saccharine_bliss

[align=center]https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/118570467962388481/385719839932809216/clover-and-rhemmy-title.png[/img] A n E o r z e a n T a l e https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/118570467962388481/385719845980733440/eorzea-1.png[/img] “What about Peddler’s Bend,” the woman ventures, affronted. Her eyes are already beginning to glaze from the thick alcohol coursing through her blood. Her tongue stumbles through language and her voice grows increasingly belligerent. Her companion’s ears lay flat against his skull: he can already see how this one will end. He tries to fight it, hopelessly. “What about Peddler’s Bend? That was a colossal goat-fuck. Now keep your voice down, you’re gonna get us made.” He is hissing the words out, his face set to a sneer as he alternates between trying to level the sheer force of his will on the woman and also gauge the tavern around them. Tuke’s Burrow is bustling, the seedy stop hole abbey in the earth beneath one of Ul’dah’s more disreputable brothels thick and pregnant with the miasma of opium and hylo-stick smoke. The roar and clamour of raised voices wouldn’t be enough for Clover if she set her mind to the thing she spoke of. “I just don’t think it’s right, is all. They’ve got a goddamn hero in their midst and nary a one of them seems to notice. Ma always said there’s none respect left in the world, and would you look at that.” Clover staggers from her seat and glowers across the barroom sprawl. The chair screeches and some hazard a glance her way, watching the small woman with idle amusement. Ja’rhem pre-emptively sinks into his chair as Clover braces her hands against the table and climbs onto it. Her legs wobble, her vision swims, and at last she recovers her balance. A good portion of the tavern is looking at her now; they are leering like patrons expecting a show. When the show unveils itself, though, they blanch. "Now listen up," she drawls on, her ale-warm voice slurred as her wooden clogs totter backwards, forwards, then steady. "Now I see before me more than one strapping young lad with an axe to 'is belt." She paces around the table, scowling at the gathered sodden throng as they stare beetled back at her. "Yes, you there, young sir. And you, by the the innkeep, don't turn yer sorry face down! You've all come here tonight to enjoy yourselves, I'm sure, but out in that desert under that great, black expanse lie thatchgallows and cutthroats in droves, and not one of you would lift up in arms against them, would you? Keep a corner in your pockets for the highwayman's tax. Pay your way an' keep yer ‘eads down. But not so for this man here." She steps aside, and in a swish of serge petticoat reveals a beflustered miqo'te clinging desperately to the shadows in his corner. Clover tugs a neckerchief from her breast, once-bloodied and now dried, stretching it out in that dim and gasping gaslight for all to see. "Ja'rhem Khalaa refused to pay the devil's tax, and slew as many men as there were bullets in his old six-shooter." She pauses. Ja’rhem winces; it was a flagrant exaggeration. There had been only five and two died of their own accord and unhealthy fascination with explosives. Clover shot another, and Ja’rhem slew two: one from far away and the other from behind, undignified and ultimately unstylish. Not to mention he had wanted to pay them the whole time; it was the lass that had refused. Now she glares over the rows of rowdy heads, some tilted in puzzlement, some drunken and sneering and beginning to stand. She continues on in that ominous hiss. "And six bodies I counted among the slain curs, and pulled this here trophy from one of them myself. But his accomplishments do not stop there, gentlemen! He saved a mill far across these shores from molestation by bandits, and protected a farmstead from a particularly heinous villain. And let’s not forget all of the fine, fine damsels--" She begins, but her words never finish as on that note Ja’rhem is up on his feet to silence the woman, half hauling her down from her pulpit like a priest gone mad. They leave just as men begin to brandish their cleavers. https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/118570467962388481/385719835088125952/clover-and-rhemmy-subtitle2.png[/img] https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/118570467962388481/385719849231581196/eorzea-2.png[/img] Clover and Ja’rhem area pair for people who like the picaresque. Ja’rhem, a once-career-criminal, confidence man, and thief, has gone adrift from his previous trades and entered out onto the road with his companion, a young and wayward chocobo named Gallows. He wants not for adventure or grandness, though, passing through towns and drifting between Grand Companies for any odd and menial job he can tackle with his rifle or his hands – the easier and less hectic the better. His travels take him eventually to Stoke, a small farming community in La Noscea, where he finds a young and bright-eyed girl named Clover. After unintentionally saving her village from a local blackguard, she attaches herself to him – mostly at his disapproval – with very different designs on his life. She nips at his heels, proclaiming him a hero to all that will listen, dragging him into excitement and bedlam wherever they go. For the seasoned thatchgallows, though, old habits die hard, and his sticky fingers find its way through locks, pockets, and people’s hearts, grinning and teasing their wealth from where it can be found. Throughout the course of their travels, we’re hoping to haul the pair from the simple into the transmundane, into the wild and war. From common vagrants into heroes. We’d like to yank people along for their adventures, both tragedies and comedies, suffering and light-heartedness and earnesty entire. If you're interested in these kinds of stories, you can send a PM here but it's easiest to contact us on Discord or Tumblr. My ID is Murderhouse#3480 and Clover's is Mossycoats#2106. Additionally, here are Ja'rhem's and Clover's Tumblrs. If you're not sure how to get involved, feel free to take some inspiration from the hooks below. https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/118570467962388481/385719846844760065/clover-and-rhemmy-subtitle.png?width=400&height=43[/img] U N L I K E L Y H E R O E S : Clover and her infinite aspirations of being a bard have selected Ja’rhem to be the seat of her songs. She cries his glory, often exaggerated, at any road-side saloon or bunkhouse. More than anything, we’d love to see this crew dragged into great, fantastic conflicts and epic tales, often at Ja’rhem’s displeasure. Militias, militaries, and men and women of valour or need, look no further. T H E D I A M E T R I C A L L Y O P P O S E D : As much as it’s really nice to find characters that have oh-so-sweet chemistry, we’re actually extremely interested in those that don’t. Or volatile chemistry, if anything. Give us law enforcement and knights and sorcerers whose leanings skew from this merry band. Let us bring something new to each other! A D V E N T U R I N G C O M P A N I O N S : Be ye sellswords, nomads, wanderers, or sacred men on a quest, the road is less lonesome and less dangerous with folk to fill her. T H E C O M M O N F O L K : The salt of Eorzea, the lifeblood of her hamlets and cities and farmlands who the pair and their accompaniment might stumble upon. Come all tribals, villagers, tradesmen, peddlers, and the like. E M P L O Y M E N T W A N T E D : When Clover isn’t forcing her companions into adventure, they have to make their wages somehow. Employers who need security details, labourers, a couple guns-for-hire, or couriers, enquire within! A C R I M I N A L E L E M E N T : Ja’rhem is a once-career criminal and Clover has rose-tinted glasses for the roguish life and those who wear it. They will brush shoulders with the picaresque and the nasty. B R I G A N D S, B U T C H E R S, A N D M E N O F W A R : Garlean conquerors, sympathisers, and other agents of vision, these are two souls set on ambiguity and left adrift. Clover is impressionable and flung into the wide-open world. Ja’rhem has lost too much on this earth and is trying to find something, anything to cleave onto. For those seeking to instil a new perspective in them, though, we’d like to see a grasp of nuance and true morally grey territory; the paper-thin villain will not sway them. [/align]

