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

Askier · **04-07-2015, 09:44 PM**

"Looks, it ain't like I enjoy this." the smug voice said with a sigh.Â The miqo'te shifted slightly and his foot shifted a smig to the left.Â There was a grunt of pain and S'kiear Grimsong, more commonly refered to as "Ki" turned his lone, black eye down to gaze at the hyur, whose head currently had the honor of being trapped between S'kiear's boot and the stone floor.

The tan miqo'te flicked his ears while shaking his head as he looked back at the man's wife and two children, who had the honor of staring down the twin barrels of Ki's flintlock pistol.Â The five figures were all neatly contained in a small, wooden hut near Lower Limsa and the afternoon sun was spilling in through a window, accompanied with the smell of salty spray.

"But, I was paid to come here and get something from ya.Â Guy who hired me said it was a book of some sort. Called...well its big, green cover. Probably magic.Â You know which I mean?"Â

Smoke was wafting around the miqo'te's head. A smoldering cigarette burned hot in his mouth and the scent of mint filled the miqo'te's nose and lungs as he drew the twin hammers of his pistol back for dramatic effect.

His left arm was in a sling currently, but Ki had been quick enough, when the man had opened the door just a few moments ago, to get his boot onto the man's head.Â Hyur wasn't exactly a fighter.Â Ki pegged him for a scholar at best.

"I..." the man started and trailed off as Ki whistled softly, smoke wreathing his face, casting him in a diabolical light.

"Be very careful with ya words, mate." Ki spoke in a smug purr as he eyed the hyur's family.Â "I'm here for the book and I got two bullets.Â Bright side is I can't kill your whole family.Â Just two of 'em.Â See where I'm going?"Â Ki paused to inhale smoke.Â His body, clad in a long, blue coat and black paints, shivered slightly as he went on:

"So, last time, really. Where's the book? Or I kill you all and look the hard way."

"Wait!" the hyur shouted.Â "How much they paying you?Â I can double it."

Ki's tail started twitching in excitement as the rest of him froze.Â His black eye looked down at the man as his other eye stayed hidden behind an eye patch.

"Well, not -exactly- what I was expecting, but-" Ki shrugged.Â "Music to my pointed ears.Â How much you got?"

"Enough to double."Â the man gasped underneath the boot.Â Ki rolled his eye.

"Naw, you give me all ya got and pray to the Nine it's enough. I like this better."

The hyur male was silent a moment and then gave in.

"Let my wife get it from the cupboard." the hyur said in a defeated tone.Â Ki nodded and looked at the woman.

"Chop chop, madam.Â Your lover here wants to make me rich." Ki crowed triumphantly.

Oh if looks could kill.Â The female was glaring at the male with hatred in her eyes.Â But she nodded and slowly disentangled herself from the children.Â She inched towards the cupboard and then turned.Â She opened the doors and then spun.

In her hands was a small crossbow.Â She went to pull the trigger as Ki recognized the threat.Â The miqo'te swore as he threw himself backwards.

"I ain't getting paid enough for this."

-Two Days Later-

Ki was sitting at a table in the Bismark, overlooking the Limsian Bay.Â He was smoking, as usual, and enjoying a glass of red wine.

The setting sun sparkled off the waves and the mercenary found himself almost feeling bad for the fact that he had made two little orphans simply so some elezen could get his grubby little hands on a book of all things.

Almost.Â

Ki was an asshole.Â But a rich asshole.Â And Ki was okay with both of those things.Â Because there were things only money could buy.Â And Ki had very expensive things to buy.

Jancis · **04-09-2015, 04:40 PM**

Outside of Ul'dah, passing Black Brush, Jancis made her way to the Shroud with sure steps.

She still had the sling on, more of a reminder to herself to not overwork the arm, and fixed it into place for the travel.

It was a simple fluke that in the bustle of Ul'dah she stepped to the Coliseum and found one person dressed in the same traditional guard as Sir Evans would wear proudly.

Raging Behemoth was very open, proudly stating his feelings and honor. The older man had an aura of respect about him and Thaliak only knew why he was so patient. Jancis' heart pounded as she listened to his words, the emotion lost in the wisdom that came from his mouth.

She did know very little about Sir Evans, but what she had known she admired. His couragous heart, his strong sense of values, the loyalty and commitment to his kin. On top of that, she had curiousities over the family he had mentioned in one rare night as the two dressed the man over and over.

But this man, who lived up to his name at least in stature, spoke of the midlander in a different tone. He spoke of him as a fool, a selfish sort, short-sighted, and disappointing. Generous with knowledge about Zachary's past, Raging Behemoth spared none of his opinion in a very logical and proud manner.

Jancis continued up through the desert, her mind pondering over the words the pair shared, going back to love. Love. Raging Behemoth's definition of what love should be was very close to Jancis' own feelings; being there and supporting someone in a practical giving and accepting manner. Not at all what Jancis had helped the man try and provide for Lady Siha; a princely storybook character with no words or honesty to them.

Unrequited love. The Hellguard accused Jancis of having that for Zachary. Love for Sir Evans?

She thought she had answered him honestly. How could she not care for the man and his ambition; admire his devotion and strong compass. For the small part that she knew of the man, the fighting together and social connection, it wasn't enough to know. Raging Behemoth's description of love fit her, though, and in that respect she did love Sir Evans as any friend would.

