ZindelloTarantella

I would like to know who slapped a 'Curse of Bitchiness' onto the Garuda instances. The only time I ever have had serious player problems was in PuGs with Garuda--it's bizarre, it really is. The first time, it was on NM, with one new guy that was tanking and then myself and two others. One of them, I forget who, go frustrated with the Tank for being a bit clumsy and dying (which of course meant a wipe). Yeah, I get being frustrated, but taking the time to STOP the instance completely, so you can rail against him, throwing out vulgar language (mostly homophobic slurs of course) before we finally finish. Of course then he turned on myself after I tried to ignore the mouthy healer and just pep up the Tank, calling me, 'A Balfag who should go back to sucking digital--' and I'll let you fill in the blanks after that. Naturally, I reported their ass--which led to at least a happy (or rather hilarious) ending for the situation. I had a surprise chat with a mod about a day later who asked me some questions etc and assured me the situation would be handled--I mentioned I wasn't hurt, so much as I didn't want new players to get lambasted like that. They again said they would look into it. "Thank you, 'Crooked Teeth' for helping keep our community friendly.' I have never laughed so hard while playing this game when I saw the mod call me 'Crooked Teeth' and wondered what Tarot would say if anyone ever called him that to his face; his teeth are very nice, thank you very much!

It was always a traumatizing thing, Mentor knew, for a man to take a kick to the groin--it was more than just a matter of pain, though that was a huge part of it. It was also a matter of pride; to be laid so low so quickly over a kick that would, had it been anywhere else, likely wouldn't have hurt nearly as much was humiliating. It was this that made him understand completely why Wichard would want to keep his distance in combat and why he wanted to learn how to use a bow. Of course, there would be time enough for a change of curriculum later, but for now, yes, Mentor understood completely. It was a clear day when he brought the pair out for another training exercise. Polly, as he had guessed, had taken to using a lance nicely, though she did seem to treat it more like a club or bat rather than a means to pierce, which was all well and good so far as it went but...well, eventually she would have to learn to stick the sharp end into the enemy. Twelves willing this was not something she'd ever have to experience in her lifetime but in the event she did, she had to shed the fear of actually using the weapon the way it was meant to be used. Wichard was drawing back the bowstring for his fiftieth shot--Mentor had had him increase the number of actual arrows he fired each day by ten in addition to learning how to string a bow, collect arrows for re-use and of course working on his aim. But the arm strength was just as important and so, he wanted Wichard to fire off as many arrows as he could, disregarding aim (within reasons of course). As he watched the man from his own sparring spot with Polly, he gave a firm nod before turning to face his opponent, his own training lance raised. "Now, Polly, recall what we discussed last time. When it comes to using a lance, it is all about position--the weapon has some reach and so you have a distinct advantage over those that use a sword or knives. However, due to the nature of your weapon, you must be precise with where you strike--swinging the weapon like a maul will only carry you so far. Your to use the blade at the end to pierce through armor and locate weak spot--" The zip of an arrow coming from the air caught his attention and in a moment he grabbed Polly and dragged her to the ground as a bolt struck from the blue and the arrow thudded into the soft earth of the Company's front yard.His first thought, fear of an attack, brought Mentor to his feet in an instant, Polly still on the ground looking terrified and shaken (probably more from the shock of being yanked around) and looked instantly to Wichard who stodd at his post, readying another arrod, his back to the pair. He grumbled something about 'Gods-damned arrows..." but that was it as he drew another arrow and took aim. "Hold, Wichard--!" Mentor called, holding his hand up to stop the man. His eyes darted around again. There was no sign of an assailant--none on the rooftops and the rest of the quarter of the Goblet was relatively still and quiet. Where had the attacker come from...? "We are not alone. I would ask you an Miss Polly to return inside and wait for me to return." "Hey no, if we're under--" Wichard started, but saw the arrow in the ground and jumped. "Gods! We're under attack!" His bow was at the ready and, at any other time, Mentor would have applauded such staunch courage. However, this enemy was unknown and so required caution above all else. "Ser Kayllen is within just stay inside and await any sign from me on the linkshell, please." He gave a firm look that brooked no quarter and