Here's my disgraced, Ishgardian knight, Gaetan Sorel:

Eeeeee, thank you so much Mossycoats that means the world to me coming from you! Also, I look forward to hearing from you, Charce!! <3

Haha, eyyyyyy! He's a mix of sneering and sadcat lately these days, but I appreciate the vote of confidence. :3

Omg Roveeeeeella you are forever too sweet. ;-; What a pleasant surprise to see you here, I super especially appreciate this post and I'm glad to have your continual support. >///< You da best.

Just did a huge overhaul on this making connections thread and his RPC profile. Ja'rhem's all adrift! Just coming back to FF14 and looking to maybe stretch my legs with some delightful folks! :> Feel free to contact me via PM's, Discord, or in-game! :bouncy:

Haha omg hi there that's totally fine I'll get to it ASAP!! Thanks a lot for giving some resurgent interest! :3

Just coasting along. I'm sticking to BDO as well a little because I'm pretty much in love with the lore I've created there, but I wanted to try something more light-hearted out. Nice to see an old face and I'll definitely take you up on that offer. :3 edit: not that this shit above is light-hearted at all, but the general atmosphere.

We dropped off the face of the earth there for awhile, but I just went through this post and took a hacksaw to it, nixing this, lifting that, stretching taut these pieces and have this concept much more fleshed-out, well-rounded, and better written. There's a lot more lore that I'm choosing not to add at the moment because this seems like it's a perfect amount to digest to get a feel for it! Please feel free to contact me at the various places listed in the final section of the opening post if you're at all interested in getting involved as an actual member of the tribe or someone we can associate and/or antagonise on our travels. :3

In the words of our Holy Father, Ernest Hemingway "There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." When that doesn't work, 8tracks is pretty nice.

That's good to hear! I look forward to interacting with yours, friend! :3 It sounds super exciting!

Aaaaaaah, exciiiiting! It sounds like I have a counterpart soul in you. :3 I look forward to the PM! We are always happily accepting people who want to make members of the tribe or just get involved in any way!

