cuideag

I had a laugh in Midas earlier this week when some ding dong MNK decided he'd shoulder tackle a boss and just start wailing away at him. My fellow healer and I sat back and watched as he died two auto attacks later. Then he immediately dropped group. Yeah. Healer Shade is real and I LOVE IT.

All things considered, it wasn't a bad place to live. It was longer than it was wide, almost as if it had been a simple albeit generous hallway in a past life. The door seemed fitted on as an afterthought and the corners of the far wall creased and cracked far too suspiciously to have been part of the original design. There were no windows but a single window-shaped square of plaster that was just a shade lighter than the rest of the surrounding wall. Dust and detritus from the street puffed inside in tiny, curious gusts, and gathered in the hard lines along the floor. A broom, resting in a corner beside the door, watched with bristles clogged and defeated. Given that there wasn't much to house there besides a cabinet of well-worn clothes and a bed that was not much more than a pallet padded with a generous few layers of rough blanket, it was not a bad place to live. The man who held the keys - lalafellin, simply dressed, hooded eyes - reminded her again and again that he charged a fair price for being within walking distance of the markets. She had not tried to suggest otherwise but the man, small and dusty as the rooms he rented, seemed to brighten considerably while deflecting any perceived question of quality on his part. She allowed him the pleasure all the way from his small shaded office at the other end of the row. Delial shifted her weight from one boot to the other. She was an intruder here and had its occupant still been in the area she would have never dared cross the doorway. That he stayed there had not been a secret: the gil she left moon to moon was easy enough to follow, with virtually no effort made to conceal its use. “Like a fella what has punctuality,” the lalafell was saying from where he had parked himself just outside. “But rent is rent and rent needs payin’. Now, I’ve been real generous about it--” “You have,” Delial agreed. She could not tell if there was an unusual amount of dust coating the surfaces of the room, given how freely it entered. It was neat and orderly otherwise, each and every of his few possessions placed precisely where they ought to be. “-- and it’s just not reasonable,” continued the landlord, albeit with a satisfied nod, “To lose my living on account of a boy what up and left with no rent paid at all! None!” “None?” “None.” The landlord sounded aghast. Delial was more concerned with checking the drawers, however, and carefully sifting through rows and piles of neatly folded garments. “An’ let me tell you, I got mouths to feed! My family needs a home, too, same as any other.” “A predicament, of course. And this is the first time that this has happened…?” Her knees creaked and what she hoped to make a graceful kneel to examine the contents of the bottom drawer ended with an ungraceful flinch and crack as her knee slipped and hit the hard floor harder than she would have liked. “Ha!! This is Ul’dah, rem… oh,” paused the lalafell, clearing his throat. “Well, with this fella, certainly. Came over, what, two years ago? Didn’t ask no questions, didn’t give no trouble. An’ he paid.” The last word was stretched out and Delial was certain narrowed eyes were pinned upon her back. “I expect so,” she said. Deneith had actually done it once, taken Harvard off the street with that Qaeli woman, with Stormchild, and shattered what little sense of safety he might have had living so near the walls of Ul’dah. He must have seen the refugees every sun. Did he help them? Did he know Greyarm? Is that where my money has gone? Did sending him away from the Resistance push him further into its arms? “What’re you sniffing around for, anyroad?” The landlord huffed, aggravation edging into his voice. “I can’t be standin’ around here all sun. Got work to do, same as anyone else!” Delial stood stiffly, grateful that the stinging in her knees distracted her from the slow sink of her heart. The question and it’s questioner went ignored as she turned and scanned the room once more. To say the walls were in perfect condition would have been much more kind than the truth, and were one truly of the mind to crack plaster and stone to conceal something behind it then it would not have stood out at all. Her brother was not the sort to place undue damage on something that did not belong to him, however. That left the bed. “Vanishing has become quite fashionable,” she said. Delial had to force herself to commit to jostling the single pillow, light and lightly dented, and to feel through and pat down the blankets. (He would have fussed at her, slapped her hands and stomped his feet. Dust motes and sunlight and a red-faced boy, the youngest of three, and no no no--) “Many friends of mine have gone without a word,” she continued with the shake of her head. He might have thought her to be regretful. “But one does not simply cease to exist, no, not unless one truly wished to. Even then, there are things left behind.” “Don’t know nothin’ about that,” said the lalafell, his tone dipping lower. Delial did not look at the man but she thought she caught his previously withering gaze direct itself elsewhere out of her peripheral vision. The Highlander said nothing. Her hands tugged the neat creases free from where they had been tucked between the pallet and the thin mattress, and then she lifted. Stuck between the slats was a small wooden box, no larger than the palm of her hand, and with a gentle tug she pulled it free and let the mattress fall. It clattered in her hands as she turned it and slid the lid free. (He wouldn’t look at her, even as she pressed it into his hands, whispering promises into his ear: This is for your own good. This will keep you safe.) “I won’t abide robbery,” warned the lalafell, but Delial hardly heard him. There was a rushing in her ears and a chill in her heart, and she had to ignore the quake in her fingers. A slender pouch of coins rested atop a few browning scrips of paper, letters if she would have had to guess, but it was the ring that she lifted out. It was wrought of a cold, dark silvery metal, the face of which was dominated by a square cut black gemstone flanked on either side with engravings of griffons with talons raised and wings outstretched. Her breath left her in a hard gust, as though she had received a blow to the gut, and she nearly forgot to suck in more air. No, no, no. He would not have left this, not if he left. Passage, food, and lodgings easily paid. He would not leave them if he had the choice. Her innards twisted as fear and fury fought inside her, and numbly she shoved box and ring alike into her pack for fear of dropping them, losing them again just as she lost-- “I said, won’t be abidin’ robbery,” growled the lalafell again, this time his voice coming from somewhere just in front of her. Delial focused just briefly on his greedy eyes eyeing the ring before, with a swiftness that caught herself off guard, she stepped around the shorter man and out into the ill-kept lane. The Twelve must have thought to bestow some small mercy in that she could not feel the pain in her knees until she was already in a dead run out into streets, kicking up dust and the screams of an angry lalafell echoing farther and farther behind her.