The shallow marsh at the edge of the Twelveswood welcomed her at this point, still making her way into the ruins in the southern boughs of the Shroud.

In a selfish way, Jancis was glad she didn't love him more. Zachary was gone and she hadn't more than a hope he would return. Her heart pounded painfully; the scenario was something she had become all too familiar with. His love for Lady Siha wasn't strong enough anyway to keep him from leaving or asking her to come with him. Perhaps not even telling her at all. Jancis didn't know; she wasn't that close and only her mind could fill in the gaps. Her love and devotion was never enough to keep anyone from going, anyway. Or even offering to take her along and rely on her strength.

How could she possibly know such truths when she hadn't any experience. Jancis took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the cool forest air. The elements' feelings were strong around her and calmed the fruitless train of thought.

At the front of the ruins of Amdapor Keep, Jancis knelt down and dropped what trinkets she had on her person, praying for Zachary's safe journey. Either back to them, guided by Thaliak's stream to know the way home to his kin and his family (even to Raging Behemoth's rage), or into Thal's embrace his soul safe with the Twelve.

SM Nick · **04-09-2015, 07:16 PM**

In the busy streets of Ul'dah, a red-haired man can be seen dashing through hectically, trying to move around the people walking around. The man had a uniquely emblazoned bandana on his head accompanied by a red doublet vest and some fingerless gloves, along with some Ul'dahn halftrews. He had a comedic frantic look on his face as he pants while running.

Solis: "Gods gods gods I forgot about the meeting! I don't want Nik to scold me AGAIN! Excuse me! Pardon! Excuse me!!!"

Not long after he said that, he saw that a light pink-haired Hyur midlander, almost his height, was walking in front of him, but he could not stop his momentum before running into the Hyur, making them both fall to the ground, luckily with no one else around them at the moment.

Solis unfortunately landed while accidentally smothered in the Hyur's rather large bust, which to a pervert, is paradise, but to a straight innocent guy like Solis, is not since he might be mistaken for a pervert with his concurrent nosebleed. He screams as he frantically pulls himself free from her bust, and saw her flustered face looking at him, innocent eyes and such. Solis's face was also flustered red with blood coming from his nose, but instead it had a scared look, as if he thought he was going to get hit, due to what happened with Aleria that one time. He gasped loudly, took a deep breath, clapped his hands together, bowed his head down in front of the girl, before exclaiming,

Solis: "I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY! I SWEAR IT WAS JUST AN ACCIDENT!!! I WOULD NEVER DO STUFF LIKE THAT ON PURPOSE! JUST BELIEVE ME I AM NOT A PERVERT!!!!!"

An awkward silence followed after for moments until the girl spoke calmly,

Celestia: "It is all right."

Solis was very surprised, jolting his head right back up.

Solis: "A-All right?"

Celestia: "It was only an accident. I can tell from your eyes that you would indeed never do something so lecherous at a lady." She smiles. "My name is Celestia!"

Solis, now blushing hard: "S-S-S-Solis. You can call me Sol if ya want! How about that, Celes?"

Celestia, now blushing hard as well: "C-Celes? Well if it's comfortable with you then ok."

She giggles, followed by Solis chuckling nervously, before a linkpearl started ringing in Solis's pocket. He picked up the linkpearl and put it close to his ear.

Solis: "Yes?"
Niklas over linkpearl: "WHERE ARE YOU?!"
Solis, caught off guard by Nik's voice: "A-ah Nik! I can explain!"
Niklas over linkpearl: "You can explain once you get here, we've been waiting for 2 bells for you!"
Solis: "I know I know I know I know I can't help it! I'm on my way!"

Solis gets up and helps Celestia up as well, dusting off her dress for her while putting the linkpearl back in his pouch.

Celestia: "Was that a friend of yours, Sol?"
Solis: "Y-yea. I gotta go! See ya!"

Solis runs by Celestia, waving as he runs, with Celestia smiling and waving back as well.

Celestia: "Bye~! Hope I see you again another time!"

**Unnamed Mercenary** · **04-10-2015, 04:47 PM**

Late in to the evening, one could find a certain man scouring the floors of the Ossuary looking for a very particular object. He had asked nearly everyone in the building after he had returned.

â€œHave you seen a ring fitting these details? It is an important item and I must find it.â€

Bells would go by. People would come and leave.

He had searched under each bookcase. By every pillar. Even inside the urns, much to the thaumaturgesâ€™ disliking. Not that they would act upon it. A tall hyur, over twice their height? The lalafell would rather not deal with the potential thought he might attack them. It was simply safer to wait for him to leave.

Clothes dirtied, exhausted, and ready to give up, he began walking towards the exit, head down. He would have missed the glimmer of metal and jewel had it not been for a poorly aimed spell a pair of thaumaturges had hoped to fire at him.

As the weak lightning spell flew past his side, he saw it. Wedged into a crack of the doorframe.

Her ring.

It was a little scuffed and scratched, as would anything that had been thrown into a building made of rock. But, it was whole. The damage could be repaired. Taking out the small box he had previously kept it in, Franz vowed to hold onto it better from then on.

He could inquire at the Goldsmithâ€™s Guild later.