[align=center][/align] The night terrors and fever dreams of Othard’s western steppes conjure tales of witchmen who in their hubris offered up their hearts and souls in service to a great devil. Now in darkened yurts, mystics and warriors alike commit themselves to rituals both strange and hideous. These are the heathen children of the Qiri-aab (“Crowfather”), a clan contrived from smoke and murder and brought forth through war. In piety, their foreign and eerie tongues fill the night sky with screams and the howling of beasts in the name of their strange father-god. He is a ferryman of souls and a harbinger of change and his whims are frightening and incomprehensible while they promise a night that will never end. [align=center] [/align] In the shadow of the crow-witches’ cairns, a beast stirs at the heart of the Qirikha. Among the clan, the chieftain is a creature of spiritual omnipotence, one degree removed from the Qiri-aab. He acts as the manifestation of the Crowfather’s will and where he steps the dirt and dust and ash become myth. Perhaps he is an incarnate, for who is to say what strange acts are done beneath the careful and dutiful hands of the witches who lord over him like misers and shape from his flesh a vessel that will render proper to house the spirit of God. He comes as both prophet and sovereign and his mandates and actions are given impetus like the wild revelations of their god. When he commands his flock, their bones rattle beneath each word. Precious as gems are the women of the Qirikha for their lot is not one of equality as much as varying degrees of possession. For most women among the tribe, theirs is a decorative and humble life in service to the patriarchs of their families. Refused the right to war, they are the gatherers and craftsmen, the diplomats and traders who will never know the prestige that comes with bearing the spear but for a seldom few, their birthright will mark them with destiny and a path seldom trod. These are those who bear the “divine gift” of magical craft and who will be made to crawl on their bellies through ash and fire between the eye of a needle. They will rise from their trials of anointment as the soothsayers and witch doctors and sacred concubines of their god or they will die doing so. These are the crow-wiches of the Qirikha’s spiritual caste and it is in their black hovels and by their blood-soaked hands that defenseless male babes are murdered for bearing the “feminine” gift of magic and it is by their tongue that their unworthy sisters are sentenced to death for failure in their trials. Of all of their works, though, none is as sacred as the rite of succession: the process by which a simple warrior of the tribe is selected and molded into the next sovereign of the clan. A warring and jingoist tribe, death is perhaps one of the most prevalent themes among the Qirikha, and the Chieftain does not absent himself from this and so goes all who live by the sword. Upon the passing of the sovereign, a period of thirteen months follows where the crow-witches act as the official regents of the tribe as they commune with their god in search of the next replacement. Upon the day that the Crowfather at last speaks to his children, a number between one and five witches, selected randomly through divination and acts of black magic, are chosen to leave the safety of their community in order to lead the supplicant and a small war party through the Tengri-aan (lit. “Godswalk”): a pilgrimage intended to shape the chieftain-elect’s body and soul into a vessel with which the divine essence might be rendered. There is to be a great letting of blood, the destruction of the warrior’s ego, the reformation of his chapel which is his heart, and at last the imbuement of divinity. This process can take several moons and upon their return, the new chieftain is announced and the crow-witches, being already wed religiously to their God, are presented as his First Wives. Due to this and their divine nature, it is considered a great insult to lay one’s hand on them unbidden. To the Qirikha, it is believed that the noblest life is one lived in the agency of war. It is a trade all men love and to them there is no other way to live and die but with the spear in hand. At the age of seven, the male is plucked from the warmth of his mother and sister’s gentle hands and he is forced beneath the tutelage of his father to learn the art and way of war. When he is fifteen he will walk his rite of passage to victory or to the grave. In the early days of autumn, during the mating season for the indigenous aurochs, the young and unblooded of their fifteenth year are sent out each with a single, seasoned male to bring back one of the felled beast. On horseback they will cut one from the pack just as they were sent out from their tribe and either the warrior will return to his family or the auroch will return to its own for a beast is always a beast and knows the nature of the world which is to shed the blood of another or in turn shed yours. The plains will run red and the skies will again fill with the howling of triumph and agony in equal measure and they will make their first mark on the world. The candidates will return with their hauls and there will be feasting and drinking and festivities in that night. The newly-anointed warriors will bed, and if they choose, claim their first woman. This is ritual and the smell of their communal debauchery and drunkenness will choke back the air and should a child be born from this union they will be considered a blessing for the girl’s family for among the Qirikha the tribe is of one father, brothers and sisters all. This night of pleasure is a pretense for the ages to come, but each son knows that they will celebrate a life of carnage in service to the tribe for the rest of their days. It is spoken true that war is as natural part of the Qirikha’s life as breathing. From the day that they hit seven they are weaned on violence and bred for one task. When they are taken from their mothers it is to shape from cold slag a machine that knows of nothing but how to kill. As a unit, their methods of war are no less brutal and merciless. When battle is determined, their only warning is a messenger sent encouraging surrender to the rival tribe. A scout will watch for a signal and if it is not given, the Qirikha will prepare to strike. When they descend on their enemies, it will be under the cover of night, warriors new and old bedizening their bodies in dark paints and festooning their armor in fetishes drawn together of bones and reeds and feathers like the strange and awful blessings of