cuideag

I'm a firm believer in being able to separate what you play for PVE from what your character might be for RP. I have no reason to believe, for instance, that paladins suddenly completely forget whatever the heck they were doing the moment they pick up something that isn't a one handed sword, or that a dragoon will suddenly swallow his tongue because he tripped and accidentally punched something instead of stabbing it. tl;dr no, probably not. Combat-seasoned characters will have new toys that they can play with but that might not necessarily mean that IC they stop being paladins or whatever else.

Jajara has been terrible about keeping keepsakes. She has had several throughout her life: a watch from her father, a gem from her mother, a ring from her once-husband, but all of these things have been lost or misplaced. She has crafted herself another gem, one of those that you might see other lalafell wearing on their foreheads. She does not wear it, however, as the time is not yet right. Delial has a knife. It does not belong to her but it was given to her and she has kept it ever since. It has been used several times for reasons she thought were just, but the sight of it has always brought her dread. She does not know why she keeps it. She remains compelled.

She saw less of her brothers as of late. Their faces grew longer as suns drove on and she could see, even in sweet Harvard, the tempering of their hearts into something harder. While she found more and more reason to sneak away from her lessons, Harvard found fewer and fewer excuses to join her at the river that crept through Old Garwater’s land. She skipped rocks on her own and then not at all. Suns moved on, indifferent to the rifts growing beneath their rays. “I got to,” he confessed late one evening after their parents had retired to their bedroom. His hands twisted as they always did when he was anxious, and he was almost always anxious. “Y’know how da gets. I can’t just say no, not with him an’ Westor both. It’s important.” “I’m important,” Delial said. “I’m your sister. You ought listen to me, too.” “Aye, I ought. But I can’t. Not… not so much, anyways. Maybe next week? We’ll see.” “We’ll see,” she said as he tiptoed out of her room. She watched him go with the hope that he might look over her shoulder and see that she knew when someone was patronizing her. He did not. Suns moved on, indifferent. “Distraction.” “Aye. The fighting. I worry it is becoming too much for her.” Delial kept her eyes low. The eyes pinned upon her were hawkish, far too knowing and far too intense. Some weeks Delial swore they shimmered from amber to emerald and took every shade in between. Even so, Delial could never be certain: she found her difficult to look at, as though she were a sun in mortal flesh, and she remained hard pressed to describe the Witch to anyone else. What she knew was that Hrathi was beautiful not in the way that all women were beautiful, but rather as hawks were: alien and elegant, with a body and a sharp face and eyes far too large and bright for a woman of her age. What age that was, Delial noticed, was largely dependent upon who was asked for no two people ever gave the same number. She was part maiden and part crone, some said, and those parts seemed to change with every season. “Distraction,” the Witch said again. Her voice was disdainful. Beside her, Delial’s mother folded her hands and sighed patiently. Lyra did not frown outwardly but there were creases of anxiety tugging at the corners of her eyes, aging her in quiet ways. “What say you, child? Hmm?” Delial kept her eyes low as she was questioned, the Witch’s words coming as sharp barks. “Speak. Speak.” “I-I’m sorry,” stammered Delial. There were other eyes on her as well, she noticed, eyes belonging to many of the other girls who had come for the evening lesson. Most of the other girls who could actually manipulate their flames, came a morose realization. The Witch snapped at her before her thoughts could continue. “You are not sorry, girl. Listen.” The command was spoken and cold, spider-leg fingers wrapped themselves around her shoulders. There was a chill that lurched down Delial’s spine, part fear and part electricity. The Witch never touched her. The Witch never touched anyone. “Magic exists in paradox,” spoke Hrathi, the rasp of her voice reaching her in dizzying stereo. “Chaos writ in energy, set to purpose: your purpose. Chaos given intent becomes order. Which becomes chaos. Which becomes order.” Delial’s ears rang with heartbeats and bells and the rush of blood that was not blood but aether, but not her aether. “The things you cannot master will destroy you, child,” the Witch went on. “And if you cannot master magic then it will devour you whole. It is a part of you: there is fire in your veins that has scorched generations before you, but you are stone.” “Mother--” The Witch released her. Delial fell at Hrathi’s feet with starry shapes stuck in her eyes, blinding flecks of red and orange that swam in her vision no matter how hard she tried to blink them away. She gasped. She retched. “-- she is just a child.” “We never stay children for long,” said the Witch. “That is our price. If you fall short, then you will not suffer this world long.” She turned and rustled away, the train of her robe scratching the grass behind her bare feet. Delial considered later as her mother was helping her home that she had been staring into Hrathi’s face but she could not remember it no matter how hard she tried.