Lady Rivienne · **04-11-2015, 12:52 AM**

Jubilation is heard among those gathered.

Music plays in the air and conversations are lifted to the very ceiling, drowning the sound of the fountain.

She was a woman who had little desire for grandiose events, leisure time always was sought elsewhere, away from this supposed jewel of the desert. But, her assignment required her presence here, among the denizens, among those who wore familiar faces. Her husband could not become an asset, but another would play the part of companion this eve -- and his part was perfected. Rivienne hung off his arm, this midlander male, a serpent like herself by the name of Ivaan, a man whose iron demeanor melted whilst standing at her side. In this crowd, they were invisible, hardly noticed, for she was but another figure among the many, and he was an unknown with those present. The Commander chose the pairing well; his twin serpents with deadly venom.

Pleasantries were shared, dutiful to her facade, Rivienne gathered information unknowingly from those present. She heard the rumors of this man's taste in women, long legs were preferred. It came as no surprise to the agent when she noticed her target charming several women far taller than he. Golden eyes were narrowed, peering behind dark lashes, to those present before her. A smile painted her scarlet lips, laughter bubbled from them, but her attention remained to the whispers coming from the pearl in her ear. She was camouflaged among these joyous citizens, the woman in dark rouge.

This merchant was no fool, though he appeared alone, after the ladies he failed at claiming for the eve left his side, Rivienne was given information that there were shadows that breathed nearby. Ivaan had eyes on the man, now left to his own devices, then turned his gaze to the corridor North of him. The information gathered became crucial to their task. This particular piece of scum was providing trade routes to Gridania and packing the contraband, in several shipments, to the very sanctuary of her woodland. The serpents moved among the crowds gathered, like true snakes in tall grass, to position themselves using this gathering as their cover. While a grand act was on display, a true drama was unfolding underneath their noses. The play continued below them, but these actors would not put on a mock performance.

She excused herself from her friends and turned off the world around her. A proposal was blatantly ignored, laughter was drowned out, she was focused simply on the task at hand. Golden tresses danced along naked shoulders as an arm extended out and fingers gathered the thin stem of a wine glass, on display, 'pon a server's tray. Ruby lips were glossed with the caress of her tongue and her expression softened to a woman already falling under the power of alcohol.

That is when he saw her approach, this temptress in red, who wore wet lips eagerly awaiting to meet his own. A vixen among these wallflowers, who went straight for him. He could smell the perfume upon her sun-kissed flesh, how it came from her bare clavicle and the bounty neatly wrapped in fabrics. His head swam already from the wine he had, so much that his vision was clearly on her. It was pathetic how simple this became; Rivienne pulled the strings of this weakness, he was but a marionette, easily manipulated. This puppet was unaware that Ivaan had already slipped into the cool shadows and used the information they gathered, about their corrupted Wailer, to good use. Their attentions were drawn, figuring that he was sent from Gridania to expedite their next shipment.

The serpent provides the distraction within a few minutes of her engaging with the merchant; it is then that Rivienne quickly uses the words that would mark the end of the man's existence. Her venom sank into his ears, an ambrosia he delighted in.

"Let us find somewhere quiet -- to talk."

His excitement caused his eyes to light up and he hurried to take her by the hand. Her giggling melted into the air, and here, among the many gathered, under the sworn, under the blades, Rivienne slipped away from view with this man in tow. The agent was easily forgotten, and made little to no impression of ever being present. Corridors were crossed and the ball became a distant memory as the alley was presented to them and night blankets the area. In the quiet, she found a corner away from view, where their bodies could fit in the crevice of the wall. There, he leaned to whisper lewd words, it was here that his hopes were shattered.

Just like the wine glass in her hand.

His face was grabbed and the back of his head met the cold, unforgiving stone wall behind him with force. The jagged edges of the glass pressed to the center of his chest and Rivienne's demeanor changed before his eyes. His choking was a plea, but it fell upon deaf ears. Even in his dizzied state, as the serpent hissed her demand of information in his ear, he provided a name, and that was all she needed. The glass was shattered down to the very stem, and using that, she made sure that his last breath would be taken.

While everyone danced, laughed and drank, this body was being placed in a crate, his gil purse taken and his dirty money fell upon him like rain. While people enjoyed themselves, his blood spilled into the gutters. While they took the night, she took a life to make Gridania safer.

Cliodhna Eoghan · **04-11-2015, 05:49 PM**

The ball had been over for many hours but Cliodhan was still unable to sleep. She laid under the blankets of their shared bed, the only sounds in the quiet room was the soft ticking of the chronometer on the wall and the gentle breathing of Erik as he dreamed. Placing a hand over her heart, she willed the leftover fluttering to slow in attempts to calm down. Though with the enticement from earlier, it was little use.

Again, she replayed the night in her mind; going over what he had said, the question as he keeled before her, the tinkling of the wineglass as it hit the ground and her stuttered reply. Cliodhna placed a hand on her face, he was the only man to truly rattle her that much but also the only one allowed to, she lamented; lips curving into a smile under her hand. Moving her hand to lie across her heart once more she closed her eyes for a moment and tried again to relax.