their god. They come down out of the darkness with a violent and otherworldly yammering like some heathen horde drawn up out of the hell-holes of oblivion. It is a sight unreckonable to Eorzea but known well as whispered bedtime stories to those who eke out their lives among the Steppes. They are a barbarous breed specializing in the use of spear and machete to terrorize and demoralize their foe, hacking and scalping and carving a lunatic’s path in their wake. They have the fight of desperate and wild animals, a slaughter that beggars the heart of goodness still left in the world and which brings the blood to curdle coldly in one’s veins. It is in this natural act that the awful grace of their God is made current in the world. In victory, the surviving tribesmen are gathered in the center of their encampments and are forced to watch as one-fifth of their numbers are dragged away and their hearts carved out. This is punishment. This is tribute. This is a testament to the madness of their blood-slaked deity and when it is done the carnage is then held in great bowls and presented up to the sky so that the carrion birds and sun can pick away at it until all has returned to their God. The bodies of the dead are then cooked and consumed both by the tribe proper and their captives to bind them to one another and deepen the suffering and humiliation of their defeat. Surrender or not, the culture of the subjugated is abolished and the supplicants are forced into a fierce regiment of indoctrination imposed to ensure the complete destruction of their previous identity; those who cannot comply are likewise dispatched. To an outsider, this is what it is to be a Qirikha. It is to exist in a brutal and violent regime beneath the auspices of an otherworldly and pagan figure. Predating the worship of the Crowfather, the Qirikha nurtured a deep, spiritual connection to the aether of their ancestors, believing that those that came before them, if properly tended to and satisfied, would defend their progeny for generations to come. This ancient faith is seen in its influences on their funerary rites even today. Practitioners of excarnation, the witches of the tribe (overseen by the shaman, see below) elevate the body of a kinsman slain in battle by way of a makeshift platform to allow for carrion birds to pick the body clean (in much the same way as the heart offerings). Once the body is bare of flesh, certain bones important to the tribe are taken away and ritually "imbued" with the aether of their slain comrade before being presented to the family to be carved into implements of battle or scale-like pieces to sew into their armor. Whether or not there is any true magic work done here is debated, but it is believed that the ancestors carry on their noble work through these tools, protecting their children and those that would come after. The remaining bones are then ground and pulverized into dust and mixed into an herbal drink for the family to ingest to keep the fallen kinsman's essence within them. Men who die outside of battle are left where they passed as punishment for the ignoble death to wander the earth forlorn as apparitions. The bodies of women are burnt on a pyre so that their spirit might ascend to fall under the protection of the Crowfather. Prior to the current faith, it is believed that women were expected the same war-like roles of men and would be handled in much the same way as their counterparts. The new paradigm suggests the more patriarchal rearing of this regime as there is no negative death associated to a female; an unflattering life is seen as a failure on the part of their male (the father or, if wed, the husband). For every generation among the Qirikha there is a single shaman. Where the chieftain or the crow-witches are the seat of power for the current dogma, the shaman stands as an icon to uphold the strictures and beliefs of the Old Faith. Before there was the Crowfather, the clansmen of the Qirikha were a simpler folk who saw spirits in everything. They believed that the heavens and the earth were thick with the presence of these natural phenomenons and that many of them could be communed with in order to claim their blessings. Although the granting of boons is now primarily the territory of the ruling creed, it is not uncommon for warriors among the tribe to seek out the shaman before a battle to "double-up" on good luck. For every other benevolent spirit, though, there is an equally wicked one who seeks to undo the works of the people. For this reason, childbirth is frequently carried out by the shaman or a proxy of the shaman in order to ward away these malevolent daemons and ensure a successful childbirth. If a particular family has had issues with healthy children or childbirth, a shaman might suggest a name that is conventionally unflattering for the babe. This is believed to confuse evil spirits from tampering with and bringing ruin on the child. Qirikha loosely translates to “Crowchildren” or “Children of the Crow,” implying that it was not their original name. It is believed to be a term given to them by a rival tribe at some point in their history in reference to their uncanny faith; it was a way to say “not us” or “other,” often derogatorily and superstitiously. They might have previously gone by "Khunai" meaning simply "the people" in their native dialect, but in today’s time, the Qirikha have embraced the mythos that this new name carries. Currently, the tribe proper is not being role-played. Instead, the lore is being used as a framework for the chieftain-elect (Qulan Qirikha), a handful of crow-witches, and their gathered war-party as they embark through Eorzea on the Tengri-aan. The purpose of the Godswalk, in conjunction with the various rituals and ceremonies conducted by the crow-witches, is to prepare the leader-to-be for his new role by giving him experience in a wide variety of skills without the sanctuary of the tribe to coddle him. Under this goal, the war party is capable of getting involved in a wide plethora of duties and tasks including mercenary work, the trading of culture and goods, and anything else judged worthy by the spirit guides to give the chieftain the well-rounded perspective needed. If interested in being part of the war party (by creating a Qirikha Xaela or figuring out some other way) or getting involved with them, do not hesitate to contact me via PM on this site, messages in game (Ja'rhem Khalaa, Qulan Qirikha, Elijah Ashworth, Nashu'li Nyaeb), leaving a comment in the section below, or via my Discord username at Murderhouse#3480. Thanks and we look forward to hearing from you. :3