When first she came to the Shroud years ago, it made Delial uneasy. Even with the Conjurer's blessing, she could not help but feel as though there were a presence mere ilms above her shoulders, waiting to press around her throat the moment her guard was let down. The stories of the wood and the things that lorded over it did little to ease her worries. Not once did Delial ever think she was anything but an intruder, and she was sure she stank of the blood spilled by Ala Mhigans who had come before her. Not that she was innocent, of course: Marcineux was left for the birds and the boars. Sometimes, she thought she could smell him. Sometimes, she thought she might choke. Her every step was as loud as a gunshot, muted as they were in the soft ground beneath. If the birds remained they did not sing, nor did they flit or flutter. It was as quiet save for the steady trudge of boots ill-suited for travel through the forest. Surely it was the Wolf they feared, especially now that he was loosed from his bed of chains. She wondered if he hunted them like he had hunted men. She wondered if they would be sporting at all. She did not know where she walked. Somewhere to her left was a thin stream that snaked through the underbrush, and somewhere behind her waited the Wolf. Her things had been gathered, what little there was: a bag bounced against her thigh as she walked and the butt of her staff (no, no, not hers) left tiny craters in the the earth, breadcrumbs in negative that may or may not remain should Delial decide to turn herself around. The thought of it did not concern her for she did not think of it at all. Every dozen yalms or so, she paused and raised her head a little higher to listen hard before she inevitably decided to continue. The shadows continued to crawl, chasing away the shifting sun. It was as silent as silent could be when Delial was finally satisfied. The canopy was low and thick and the wind touched not a single leaf. Somehow it felt cold, though not quite as cold as the staff in her hand. It was too still. It was just still enough. With a nod, she began to work. Moving stiffly, she cleared away loose roots and stones to open up a circle of raw earth just wider than the span of her arms. She planted the staff outside its perimeter, dropped her bag beside it, and with soft words and a softer gesture called forth a pair of witch-lights small and faint enough to barely cast their pale gold glow across the circle. She sat herself in its center, tugging and folding her legs beneath her. Then, gently, she set each light down: one at her right hand and one at her left. The little lizard girl seemed so proud of herself when she made her offer. It was just some little trinket, Delial convinced herself, a pretty trinket bearing false promise. That the girl knew her name was not important; that the girl knew her weakness was just a lucky guess. Even after she waved her hands and her cards, it was the word that stuck with her, one final festering sting. “Powerless,” Sarangerel said and knew she hit her mark, just as it was meant to. It sat in her possession ever since with hardly a thought given to why and how it was in her hands. Then Roen asked after it, posing warnings of untrustworthy scaled men and schemes. Then the Sergeant summoned them and plead for their aid. Then the Wolf spoke of power to be bestowed. Delial could feel where it burned cold in her pockets, and she could feel the hole where it occupied her thoughts. She reached out to draw a knife from her pack and sliced neatly across the face of a palm, not so much as flinching as the steel cut through her skin. With practiced delicacy, she dabbed her thumb in the rising blood and marked once, twice across her cheeks, and then three times over her dead eye. A wary part of her thought, for a moment, that the stone was not quite as cold as before when she drew it out of her pockets. A foolish part thought she felt it throb when she laid it over her bloodied palm. Yet another worried of the trees she caught sight of in the corner of her eye when she cradled her hands together and bowed her head: of how they seemed to bow with her, looming so close and so low that they might smother her where she sat. She ignored them all. She shut into herself, grasping for threads of aether and whispered to the black stone in her hands. Later, after the lights were long gone and her blood had gone dry, when the staff that was the witch’s legacy glimmered in her hands and her heels dug cracked grooves in the drying earth beneath, did Delial know that it finally whispered back.