Heaving a light sigh, Cliodhna opened her eyes and stared at her hand in the dark. Despite the lack of light, the gem on the simple band still maintained some light glimmer to it, just enough to show the many facets in the cut stone. Lightly, she brushed her finger over the ruby, smile softening her features. Though she enjoyed all gems and the worth they carried; Erik had known what one was truly her favorite and had used it as the central stone in her engagement ring.

Eyes widened a bit at that thought; engagement, the word repeated in her mind. Cliodhna was engaged, something she had never imagined would happen. Let alone with the man lying in the bed next to her. Glancing over, she brushed her hand though his hair, the brown tresses free of binding he usually had it in during the day. Gently she ran her forefingers over his forehead, smoothing the hair from his eyes as a light blush graced her cheeks. She was engaged to marry Erik. Finally after so many years, missed encounters, losses and stolen moments in the night; he was hers and hers alone. No more would conflicting aspects in their life hinder their relationship as it had for so long.

These thoughts were a comfort, it had been a long and difficult road, but just as she was unable to step away from that path; neither was Erik. So many times Cliodhna had thought him lost for good, just as he had with her but the lack of communication would always be resolved in the end until the next rough patch....but that last one was the last time. There was no need to worry or fret, no mixed signals or lack of information, nothing to keep them apart to give room for hindering misinformation again.

Giving Erik's bicep a light nudge with her shoulder, Cliodhna snuggled into his chest as he moved his arm to accommodate her, legs twining with his as his arm slipped around her waist in his sleep while hers curled around his torso. Nuzzling the crook of his neck, Cliodhna brushed her lips over his skin, giving Erik a soft kiss before snuggling closer and closing her eyes.

Parvacake · **04-11-2015, 06:23 PM**

((Snippet from Locke's event "The Eater of Light" which signaled the end of his personal story arc!))

"I-Is she...?"

The last word wasn't finished, but Lili could nearly taste the fear just from his tone alone. Though she couldn't find the strength to open her mouth to talk. To assure him it'd be alright. To express how happy she was that he was safe...!

"She's alive, but if we don't get her some sort of medical attention I fear she won't be for long."

Vahl?

That's right.

They were still in the Eater's domain. Was he dead? Was that bitch of a succubus dead too? She couldn't hear either of them. Where was Cyrus? Was he alive? Thousands of thoughts flew through her brain faster then she could process them. It was then the Twelve deemed her worthy of enough energy to crack her heavy eyes open. But the pains...Gods above, the pain! Numbness as well, but where-

"C...Cy..."

She could see him. Just around Locke's arm as he was prone on the ground. Was he dead? Locke would never forgive himself if something happened to one of them-

Pale green eyes flickered from Cyrus and landed over her torso. The smelled of burned flesh assaulted her nose, palpable and nauseating with its closeness. Like sickly sweet meats and something charred. Lili's vision flickered, and then she noticed it.

She felt picked up as she stared over herself. When did Vahl lift her up?

"Quickly, go!"

Her torso was seared. The metal and leather tunic she had worn on their way here was blackened and the lower half of it so badly burned that the leather stitching and metal plates looked like they were nearly one in the same. Her skin felt strange as well with every step the roe took as he cradled her against his chest. Was...

Was her skin and the armor now one in the same?

Was her flesh melted to the tunic?

Another heavy flash of pain was enough to pull her under, leaving the darkness of the rift and the upcoming light of Oakbarrow behind.

Gegenji · **04-13-2015, 08:51 AM**

Last Saturday...

"FORBIDDEN: FAT. RECOMMENDED: LEAN CUTS," the Judge stated curtly to the merchant as he looked over the hunks of smoked algoat that the latter had hung up to entice customers. Customers like Jredthys, who was in the mood for something savory for dinner. He was usually in favor of such things for dinner - it was only proper, after all, to have the final meal before slumber being something filling that would sustain him until he broke fast in the morning. Given the sack of supposed foodstuffs slung over his shoulder, though, one would think he was stocking up for some oncoming disaster.

Something touched Jredthys' senses then, causing him to look away from the merchant as the Hellsguard bragged about the quality of his cuts and how his slaughtered beasts were raised. The heavily armored man's gaze, hidden beneath the thick visor of his helm, instead turned northward as the Roegadyn's words muted to mere background noise. He was... needed. Something was calling out to his sensibilities - a near-silent siren's call beckoning him beyond the walls of Ul'dah. Calling to him as a Judge.

"Hey."

And then it was gone, almost as quickly as it came, leaving naught but the faint feeling of missed opportunity. What was it? What had called to him so? It had vaguely familiar to a call he had heard many, many years ago; a song sung to the sensibilities of his younger, more ambitious self. Perhaps it was that familiarity that made it so troubling to him, a memory best left unremembered.

"Oy, you in there?"

However, he reminded himself, it was not proper to dwell on missed opportunities - you either took advantage of them or not. He had not, thus he could voice no complaint about the matter. That was the whole of it, written in simple black and white. Viewing the matter in such a basic division helped to temper the Judge's nerves, returning him to a less agitated state. Though, it was hard to tell any changes in emotion at all through the thick casing of steel he enclosed himself within.

"Look, ser," the merchant's tone cut through the remaining mists of his thoughts like a sword, the Roegadyn's trepidation at accosting the heavily armed and armored man balanced by his desire to turn a profit this sun. "I got a lotta customers waiting behind you. Are you buying or not?"