Omg, yiiiiis. I will snag you as soon as I see you in game, friend. I'd love to be given some jobs. And naturally, more contacts in general for Rhemmy are great.

Always looking for some guttertrash to mingle with! I'll send you a PM! :3 Do you recommend any of his works? The description you gave of his stuff very much tickles the pickle. Anyway, I think it'd be fantastic for him and Nara to meet. She's a hunter and we could have him steal her spoils or something. That, and maybe she could employ him to dig up some dirt on people. Snagged and done! I look forward to this RP a-brewing! :3 As an aside, thanks for all the love on the thread, guys! Keep it coming, I'm ravenous and these teeth are made for chompin'!

Appreciated, friend! There's nothing like them folk for me; the jackmen and the blackguards, the amusers and the cleave-hounds, fellows with murder writ along their hearts, the ambit of their spines. Bewraithed in sin and bordering on feral, ecstasy there! If you're looking for further street connections, feel free to snag me in game! I'm curious: who are your writing influences? It tastes familiar but I can't quite place it. Cormac McCarthy mostly, but there are touches of Nabokov, Steinbeck, Lovecraft (though that I've definitely tapered a lot off of, I'm honestly not a huge fan anymore), and my own sort of twist on things. I enjoy the dialects of the impoverished, likewise, so anything peddler's french/thieves' cant is greatly admired. I'm all about dirty realism. I can't stress Cormac McCarthy enough, though. Blood Meridian is something more akin to a literary Bible for me, admittedly. I recognize he's not for everyone, but he's perfect for me. I appreciate the brutality, the starkness of his violence. The rawness. I feel like his presentation of humanity as a violent, savage creature is something I immediately fell in love with, and his admittance to their will of cruelty and barbarism. Also, I guess some poetry I've stumbled through on tumblr has inspired me too. I can talk more in depth of literary influences elsewhere if you're interested in hearing more!