It's a good thing I don't disagree with you. You're still not making any reasonable points in relation to the actual conversation, though. Wait, I'm confused now... just what are you arguing then? That there is no racism in Ishgard, right? Or that... we can't assume there is because there's no proof, or whatever? I feel like you are backtracking somewhere... He's arguing that everyone is wrong and I guess that's it? End of discussion?

A single shot rings out.

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.

Delial regarding Crofte... ... and maybe Shaelen, too. But mostly Crofte. And why not, one for Gharen.

There was much a child could learn in ten years. Delial’s grasp on aether was tenuous at best and while she was sharp, she was not studious, and the matrons made sure that was well known. If there was one thing Delial learned well, it was how to read people. Garren was not someone who could be said to be soft-spoken but there was a difference to the usual gruff edge in his voice and the one that she had heard early one grey morning. He was a coarse man who often seemed to speak well before the words came out of his mouth. He meant well enough most of the time, even if his temper did not always agree with him. Delial learned how to read him and his moods, how to tip-toe around the awaiting avalanche that was her father. Lyra was the epitome of grace as far as Delial was concerned. She held her head high and seemed to glide through even the most humble of actions effortlessly, flawlessly, and always with a hint of a smile never far from her lips. Yet even she had the odd day out: those days when she seemed distant, distracted, when she seemed more bone than flesh. She was never angry, yet she was: the anger of embers forever waiting to devour fresh kindling, crackling just beneath the surface. “My dear...?” It was Lyra that called out, the question in it lingering beyond the span her voice occupied. Had Delial not been there at her side, she might have felt alarmed: it was unlike her to sound uncertain, and the sight of her crooked brow was unsettling to be sure. Never did the world fail to orbit around what Lyra knew; never save for that morning. From elsewhere in the house, Garren’s voice game as a similarly questioning grumble, a sound more than a word. “My dear,” called Lyra once more, “I should think you will want to see this..” A line of figures marched down the cobbled street. Their faces were hidden but Delial knew the colors and the sigils that they wore: honored warriors and servants of the King. They marched in silence with their banners held high and waving in the grey wind. There were those among them who were not of the King’s men, and they walked stiffly between the ranks, staring with hard eyes at anyone who would meet their gaze. Her father swore beneath his breath when he, too, came to the window. “Brigade?” “Nay, my love. Look closely.” Garren’s eyes narrowed and he cupped his hand against the window. Other faces peered on from other windows across the way, all fixed and perplexed at what exactly it was they were watching. Further up the street, another procession turned the corner, another column of marching boots and cold eyes. Her father rumbled and it sounded like a growl. It was then, as the King’s men marched on by their house, that Delial noticed the men with the hardest stares were not men at all but heads and nothing more, their bodies replaced with pikes. Wrapped around their heads were tails of yellow cloth splattered with thickly in crimson. Delial’s eyes grew wide and the pit of her stomach grew cold. Somewhere beside her, she heard her father hiss an angry prayer, and just beyond him the muddled murmurs of her brothers joining to watch the display. The books and lectures spoke well enough of wars and conquests both inflicted and suffered by Ala Mhigo. She learned of kings and generals and heroes and of the honored dead their histories were built upon. Those things had remained at a safe distance, grim and caricatured and easily tucked back away between the covers of her texts. Even the Witch spoke little of it: It is grace and It is inevitable and It is not worth fear. Kings spilled blood for the betterment of the people. Between pages of blood and bone, there had to be reason. Delial stared, desperately trying to scry something, anything, from the soldiers and their grisly carriage. Only the dead dared speak through wide, hateful eyes and frozen snarls: there was no grace nor kindness in their deaths. A hand tugged at her shoulder to dislodge her from the window and as she was ushered away at her mother’s side, she could make out her father muttering low to his sons. In her later years she thought often upon those moments: her reflection in the glass, the glassy stare beneath a cold, grey morning. It was the first time she had ever heard fear in her father’s voice. She was ten years old and the world was only beginning to crumble.