"YES."

An armored hand reached out and snatched an entire half of an aldgoat - left hanging to provide "fresh" cuts as per the customer's request - from its strained hook. The merchant reached out after it as it was slung over an armored shoulder like a second sack made of flesh, but his complaints died in his throat as a hefty sack of coin was placed atop his bloody counter. The Hellsguard busied himself with counting his new-found bounty, heedless of his aforementioned other customers, as the Judge departed from his stall.

While the thoughts of the sudden calling had been dismissed from Jredthys' mind, its passing was not without mark. A deep rumbling in his gut had been the cause of his sudden, massive purchase. He was hungry, so he would eat. He would take these foodstuffs back and make himself quite the meal indeed, as was proper for a hunger of this magnitude. And so, as the armored man's thoughts focused on the feast he was soon to create, the Grindstone rumbled on - the missing Overseers' roles filled by previous champions rather than by a certain Judge and his strange mannerisms.

Perhaps it was for the best.

Jancis · **04-13-2015, 04:58 PM**

Across Eorzea, spring has conquered the cold to raise its face to the squinting sunlight.Â

After the budding trees and new leaf sprouts, lilies push up from their winter slumber. Particular the light pink ones called Nymeia's Lily. Said to be beloved by the Spinner, they are passed around to children and between neighbors alike.

Well greetings such as "May your threads be strong." and "Make a tapestry of your life." are given. Faithful to the veiled lady can be seen walking through towns and villages. Their garb light, enough to cover from the spring winds to the shore, as they pass through to visit family and friends on their way to the lower reaches of La Noscea.

Small tributes have been hung on doorways and window sills, welcoming the warm pastel colors the seasons bring.Â

A few suns hence, the bells will ring loudly through Moraby Bay as the pilgrims gather up for the final bit of their trek.

Berrod Armstrong · **04-13-2015, 07:01 PM**

â€œHm. Heâ€™s handsome.â€
Â

The Hyuran woman stood upon the edge of the sun-baked ledge, yalms above an open expanse of dry Thanalan dirt. Below, a large, red-haired young Highlander trained, tearing through bare-fisted techniques against an imaginary opponent. A simple pair of dusty white slops were his wares, already soaked through with the sweat that drenched him. Every movement he made was swift, confident and backed by the strength of his powerful build.

Â

â€œHeâ€™s just a babe, barely out of swaddling.â€

Â

The second, much deeper voice came from the Hyuran womanâ€™s equally Hyuran partner, and was laced with abject disapproval. Two Highlanders were they, dark of skin and brown of hair. The woman was lower than the man by a head, but exuded no less of a presence. Her hair was clipped short, which in turn accentuated her broad and muscular shoulders. A modest bosom trailed down to a somewhat pinched waist and thick hips, supported by what could only be described as trunks for thighs. She was clad in a replica of the Temple Cyclas, colored in the traditional yellow. There was a dangerous, strong grace in the way she carried herself; somewhat like a dancer on the verge of aggression.

Â

Her partner seemed very much her opposite in several ways. He stood with brutish altitude, and bore age-betraying grey streaks in his back length brown hair. The man seemed hewn from the very stone his feet were planted upon, and was possessed of an obscenely solid and muscular build. The parts uncovered by his own yellow Cyclas were marked with the scars of a life steeped deep in battle. He was far from handsome, though his scarred mug presented as much shrewdness as it did oafishness.

Â

â€œYou donâ€™t seem to approve at all, Guntbrand,â€ The woman observed smoothly, â€œNor do I, for that matter. He teaches truths, but allows his wards to run wild and makes no attempt to bring them into the faith. Thus, they taint our ways with trivial aims and frivolities.â€

Â

â€œIâ€™m impressed that heâ€™s so knowledgeable for someone so young,â€ Guntbrand admitted gruffly, â€œOnly one of the true remnants could have developed a child so thoroughly.â€ His brown eyes narrowed with further displeasure. â€œButâ€¦I agree. For all his wisdom in the art he is foolish in its distribution. In his quest to revive our ways, he has only served to corrupt them.â€

Â

â€œAnd then there is his ambition,â€ The woman hummed. The comment was inserted with calm purpose, and and by the little hint of a smile on her lips, had achieved what she had intended. Guntbrand swiveled his head toward her.

Â

â€œWhat ambition?â€ He demanded. â€œTell me, Gerdtrid.â€

Â

Gerdtrid responded in demonstration; she stood a little taller than usual and affixed a stern countenance to her mein, effectively mimicking masculine steadfastness. When she spoke, her voice was a deep mockery. â€œI will rally them around me so that we can take back our home. From there, the throne will be empty, but if needs be I will fill it until such comes who is worthy.â€

Â

The look on Guntbrandâ€™s face rendered even his hardened and scarred features to something akin to an affronted childâ€™s. His mouth hung open and both his eyes were as wide as Gerdtrid had ever seen them. â€œKing?â€ He wheezed incredulously. Again his head rotated upon his thick neck, as his expression compressed into share outrage. The training Highlander below became the target of a blazing glare.Â â€œHe would dare make such a claim? Lounging and strutting about, buggering a pair of Gridanian blood traitors and handing out our ways to the undeserving â€“ while we spill blood fighting for our land! King! I would sooner see Gyr Abania brought to the sea before one such as he sits upon the throne. I care not how symbolic or sentimental his claim may be. Real or hypothetical, I wonâ€™t stand for it.â€