Appreciated, friend! There's nothing like them folk for me; the jackmen and the blackguards, the amusers and the cleave-hounds, fellows with murder writ along their hearts, the ambit of their spines. Bewraithed in sin and bordering on feral, ecstasy there! If you're looking for further street connections, feel free to snag me in game!

Thanks for the poke! Always looking for some more riffraff to test mine hands against. Keeps the knuckles tendered, that. :3 I'll definitely toss you a friendship ASAP!

Updated!: I have fixed some small typing errors as well as given a full graphic/formatting overhaul to the thread! :3 Still looking for any and all connections too, so please don't be shy! Comments and all other things welcome either in this thread or private messaging.

Aaaaaah, thank you and I'm super super sorry for the slow response, friend! :3 Haven't actually logged onto this site in a few days! That being said, that sounds super awesome and thanks for the heads-up! Sending PM.

I would like to thank everyone for all the pings and role-play I've gotten through this thread. You've all been such a treat, and to give more back to you I have added in the thread a link to his (finally finished and prettified) RPC profile! For redundancy sake: here

[align=center][/align] [align=center][/align] A man is no narrow thing. His actions echo the sawing and pitching of his heart, and even a criminal is born with a heart. Under the fog of war and the promises hidden in gilt smiles – the passing of coin from hand-to-hand – a culture has endured in the canals and alleyways and dirt of the world. The Saint’s Network is a brotherhood of thieves and braggarts and brigands, of pirates, prostitutes, and privateers. All that binds them is a loose and eclectic creed, a collection of superstitions and saints and the belief that the goodness in man and in the hearts of man is their own responsibility as is the integrity of their roguish trades. These are the tales of those men and women to whom the world’s salt is their birthright, who laugh and love and lie and lay down their life in the name of style, a good heist, and a warm bed. [align=center][/align] [align=justify]What We Are -- The Saint’s Network is not a faction or an organization, it is a culture. Outside of the hierarchies in individual canting crews, a rogue’s rank and status is only as lavish as his reputation. In light of this I felt like a Linkshell was the best course of action as there are no ranks or definable structure (with the exception of the Cassian Gambit), and any rogue who has learned of the saints and wish to follow in their image are more than welcome to. Upon admittance into this loose society, many have a “ring” branded around their pinkie finger to express that they are “in the know” to fellow members. It is, as the name suggests, a networking tool for the lowlifes of society. What We’re About -- We’re about running meaningful plots and interactions when ideas strike. We will never promise obligatory weekly events or even bi-weekly events because we don’t believe that that is the formula for quality storytelling. Who We Want -- We want people who care about characters and storytelling and have a passion for forming connections and writing; we do not want apathy. You are not required to be a “rogue” to be invited to the linkshell, but you need to have an interest in getting involved in “roguish” affairs. After all, even Saint Nikolaj had no illicit trade other than helping those that no one else would. Being socially balanced is also a plus: we want nice people who understand that the person on the other side is indeed a person, and not a vessel housing ideas that are contrary to your own or a tool to get what you want. We do, however, fully support the exchange of (civil) intellectual discourse, but if an offense is taken it should be brought to an officer and they will mediate and handle the situation. If an officer is not available, we respect the abilities of our memberbase to be able to handle things maturely. If a member feels as if it was not handled such, please take screenshots and submit it to your “local authorities.” (that’s us! :3) Getting Involved -- If you think that the above is you (and it probably is, don’t be shy!), then don’t hesitate to get in contact with me![/align] [align=center] shiny -- A general term for positive sentiment. The word “shiny” is versatile and can be used as a standalone expression of approval (ex. “shiny” after hearing a well laid-out and fortuitous plan for shaking down an establishment full of riches) or as a means to enhance other words (ex. “that one’s a shiny boy” would imply positive characteristics of the boy - charming, handsome, clever, et cetera). chapel -- A safehouse. The guild chapels are innumerable in the amounts of forms it can take - speakeasies, derelict buildings, barns, sewers, parlors, et cetera - but to be considered a true safehouse, it is required to have an operating fence with stocked coffers capable of buying reasonable, lifted goods from other members as well as dedications and an altar to a patron saint. Grand Chapel -- Unlike common chapels, who only hold reverence to a patron saint, a Grand Chapel is one of those five that contain the authentic bones of that heroic figure it pays tribute to. They are guaranteed wealth as each are hotbeds rife with fences and the passing of coin in illicit dealings. High Kings -- The Gods; also more verbosely “them High Kings of the World.” dance with the Broken Man -- If a fellow rogue is dancing with the Broken Man it means he’s either being far too reckless or is acting like a downright lunatic. This term is sometimes shortened to “dancing mad.” feathered -- Named after the feathered adornments found in hats worn by the upper class, a feathered brother/sister (or neuter “rogue”) is a thief that carries him or herself in the bearing of the nobility, usually as a means for swindling. all four fingers and a bird’s cage -- A phrase meaning a rogue has gone up to polish the queen’s iron; he’s in prison. Historically, the punishment for getting caught while thieving was to lose the pinkie finger of your dominant hand. Hence “all four fingers.” For more slang, the gang utilizes thieves' cant. Here is a good resource to peruse: link [/align]