I used to be a dinosaur... ... and then I found the thug life.

I think Jajara would sit at a 5. Her life has basically been physical labor, be it training to become a defender of the clan or mining to help provide for it, so she physically pretty dang strong (for a lalafell anyway). It's more that she doesn't have the fine-tuned technique that would really make her stand out as a real contender because her life hasn't revolved around combat for quite a while now. If she really got back on the ball, she'd probably end up a 4 but no higher than that. Delial is also a 5. Likewise, she has experience and some knowledge but she hasn't really had the time to sit and really focus on figuring out how she might make things explode and die without exploding and dying as well.

Gonna pull this back up to throw some kudos at Tiergan for basically always being hella classy and reasonable even in some of the more heated moments in threads. Thanks, friend. Gotta be like Tiergan.

I love RPers who, while they might have serious characters that might be in serious scenes, take a moment to drop in a little bit of humor or absurdity. I love RPers who have fun with their characters and share that fun with others. It's a wonderful thing and I feel little moments like that can really add to a character/scene's depth.

Oops. Oops. Oops. One okay thing doesn't dismiss a whole post full of salt.

I'm not very familiar with any of your characters, or what degrees of thought you have put into each. As such, I am in no position to judge whether your characters are "believable". That you have taken the time to gain such an understanding of my own character, and of the thought and work I have put into her, is immensely flattering. Erm... please tell me where in my post I said your name or directed anything at you? I have no idea who you even are. Therefore, I hate to disappoint, but I've put no time into your character. Are you surprised that someone relevant to this thread might be annoyed at your blanket dismissal of their character as something that isn't "believable?"

I would think that the words "minorities exist" is reason enough to play something that fits outside of those neat little race/nationality boxes. If y'all think that playing outside the norm is cause for dismissing a character as a "special snowflake" then boy howdy are you in for a surprise!

Glamour/dyes from Guild Wars 2.

This, I think, is very very good advice.

I still feel that this is the image most strongly encapsulates what Jajara Jara is so I am bringin' it back. Meet Jajara Jara, a tough little popoto hailing from a nomad clan in the Sagolii desert. She's ill-suited to the city life but she has managed to get by surprisingly well thanks to being just the sort of inoffensive bumpkin that people feel guilty about cheating (alternately: shanking). When she isn't buried in her work fixing things around the Still Shore or filling in orders for customers around Eorzea, she's usually trying to keep out of everyone's way. Also, meet Delial Grimsong, a problematic sociopath who may or may not actually have some daddy issues. This foxy almost 40 year old lady has a thing for sounding smug and smart and is not afraid to snap some necks to get the job done. When she isn't passing or pulling information out of her surprisingly tolerant informants, she's probably having a drink and brooding over how every one seems to ignore her perfectly good, solid advice. "Got a problem? Kill it." DONE.