Â

Gerdtrid remained quiet while he ranted, and took a moment to admire the prominent veins along his neck. In his ire they looked like they would burst â€“ but fortunately for him they did not. â€œIt would never come to pass,â€ She assured him â€“ as if it was necessary, â€œThey would never accept him, even with what he knows of the arts. Heâ€™s just a child who plays in the sand while we fight and die to retake what is ours.â€

Â

â€œI would be the first to demonstrate my disapproval.â€Guntbrandâ€™s words bore a heavy weight to them, from the very tone, to the rasping snort that came afterward. He did not see the wry smile that tipped at his partnerâ€™s face.

Â

â€œIâ€™ll leave that to you,â€ She indicated with a light flourish.â€œI, in the meantime, must make haste to Vylbrand. There has been a lead on the Bybel of Fire.â€

Â

Whatever the Bybel of Fire was, it held enough significance to draw Guntbrandâ€™s seething gaze away from the red haired man below. â€œSo theyâ€™ve found it then? If you retrieve it, that would place two of them in our possession. Youâ€™d best make haste.â€

Â

Gerdtrid nodded. â€œYes â€“ so donâ€™t spend too much time on him today.â€ Her chin jerked down. â€œMaster will be expecting us both anon, with Bybel in hand.â€

Â

Guntbrand mirrored her nod, then turned to curl his thin lips into a malicious sneer. â€œI wonâ€™t. For all the knowledge he possesses, it wonâ€™t take me long at all.â€

Â

â€œDonâ€™t kill him, Gunt.â€

Â

â€œI wonâ€™t, Gerd. Iâ€™ll just bring him to his knees. Go ahead and claim the Bybel. Iâ€™m eager for Master to read us the scriptures within.â€

Warren Castille · **04-14-2015, 12:13 PM**

Jubini Carabini was eager. The diminutive plainsfolk had only recently arrived in Ul'dah with his life savings hidden away on his person (a pool of gil scaled to match the stature of the short fellow) and he'd gotten lost on the way to the Ossuary and maybe he shouldn't have eaten two fishes for lunch, but he was finally there!

The lalafell's eyes went wide as he stepped through those looming doors. Everything in Ul'dah was so big! It was a far cry form the roughly-but-expertly carved stones that made up Limsa Lominsa's architecture but there was something exotic about being in a foreign nation on his own! The wonder of the trip stuck to him, the wonder of an awestruck child.

"You're sure? Thanalan's not like Vylbrand, you know..." The boy's doting mother was always so careful with him. When he'd first decided he wanted to pursue the same path his grandfather did she'd been completely against the idea! Thaumaturgy wasn't for him, no. He would continue to work with her in their small but cozy home. Though she had rented out one of the rooms for roaming adventurers, she seemed to be ever a servant there. Washing floors, cooking meals.

Jubini didn't want to leave her, but he also didn't quite feel... full. He didn't have it in him to wield a weapon like the heroic types who stopped for a night's rest did. One time, this giant roegadyn had stayed and he wondered how he was even going to fit through the doorway! He had to bend down and walk sideways, which Jubini thought looked very funny for such a serious person. Less funny was the friendly roe's axe, of which Jubini could completely hide behind the head.

No time to remember home! He wasn't here to reminisce about what he'd left, he was here to chase the future! The lalafell had no idea what sorts of things awaited him.

Warren Castille · **04-15-2015, 01:52 PM**

Jubini Carabini almost didn't notice how quickly the moons passed by. He had taken on as a student inside the Ossuary shortly after his nameday, during the festival of All Saint's Wake. Like many others who began the path of a thaumaturge, Jubini had started with book-learning. His mind took to the premises easily enough - channeling one's internal aether through a gemstone to control the elements of the natural world. He was hungry for knowledge and the Ossuary had granted him plenty of room to sate that hunger. He would totter from his studies to his room and back again lugging tomes older and nearly larger than he was, and he was often lost in thoughts; If he wasn't attempting to remember the lessons of his study he was thinking about how proud he was to follow in his grandfather's footsteps.

Jubini had never know his father, but he found that didn't affect him much. His mother was there to fend for him, and in his early childhood so was his grandfather. His memories of the man now were faded, but in the pasture of his memories the man yet lived. The very image of a classic sorcerer, Jubini remembered him with a stern yet loving demeanor, and he would often delight the boy when he was sick in bed at home with lightshows of thunder and flame. It made some of the more difficult times pass easier, and while Jubini never knew the depth of what was going on, he was always grateful and smiled fondly on the memories.

It was with those memories that he had wanted to learn how to do the same things, and he did his best to absorb and learn and memorize and practice. Jubini Carabini was eager.