[align=center][/align] [align=center]The Judge of Addler's Bend[/align] [align=center]cw: violence[/align] Howls filtered out of the Bishop Lane barbershop at regular intervals as a surgeon worked diligently at his trade. The sign over the entrance was fashioned of old oak and it read like an epitaph: The Bishop Lane Barbershop: we’ve got opium, whiskey, and prayers to god. The bowels of the Ul’dah slums were rank with the smell of whiskey and mildew, the kind of aroma that hung heavily and gagged in the throats of the more well-to-do folks. Men and women hustled by the old surgeon’s shop, small hovels of bones that gave a wide berth and casted nary a glance towards it or the grim and dour-faced “doorman” that stood as vigilant as some loathsome blackguard before it in all his brigandine and linens swaddled up into aged jackboots. Another man came up on the first in much the same attire, his leathers like a wash of grime and squalor and an aged and beaten cleaver tied off by a strip of rawhide to his hip. In his tow he hauled by the scruff of a filthy tunic a pitiable and wretched-looking man who had the broken bearing of a beggar. His escort was grinning and barking taunts at his charge while he wrangled him, selfsame as some beaten-low cur. “Ever heard why they call ‘em the Judge o’ Addler’s Bend?” The vagrant shook his head. It was only mostly true; he’d heard stories. The doorman laughed and he was mirthless and cruel and his swill tongue had an ominous sneer to it. “Reckon he’ll know soon enough. Wiff enough time, Cassius brings ‘em all to heel.” These men that sought audience were a rare breed of folks, brothers both trussed in the iniquity the streets had bred them for, and in their fists and their hearts one could see murder brooding still. They and their quarry stood there for some minutes as the muffled howling endured and the supplicant was mute and terrified like one is yet before their execution on the gallows sprawl. And then the howling stopped. The doorman grinned, a ferryman of some hellish Styx and he rapped his knuckles against the barbershop aperture in a rhythmic series of beats. Silence answered at first and then the heavy rasping of hobnail’d boots over the boardfloor. A metal and unoiled bolt shrieked open behind the door and then it swung open. Standing in the doorway, in his bespoken coat all bloodstained with maps of violence, was a hard-looking and truculent man with broad shoulders and broad wrists and a thin smile. His white and greasy hair was slicked back and tied off into a topknot and a single, blue eye stared out at the gathered patrons, the other knotted up in stitches, long punctured out by blunt force. He held clutched in one of his hands a soiled rag that he then slapped over his shoulder and gestured the two in. He did not wait before receding back into the blackness of his crafthouse, leaving the beggar to be hauled in after this new player. The doctor trundled about the small and antiquated room, its effects sparse and raw save what little embellishments there were outside of the jars and the workshop wall of surgical instruments hanging by nails. In a corner, a man lay on an operating table and the surgeon was speaking to him. His voice was set in a low register and it rumbled like distant thunderheads. “Sorry Pete, got a bit of business here. If the whiskey starts wearin’ off, jus’ give me a little howl and I’ll fetch out the laudanum.” The man gurgled up incoherently in response. “Wisdom teeth,” he explained grimly and discarded a rag onto the countertop where it unfoiled and two sawed out and bloodied teeth lay within. He began to work in a water basin near the rag where he haphazardly washed at a pair of surgical implements, the thick miasma in the air rank with alcohol and that tell-tale smell of iron. “Sit ‘em down,” he said after a few moments and jerked a thumb over his shoulder to a chair in one of the corners. The beggar was dragged from his spot in the threshold and handled roughly into the seat. He winced at the crude treatment but seemed too meek to speak out. “What’s your name, son?” “Solomon.” “Solomon? That’s a good name. An honorable name. So tell me, boy, where be yours?” Cassius turned to him with an aged bonesaw hanging slack at his side. The man jerked and attempted to scramble desperately from his seat before being seized up