"

Lili went still. Her shoulders shook, the movement increasing steadily. And then she let out such an abrupt roar of laughter that looked odd with her composed, well kept appearance that it made a Wailer glance over with a raised brow.

Mikh'a. Mikh'a Korofi.

There was no way ironies could be this rife unless by near divine chance.

And there was no way she wasn't taking this job now.

Kellach Woods · **01-21-2015, 11:09 PM**

Kellach had received the very first part of his brother's journal throughout their people's history and culture, and he laughed out loud. How much of a coincidence was it that he'd stumbled onto the exact look that one of his childhood heroes wore? The story of Kechir Hunter was quite the tale, though he himself would have trouble telling it, especially after the reveal that, well, Kechir was actually Kechire, that he was a she, and that the harness was never blessed, but in fact, more of a curse than anything.

That did not deter him - not that anything would. He knew he looked good, and the mask was far more utilitarian than most would care to know. He smirked and readjusted it before re-reading his brother's letter.

Letter to Kellach Woods Wrote:How fare you, Brother?

I have completed the first part of what I hope to be several, chancing out on some choice information that a minstrel had on him. Truly, the tale that I am debunking has a good moral - Honoring and serving the elements can take many forms. Including restoring the truth.

If you would be a hero, I sincerely hope you will read what I have learned of your main inspiration, Kechir Hunter. You may be shocked by the truth, but I would give you my word that all I have written is verified to the last word. The port's archives mention a specific Sea Wolf boat moored at that time, with a strange individual on board more interested in our way of life than resupplying, and that he was always writing in a journal of sorts.

In other news, I believe Mother is over her grief - While we lost a father, she lost the love of her life while he spouted blasphemous words towards the very elements who sustain us. She needed time - and fortunately, time is a commodity we can afford, what with the rest of the community helping me with our farm while Mother grieved.

Sadly, we may have to return the favor. Yeozephina Fields has recently died from childbirth. The baby could not be saved, either. The Fields are taking it quite harshly, and the Tree is to be planted two days from the time I write this letter. I may have to perform the Offering to Fire for them, this year.

I pray Wind safely carries this letter to you,
Einrich

Desu Nee · **01-28-2015, 10:18 PM**

It's not really easy being a refuge fresh off in Ul'dah without a home and barely any coins on your purse, looking for a meaning to life after losing everything.It's arguably even worse being an underaged, orphan, abandoned by her brothers and sisters, albino underaged dunesfolk with only the tattered clothes on her body, bandages wrapping her sensitive skin against the harsh effects of sunlight and sand, standing before one of the Gates of Ul'dah.

The chirp of the Chocobo porter as it returned ditifully to where it came from barely registered on the Lalafel ears as it left. The gate...was massive, and bigger than anything the sheltered Lalafel ever seen...and it didn't help with her nervousness, the trembling staff held firmly with her bandaged hands, while the Guards upon the gate simply glanced once a while, waiting any reaction from her.

Aaahm...eeer...

Giving a strong knock on her head, and yelping in pain, she gulped and closed her eyes, running inside the city. She can't be in a refugee camp again, it's either here or rot in the desert, no one can help her anymore. Her sisters and brothers were very clear of that.

OrderofNald'thalOrderofNald'thalOrderofNald'thalOrderofNald'thalOrderofNald'thalOrderofNald'thalOrderofNald'thalOrderofNald'thalOrderofNald'thalOrderofNald'thalOrderofNald'thalOrderofNald'thalOrderofNald'thalOrderofNald'thalOrderofNald'thalOrderofNald'thalOrderofNald'thalOrderofNald'thalOrderofNald'thalOrderofNald'thalOrderofNald'thal...

This was what the various merchants and passerbys could hear as they saw a Lalafel, on the brim of tears and bandaged like some sort of mummy ran down the Routes of the city...on the exact opposite direction.

Maybe if she just opened her eyes it would help.

Berrod Armstrong · **01-29-2015, 02:08 PM**

Berrod Armstrong walked in a hasty, urgent stride as he made his way across Fesca's Wash. The next cluster of Grindstone matches under his watch was about to begin, and he wouldn't be seen slacking. In his path was Caleb Agron, hanging around to spectate -- and perhaps help in the event assistance was needed.Â

To an outsider's view the collision was one that held the danger of breaking out a fight -- Berrod's right shoulder thumped solidly against Caleb's; only the latter's bulk kept him from staggering backward, it seemed. A green glare met blue, challenge and irritation on the faces of both men. With a grunted mumble Berrod pushed forward and went on his way. He turned his head back to scowl at Caleb, who returned a dirty look to keep things even. A fight was avoided, it seemed, and an outsider was able to breathe a sigh of relief that a spontaneous highlander brawl had been avoided.