Berrod Armstrong · **04-16-2015, 12:22 PM**

Berrod Armstrong had not seen when the Highlander landed on his right flank. Rather, he'd felt it; the way the hair on his face and body prickled with the slight disturbance in the air about him. It was only a split-tick afterward that the yellow of the other Highlander's cyclas registered in his peripheral vision -- though the familiar garb did not at all mitigate his alarm.Â

He had simply been practicing -- no, not quite practicing, that was just a fringe benefit. He had been working off the recent frustration that Â plagued him for the past few suns. The fiasco had started with a Lalafell client, and ended up in an ambush from which he and Athe barely escaped. The very memory of having to run away fretted him greatly, and so he opted to pour his anger into something constructive. His visitor however, had managed to erase the entire affair from his mind in an instant.

Berrod wasn't particularly proud of the manner in which he darted away from the other Highlander, but he knew full well that it was perhaps very wise. One ambush was more than what he had tolerance for in such a short space of time; two would be downright unacceptable.

With some distance between them he was able to get a good look at the man. Even for a Highlander the fellow was huge, and towered over Berrod by half a fulm. His skin was dark brown and littered with scars of various sizes. He seem crafted more of stone than born of flesh, from the stiff appearance of his skin to his statuesque, gargantuan build. The cyclas upon his body was well kept but clearly worn from battle. Scratches and dents showed even through the polish on his gloves and boots, though the feather on his headdress was new. He was the very image of a member of the Fists.

It was for that reason Berrod addressed him in an almost reverent fashion. The redhead clasped his left fist into his right palm at chest level, then bowed slightly at the waist. "Brother."

In comparison to the other, Berrod was a far sight less elegant. In his dusty white slops with a lack of shoes he seemed quite like a vagrant -- and that did not even take into account the ruddy, unshaven scruff of a few days along his jaw. The neatest thing about his appearance was the tied tail at the back of his head that kept his hair in check, though that was soaked with sweat just like the rest of him. A horizontal purple bruise marked his bare chest almost from nipple to nipple-- the sore prize he had received from the recent ambush. Regardless of it all, he stood proudly and presented himself as best as he could.

The other monk inclined his head slightly to the left, and a hint of intrigue shone in his eyes. "You bowed to me," he observed. His voice was as deep a reverberation as Â Berrod's, though the speech was slower. "An odd thing for a self-crowned King."

The monk's words set off resounding warning klaxons in Berrod's head. He made no effort to keep the wariness out of his body language; tension seized his frame. The demand that followed was very direct. "Who are you?"

The dark-skinned monk smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile by any account. "Let us first examine who you are," he countered, "Berrod Armstrong. Refugee, taken in at some point by a remnant of the fist...whose heart you must have broken terribly when you became a damned bandit no better than the ones you grew up struggling against. You survived the Calamity and continued your ways, which eventually landed you in a life of destitution in Ul'Dah. Thus came your rise from rags to riches, which saw you cavorting about with your buggering-mates on each arm, a pretense of caring for my people and my homeland, and a claim to something no sensible member of the resistance will allow."

Berrod had meanwhile done his best to keep his composure; the knowledge the other man had demonstrated regarding him was not something gained overnight. He kept his face even, though quite a bit of color left it. "I wish only to work with the resistance toward a common goal, not undermine them."

"Do you, Berrod Armstrong?" The monk contested, "Is that what you believe? Is that what your paltry alms to my brothers in the streets of Ul'Dah have convinced you of? Do you think that your blood or your knowledge make that a thing to take for granted? Is that why you feel content to return to your lavish home, eat heartily, drink merrily and then retire to gargle the balls of your pet Gridanians?"

The words cut through Berrod like a hot blade, with each slash removing a chunk of his pride and purpose. Nevertheless, the other monk continued, "Because those who fight and die every day in the name of my homeland and my people may not share the same view."

Berrod found himself at a momentary loss for words. What the other monk spoke of -- it had occasionally niggled at him, but it was just a doubt in the back of his mind that his own arrogance had become very effective at crushing. He was accustomed to being a man who was followed, and if the path he chose offered hope, why would they not follow? Having his efforts to help aid the refugees on the streets called paltry had a severe effect on him. Were the care packages not enough? Were the food hampers insufficient? Was the employment he offered through retainership no good? Doubt near suffocated him, and the other monk began to appear to him as an avatar of terrible truth.Â

Yet...something was amiss. Berrod knew himself, and he knew that he usually took great pride in his efforts, even if they were a little. When he lived on the streets he did what he could for his fellow refugees. When he terrorized the sands of the desert he had done it for their sake. He knew that he would not allow his life's passion to be so casually belittled, and was very accustomed to feeling anger before doubt and despair. His ambition to claim the throne was only intended if no one worthy was willing and the people needed it of him, otherwise he would dedicate his life to serving the one who would ascend. Why then, did he feel so crushed by a few words from a stranger?

Words...

Words. Voice. Sound. Air. Throat.

The realization hit him like a charging Aurochs; the other monk was using the power of the fifth against him! Through his voice he had sought to lay Berrod's will low. Berrod reeled; he had never witnessed this application of it before. There was a point of further confusion, however. An open, active chakra was something that always shone like a beacon in the night to him. He sensed nothing from this man.

His thoughts must have registered plainly upon his face, for the other monk offered him a mildly astonished look. It was odd how the man's worn and solid features seemed capable of such child-like wonder. "Ohh? You sense it?" his eyes narrowed in further scrutiny. "Ah, no...you're guessing. I can see it in your eyes. How accurately, I wonder?"