I have a hard time understanding what people are saying if I am not focused on them so I have to ask people to repeat things a lot especially if they are just coming up to me while I am doing something else or talking to someone else. Forgetting someone's name mere minutes after being introduced to them. Turning cleric stance back on after trying to get out of it.

@ Kage @ Gharen @ Roen @ Kiht

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Long ago, people imagined its eerie howls to be the call of the grim reaper. The flames it breathes when angry contain toxins. If they cause a burn, it will hurt forever.

Delial was born under Byregot but she reveres Rhalgr first and foremost as any good Ala Mhigan should. At first it was mostly a matter of tradition: both her father and elder brother were devout as well, and were involved with the Fists up until their deaths. Somewhere along the line she became enamored with the notion of strength (and by extension one's capacity for destruction) being a measure of worth, and that coupled with Rhalgr's place as father to the Fury and the Builder probably sealed the deal. Seeing the moon fall didn't hurt, either. Nothing like a big angry red ball of death and destruction to put the fear of Rhalgr into you.

Terrible woman confuses "love" for "a knife or few in the back," doesn't understand why it's such a big deal.

*CRACKS KNUCKLES* My lady here is no friend of the Resistance but I'd love to have her meet some of yall regardless. An LS sounds pretty rad.

Gonna go full animu trash mode with Kalafina's Magia for the OP [video=youtube]https://youtu.be/Eadt_ZoMYUs and with some editing, In Monochrome Night could make a neat ED with plenty of opportunity for moody shots [video=youtube]https://youtu.be/wu8A6BdcHbk

It wasn't quite Shaelen Stormchild but it was close enough. Delial never claimed to have an artistic hand, and if some features had been exaggerated (not necessarily on purpose) to encapsulate the Essence of Stormchild As Interpreted by Grimsong then the skittish man assigned to keep the damned thing firmly sat upon its stump dared not say a thing of it. It was really just a popoto sack full of sand, after all, and the Highlander was the one with the gun. BANG. From the stump came the short gasp sucked in through teeth but she heard nothing more. Breathing out, she lowered the firearm - a fine weapon, Lady Primrose assured her - and carefully set about reloading it. It had taken her half a sun to figure out how to do even that and she was no faster for it now than she was the first time. Such weapons were not foreign to her, not completely, but it clicked and clacked and felt unlike anything she had ever held before. Primrose spared her no teasing (“The end with the hole is the bad one!”) but there was a weight she found comforting despite what the metal meant. It was a weapon first and foremost and weapons were meant to kill. “I met him,” Primrose also confessed. “The man who claims to have let Gharen die.” BANG. “Whew!” The thought had always been there with her, pressed deep down beneath the feet of the great stony walls she kept up around herself. Too many moons with too few signs, and the few that had been found spelled nothing inspiring. Gharen would not give up his private belongings so easily. Gharen would not forsake his sister, no matter what. Gharen would not. Nor would Gharen Wolfsong would not be put down so easily, and yet there they were. Between sword and lance and axe and gun, they would surely make something of Wolfsong’s killer. Another cartridge clicked into the chamber. Delial scowled and raised the firearm again, sighting her target over the barrel. Shaelen, with her chaotic red hair and her exceedingly large nose, remained moderately slumped and infuriatingly bullet-free. The memory of it held strong in her mind, of Roen Deneith in the cold, thin air in the heights of Ishgard moons before. She had tried, Delial mused, to take the iciness around them into herself, to become hard and rigid and indomitable. But her voice had cracked and her eyes, grey and weary, took shelter beneath her hand. “Please get him back,” she had pleaded, her voice a hoarse murmur, and then she was ice once more. Delial would need to give her something. BANG.