by the shoulders and violently slammed back. “Sir, sir please. It ain’t that way. I’s got plenty uh honor, suh. Plenty! Just-- just hungry is all.” The surgeon grimaced. “Stop your yowling, boy. It’s unbecoming.” He moved to the man and settled then on his haunches to watch this vagrant with that cold stare. He ran his fingers through his mop of oily hair and sighed. “I’m a very traditional man, Solomon. I believe in the order of things.” He paused and glanced to his blackguard that stood hovering over the man with hands clamped firmly about his shoulders. “Did they tell you where I got me name?” The man began to speak but his words were snapped back into his throat by a pair of brass knuckles carving itself into the side of his mouth. His head cracked to the side and he went slack. The surgeon tendered his fist into his hand as he waited for the man to resurface from the daze. “Addler’s Bend, probably a place ye’ve no notion of. How could you? Little spit of dirt on the edge of the Shroud. I was a centurion in the army then. Those under me had been tasked with capturing some of the more isolated towns, useful for easy intelligence on the locals, y'see. Most of them were easy enough to bring to heel when we arrived, but this little hovel of a town defied us.” The man’s thin grin returned a strange pride and dignity to this sordid icon. “They were fine men and women, but when we brought them low examples had to be made and I made them. For every man who brought a sword to bear against us, I took their hand so that they might never make the same mistake again. For every savage that spoke an errant word in our regards? I took their tongue. This, son, this is what I mean by the order of things. It must be upheld. There are punishments for your actions. If a man takes from you, you must assure that he never does so again. And you stole from me, Solomon.” On cue, Solomon’s security escort lunged for the man’s arm and hauled it roughly to an accompanying table next to the chair and Cassius came to his feet, and with the man restrained, poised the bonesaw just above his victim’s wrist. "Spare the rod, me boy." Outside, the muffled screams resumed. Themes and Connections From Soldier to Kingpin: Cassius was born on Garlemald soil and enlisted in the military when he came of age. When the Garlean offensive began treading back into Eorzean territory in 1571 of the Sixth Astral era, he signed up under Nael van Darnus' legion. Shortly after the atrocities of Addler’s Bend, he and his men were captured and imprisoned for a time before, on good behavior and shows of willingness for naturalization, they were offered their freedom and released into a new life in the foreign land. He and his men formed a rag-tag of “workers” in one of the Ul’dah slums and began to eke out a harsh life among the crime and misery of their district. Their brutal tactics at war served them best here, and they carved out gang territory with the barbarism befitting their savage trades. Quit That Yowlin’: To my friends, my love of antiquated medicine is no mystery. Spontaneous amputation to stave off gangrene, humorism, maggots, and unsanitary surgical procedures are the bread and butter of this character. If you’ve a love for dirty realism and need a good stitching, a shot of whiskey, and a piece of wood to bite down on, I’m your man. A Haircut: Don’t forget the “barber” in barber surgeon. Just like those military medical practitioners of old, this character is more than trained and equipped to give yours a haircut while shooting the breeze. What War Will Bring: Though Cassius pretends to be a naturalized, reformed citizen of Eorzea, his heart is still in Garlemald. He’s gathered in his retinue a slew of Garlean sympathizers and Garleans themselves and uses them to push his nationalistic agenda. If interested in contacts, please message me on Cassius Uberti or Ja'rhem Khalaa!

Ahhhh, that's always really nice to hear, honestly. :3 I'm glad you think so, and mesh well or not it'll be neat if they ever bump into each other! Haha, I appreciate it! I was very much not in my skin last night so sorry if the responses were slow like molasses (and uninventive), but yus. :3

Ahhhh, I just figured out who this was, actually! Hello, friend! Jobs are great! :3 Thank you! Feel free to send me a line if you have any interest in pursuing plots!