"How are you doing that without me seeing it?" Berrod demanded. It took considerable willpower to even speak in the voice's wake.

The other monk levelled a stare at him that may have usually been reserved for a dullard of a child. "A man tends to be unable to see when his eye is closed," he offered thoughtfully. "Though some men remain blind anyway."

Berrod comprehended the statement at once, and suddenly knew what he had to do. Already he had begun directing his aether between his eyes, and prepared to open the sixth with it, he would surely see through the other's trickery, and show the bastard some tricks of his own.

The dark skinned monk continued to observe him; an arrangement of pitying scorn folded his face. Then he vanished.

No more tricks. Open the sixth, the mi--

Berrod was not exactly sure if he saw the monk before the great, dark hand grasped his face into its palm. He felt the activation violently interrupted, then saw brilliant explosions of color behind his own obscured vision. Agony ripped through the entire back side of his body; he had been slammed down onto the ground, and savagely so.Â

"I have heard your praises among a few," the monk murmured. The disappointment in his voice was palpable. Berrod had not yet regained his senses enough to properly realize that he laid sprawled on his back beneath the yellow clad man, bleeding from the back of his head with the monk's palm still gripping his face. "But...you could not even sense my chakras, much less resonate with them. The time it took for you to open yours, why the delay? Knowledgeable you may be, but your execution is shoddy. Your master would be ashamed to see this."

The mention of Berrod's master incensed him. Though he could not see, the Highlander's fist raised to deliver retibution, aiming at a guess with intent to snap his assailant's arm at the elbow.

He did not get the chance. Before Â his fist could even connect, he felt a very gentle palm upon his stomach...followed by the maddeningly excruciating ordeal of having nigh every bone in his body shattered. Thankfully he only had to endure it for a moment before darkness took him.Â

Those nearby, however, reported a tremendous and concussive upheaval that pelted dust and rocks several yalms into the air, though it was mostly dismissed as a mining detonation or yet another overly eager thaumaturge initiate.

cuideag · **04-17-2015, 03:46 PM**

A figure staggered into the night.

She should have known better. The letters were suspicious from the start, reeking of conspiracy. That she would be met with silence in return for her inquiries was even more suspicious, and that same suspicion was only punctuated by two final words: Thal's Respite. Had they not come from Ser Crofte, she might not have chosen to show up at all.

She should have known. She should have known.

It took everything to keep as silent as she edged out of the cavern that housed the shrine and hobbled alongside the cliff face. Her right leg had been rendered near useless courtesy of Shaelen's damned gunblade and the rest of her was racked in pain as well. "You didn't make it easy for him," the smuggler said. "It was hard. Painful. Painstakingly long."

"You deserve the same."

Yet again Delial had allowed herself to be caught off guard and she paid the price for it. Yet again it was Wolfsong who spared her from certain death. The scenario rewound itself in her head over and over as she picked out every mistake, dwelled on every blow and kick, and every drop of her blood. Yet with every turn of her thoughts, it always came back to Wolfsong.

She grit her teeth and told it herself it was because of her leg. Her footing swayed and she blamed the blood loss. He had stood between her and those who would have her head for so long, so long she could hardly believe him herself. Ever since she joined the hunt for Itarliht, she had returned the favor: blood for blood, life for life, her knight for his sister, her loyalty for his forgiveness, her love--

Something twisted and she could not tell what for the all the ache that was her body. Her limping gait reeled abruptly and she buckled, tumbled onto her hands and knees and into the blinding shock of pain. Wolfsong pushed a small medical kit into her hands and it had helped with the bleeding, but she was still so very tired. The ground swam before her eye and every prick of stone burned like hot needles in her palms.

"Bleed out or nae... I don' care anymore."

"I did not want this," Delial blurted stupidly, desperately, staring at Gharen's back as he walked away. "I only wanted to see you safe. Your sister... and you."

"Ye could have fooled me lass, but I suppose tha's what yer best at."

As the black started to cloud her eye she thought bitterly that she should have known. It did not matter. What she wanted stopped mattering years and years ago. It washed over her, a swell of rage so overwhelming that she did not feel herself succumbing to unconsciousness. Nor could she tell, in those last bleary moments, what exactly it was that enraged her so.

TheLastCandle · **04-17-2015, 03:52 PM**

The dark silhouette made an imposing figure even among the tall trees of the Black Shroud, yet not a single man among the Wood Wailers stationed at the White Wolf gate so much as shot a glance in his direction. He was swathed in an encompassing cloak of ebon cameline, but his step carried with it the telltale jangle of mail and plate beneath the garment. If his presence was noted by any personâ€™s senses this night, they did not show it but allowed him to pass onto the cobbled path that would lead him, he knew, to the Carline Canopy.

Passing through the shade of one of Gridaniaâ€™s many awnings, he whispered a single word to unravel the glamour. Guards at gates asked questions, an aggravating ritual that the elezen had no time to entertain at the present time. The hood was thrown back, revealing a stern visage marred with a long, jagged scar that left his right eye white and filmy. Cropped, dark hair covered his head, razor-cut to a mere ilmâ€™s length with little thought given to style. This, too, he had no use for.

The only thing on his mind at this present time was a single name:

Yvelont Navarre.

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