Anyone who was more familiar with the pair knew better. As Berrod's shoulder crashed into Caleb's, fingertips found each other for a moment's touch; just a grazing of skin -- all they usually allowed themselves in public. The push past was met with resistance only so they could maintain contact for as long as possible -- fleeting a period as it was. The glare between them was encrypted, adoration and appreciation wrapped beneath deceptive layers of hostility. When they looked back one last time, it was a promise to later compensate for the temporary lack of intimacy in a most vigorous fashion.Â

Berrod walked away to his matches, a light smile on his face -- quickly wiped off for the purpose of intimidating those under his charge. Caleb had the luxury of keeping his little smirk as the words murmured during the collision repeated themselves in his head.

"I love you."

Ligardian Dreamer · **01-29-2015, 05:43 PM**

The more the growing Gladiator achieved further into his duties, the more that doubt and anxiety creep into him. Even as success would be reaped in his path, Alexander succumbed into his angst. Briefly, he came across an armor that forced him to cover his face despite his preference to let his face be shown and known to all. Nonetheless, he wore it even though he couldn't quite project his voice well under the helm...

So, during a mission with the Cerulean Vigil to infiltrate an Amalj'aa encampment, Alexander spoke little due to both his helm situation and his angst. However, though the mission was a success, he felt that he could've done more. A moment had occurred where the party leader leading the infiltration had requested him to act... To which the Midlander Hyur failed to accomplish. Though he was not blamed nor claimed to not have done his part... He knew that he could be so much better....

He had allowed his emotions to cloud his judgement... His allies are, certainly well-off enough that they are capable enough to do what must be done... But what if his hesitation were to cost the mission severely? What if his faltering could be what caused an operation to fall apart, especially if the consequences involved the loss of a life or two?

He can't afford that... He had to get stronger... With or without anyone...

Continuing with his duties, he gained admission to the Order of the Twin Adders Grand Company and acquired his own Chocobo mount. He was more moved with this grand company, compared to the others, due to the emphasis of harmony and the desire to work together as one...

So when the Gladiator finally became a Paladin... He understood what Sigrunne told him... He must allow himself to trust in his allies... And so, in turn, he will do what he can... so that others may come to trust him... and to secure that trust. And he will gained what he can, as a Paladin, to obtain the means to fight and protect those that he cares and loves...

McBeefâ„¢ · **01-31-2015, 08:40 PM**

Evangeline sighs, looking not for the first time at the pair of stones on the desk in front of her. One is a deep blue, etched with a stylized depiction of a shield. The other is darker, a mottled and streaked combination of browns and dark yellows, set in a simple gold ring. The Phoenix Rose is quiet around her, the rest of the residents out or asleep, leaving her and her thoughts alone in her room.

Two stones. One representing what she almost became, one hinting at what she might yet become. Taking a moment she gathers herself, then lays a hand on the mottled yellow wyrmtear, immediately feeling her mind assaulted by the will of the horde.

"Take Me!"

"Use Me!"

"I will give you power!"

"The power to achieve your goals!"

Powerful words, seductive words, teasing at Evangelines desires, giving promises, soothing doubts. That she even had the thing showed how little Verad understood her, and the depth of her ambitions. Taking it for research, was the line she had given him, as if there was much more to learn about the things. There was but one thing that could be done with the things. Use them, and gain the power of the Drakes from which it was spawned, all at the low low price, of oneself.

She could slip the band on, the transformation would be quick, painless. The transfer of power, instant. Within minutes the towers of the Syndicate would burn, the government in Chaos. Her new form would allow her to influence the minds of mortals, molding their thoughts like other drakes. Those who did not submit would fall, and a new society would be born, one that would be equal, glorious...

But not free.

Gritting her teeth she pulls her hand off the thing, the images still fresh in her mind. After a moment Evangeline takes a small square of cloth, using it to scoot the ring to the side of the desk.

Drumming her fingers she turns to the other stone, laying a hesitant finger on its pale blue surface. Thoughts emerge as well. Where the wyrmtear was seductive, welcoming, the paladin soulstone was hot, angry, and bristling with disdain. It did nothing so high as speech, but she could feel its discomfort at her presence, as if it could read the reservations within her own soul.

"You are not worthy."

"You are not strong enough for this path!"

Evangeline herself almost agreed with the stone. She still wondered what Master Wolfsong saw in her exactly, to vouch for her so. Even more for Lady Crofte to agree with him. Casting her gaze on the ring once more, she shakes her head.

Two stones, one promised easy power, and offering it with open arms. The other promised nothing but hardship, and suffering. When she held it in her hands it felt as if it would rather be anywhere else in this world.

Two stones.

Finally she reaches over and takes the paladin soulstone in both hands, feeling it spark uncomfortably within them. Closing her eyes, Evangeline concentrates.

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