It's bound to happen someday with who and what I RP. Injuries have been plenty but no one's quite done her in just yet (but not for lack of trying!). It will happen, though, and I just hope it'll be a good end.

"The world could use more people like you, Delial Grimsong. Keep up the good work, and you'll make the Nice List every year!" Then why do I keep getting coal :[

[video=youtube] Father, father, let me love you Saw you wandering in my dream last night singing Wonder, wonder what you might do You can't simply hide our dream in the blue Don't try to fight; don't let me go You've gone too far from what I know I lost my heart in the dark with you Father, father, why you let me go Father, please don't let me go Brother, brother, let me love you Whisper all your deepest fears You can trust me And when it's over we can begin Finally to make amends Try to save us Let me love you

I heard Primal EXes and I came as fast as I could edit: my starlight wishlist is more rad primals please and thank you Yoshi P

October 10th: Marina Diamandis (YES), Brett Favre (OK), Mario Lopez (CUTE), David Lee Roth (\m/). Also Tanya Tucker, who strangely enough was who I had in mind for my potato Jajara's voice.

I'll miss the turn based junk but one thing I won't miss is weird mutant Cloud cause he's weirder than ever

A letter sent moons ago: H, I arrived not but a sun ago and you might not guess where. Ishgard, accursed Ishgard! has begun to accept outsiders and among those who might have come her way is a girl and her brother. Would that it were us - I think you might enjoy it here. The wind is strong and the sky is wide. From a distance it doesn't look like much but when I am here, looking down across everything, I am reminded of home. Thus far I have only been subject to a few stares. I even met a gentleman in one of the local inns: a Dragoon, in fact! Dressed so plainly, I wouldn't have guessed. Even they must take time for themselves. A lesson I ought learn, as I am so regularly reminded by my companion here. It seems the simplest thing in the world and in all honesty it should be, given that the alternative is wandering through the bitter cold with snow up to my knees at times. A hearth and a book ought be more enticing and I have no shortage of books. I won't bore you with the details. It can't be expected that you even read these. Yet if it ever were to occur to you that you might want to see this place, you need only send word. Given time, I could arrange transport for you. Have you ever ridden an airship? There is a place here where they build them, toiling day and night to produce the most unlikely of vehicles. Apparently they even fly but I have not had the nerve nor the funds to test it out myself. The ones from the city-states are fairly safe, however, and much faster than by land. A ticket here and back would be no trouble at all. Any word at all would put me at ease. It has been years, and even the ones I work with - ones I will remind you I have worked against in nearly every instance! - have come to put some faith in me. I hope some day you might do the same, even if it is to bid me silent. If you have no more need of money then I will find other use, I promise you. I'm not being paid for my current work and there are only so many side jobs I can take. You ought to know I am more than capable of forcing the issue. It's what I do. Regardless, know that you have my love. Maybe I will see you soon. I pray you will think on it and let me know. D.

Delial is not very sure what all to make of her chocobo, Vigil. The man who sold it to her assured her that he is a male of fine, hardy stock that was just reaching a season or two beyond ideal for lugging wagons and caravans all over Thanalan and beyond. The asking price, he insisted, was very fair - extraordinarily fair, even! - considering he still had plenty of life left in him for other, smaller tasks, such as ferrying stunning ladies from here to there provided said stunning ladies were not necessarily in need of getting from here to there in record time. So what if he was a little less friendly than some of the other birds? Nobody, beast or man, is perfect. Given that at the time, Delial was in need of [generally] fast transport that didn't involve leaving a trail of easy to follow transactions from one settlement to another, it seemed like a bargain. Vigil has spent most of his time since in one stable or another, in the hands of people who might actually know a thing or two about chocobos and how to keep them happy. Delial is less fond of chocobo riding than she thought she would be and mostly just has him delegated to light pack bird duty when she's on the move.

Originally I picked Delial because I just liked it and I liked the significance of it in a book I really dig (heck yeah House of Leaves), the most obvious thing being how analogous it is to the word "denial." There's also happens to be Delilah (betrayed Samson's secret in the Bible) and Belial (worthless, without a master, the devil??, etc) and that's pretty cool too.

Just started getting into MTG so now I understand what all this junk means aaahhh EDIT: help why is this so fun

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[video=youtube] THIS IS THE LAST ONE I SWEAR, I finally beat this boss so here's that music in celebration