Personal Profile [align=left]Character Name: Delial Grimsong Gender: Female Race: Hyur, Highlander Domestic Profile Civil Status: Single Place of Residence: N/A Occupation: Informant, spy, bounty hunter. Free Company: Blackthorn Company Social Profile Grimsong (formerly Blackstone, also known as Kinslayer) is an outspoken supporter of the Garlean regime who has made a life out of hunting members of the Ala Mhigan Resistance. She was presumed dead for a time after her activities in Ala Mhigo came to an abrupt halt not too long after the Calamity. Her reappearance in Ul'dah, however, would prove those rumors false. In recent years, her presence has been most strongly felt in Thanalan, where she has been thought responsible for the deaths of at least two individuals and the kidnapping of another. Current Status: MIA. Meta Profile Wiki page can be found here. [/align]

There was a monster in the hills. Delial knew this partly because she was quite clever, even at her young age. (Mother suggested once it was because of her young age, but she found that less probable for mother too was clever despite being far, far older than Delial.) There was a monster and she could hear it and because she was clever, she knew where to hide. They stalked in a sea of blue and purple and yellow stretching out for what was probably malms. She did not yet have a firm grasp on just how far a malm was but it seemed appropriate enough. She also knew because it was presently stalking her and her brother. If one was careful enough, one could evade detection: they were fearsome things, these monsters, but they were not nearly as clever as she. This one could not see her as long as she was perfectly still and she was well practiced at that. There was a rustle. The monster turned, arms upraised and hands splayed out. Auburn eyes, wide and wild, snapped to the jostling flowers. There was little mistaking the tracks of children, and monsters loved to snatch up children. “RAAAARR!” roared the monster. The quarry amidst the flowers squealed in response. From where she hid, Delial shook her head. It was likely too late to save her poor baby brother, four summers old and still lacking the wits to evade even the simplest of fiends. His fair-haired head bobbed and snapped around to gawk at the thing lurching towards him. Flowers were crushed and stems snapped and bled at its shins, and it waved its claw-like hands high above its head. “GRARRR! I GOT’YE NOW!” Harvard Blackstone shrieked as he was swooped upon and snatched up by the monster that was their eldest sibling. He kicked and waggled but Westor was far too strong to be felled. At least, not without a little help. “GAH-HA-HA! GONNA BOIL YE UP INTO A NICE STEW,” the monster gloated as he spun with his prize still squirming in his arms. “GAH-HA… huh?” Westor squinted. There was another rustling, sharper and louder than before, and a dark-haired shape leaving a trail of toppled flowers in her wake. He stopped his spinning and bared his teeth in a broad, challenging grin and roared again: “GAHAHAH! WHAT’RE YA GONNA-- OOF!” There was a muffled whump followed by another slightly less muffled WHUMP. Harvard howled with delight. Westor, however, was not as tickled. At least, not until Delial sat on his chest and stuck her fingers into his armpits. “N-NO!” he yelped, suddenly sounding considerably less monstrous than he had moments before. He wailed helplessly only to find his voice interrupted by choked laughter and agonized giggles. There was a new monster in the hills and she was without mercy. In a slightly less noisy patch of flowers just beyond a soft swell of earth, two parents exchanged glances and went back to their reading with amused smiles on each other’s lips.

Jajara: [video=youtube] ... and Delial: [video=youtube]

This definitely looks interesting. Thanks for sharing, friend.

I honestly think if a) it makes sense and b) it helps make for a good story then yeah, any of my characters are free game. They aren't adventurers and they aren't really battle hardened to a degree that they wouldn't be at a disadvantage in most situations that might be dangerous, anyway. Heck, I was trying to kill off a dude for some stuff in the Legacy of Blood storyline but that was subverted. HASN'T STOPPED ME TRYING THOUGH, HA HA HA. Delial's had a few attempts on her but she's been helped out each time. I would like for her to stick around until after Ala Mhigo comes into play at least because one way or another that might be where her story ends, for better or for worse.

Jajara is a bit of a silly drunk. She loses some of her inhibitions, but she's usually knocked out cold before things can get too out of hand. She does not drink very often at all. Delial gets chatty. She won't shut up. Sometimes it's the good sort of chatty, where she's .... actually pretty friendly and likes to joke around or tell silly stories. Other times it's the bad sort of chatty where she has nothing on her mind but how much she utterly loathes everybody around her, and that includes whoever it is that's buying her drinks. How dare you.

Would love to see more NPC styled clothing with less gender locking.