so Wichard, after a moment of indignation, nodded and took Polly inside. Moving back to the arrow, Mentor traced its arc by the angle of the shaft--it came from above, to be sure, and the highest point one could fire from would be the arch that led further into the Goblet. Leaving the garden he traced the steps up to the top of the arch but frowned when he found nothing--no traces of the assailant or even anyone else. His eyes caught the long metal pole that served to hold banners during festival times and he tilted his head. There was enough room between the banner pole and the brick archway to perch inside and fire--or possibly hang from the pole if one was confident enough and achieve the general angle. Perhaps... Moving to look over the edge of the archway, he leaned sideways a bit to get a better look underneath--yes, definitely enough room to at least hang upside down and take a shot if one was skilled enough. The arrow was too large for a Lalafell to use (with any measure of ease at any rate) and so that ruled out that possibility. Returning to the base of the arch, he stood in its shade and looked up again. This time, he noted something odd--a gash was set in the metal, and a large enough one to be seen even from this distance. Could it be the arrow had been ricochetted? If that was the case then the assailant was either very daring or very brash--even so, the arrow had almost killed someone so it could not be left to chance. He turned his eyes downwards from the metal pole and moved into the tunnel, encountering a large stack of shipping crates with the Flames insignia on them. The second highest of the crates had a similar scuff as the metal pole, a glancing blow from the arrow that had struck it and an angle that it and the box below it had created to continue its trip on and up to the metal pole. "Incredible..." The perpetraitor was devious then. Or lucky. Or perhaps using magic--though a type of magic like this, Apollus had never heard of in all his life. His journey continued on through the tunnel and into the open square, tracing back the trip as it crossed paths with a second shipment--this one of steel plates being brought in, presumably for one of the houses being built. He shook his head in disbelief. This had to be some kind of record--there was no way, none, that this was done with magic. But the indentation told no lies. A shout from a little further up caught his attention. "IT CAME OUT OF NOWHERE! I THOUGHT THE GOBLET SAFE!" His pace immediately turned into a run as he walked through the water-covered path that led to the center platform. There, looking terrified and angry and disappointed was a willoy Elezen, bemoaning what appeared to be a pile of tiny crystals strewn across the cobblestone area. "Why can I not even travel in peace here! Gods, it's so unfair!"" Mentor approached the man and the other who was with him--in no time at all he found out the story. An arrow had flown from the recesses of the Goblet and struck his crystal he was showing to a customer in the hopes of selling the cluster--the arrow shattered the cluster, as it could be seen before continuing on its trip. "Had I not been holding it, it might have killed me!" the elezen sobbed, though whether this was more about the lost transaction was left to anyone's guess. After some time he he managed to find out the general direct that the arrow had come from and turned to follow his course again. The queer thing was that it came from the direct he'd started at... Following the road back, trying to keep as in-line of sight with the merchant as possible he found that a path could be made through the tunnel without wavering or losing sight of the man. Was it possible the attack was indeed meant for the merchant and not for the Company at all? This gave him some little comfort, at least until he wound up back in the yard again. He'd come back to where he'd started, brow furrowed in thought. As he folded his arms and gave a low sigh, he managed, by sheer luck, to see something interesting. The dummy that was currently pincushioned with arrows here and there had a strange sort of formation in the bolts that protruded from its chest; they started at the lower right-hand side of the training target and then made a haphazard line to the upper left shoulder. His eyes narrowed and Mentor turned to the arrow that had nearly struck him (and the merchant) down. Moving to the bolt, he yanked it from the ground and looked it over, then over his shoulder again, then back to the arrow tip. There, embedded in the arrowhead, was a fragment or two of earth-charged crystal. They glittered, amber in the sunlight as he turned it over in his hands before he looked over to the training dummy again. There was no way, on Hydaelyn's green earth that this was possible. None. "Oi! Chief!" The door opened and Wichard stepped out, scratching his bearded chin. "I couldn't leave you out here by yourself with an assassin runnin' around--and you didn't call in so--" He stopped, blinking. "What is it over? You didn't have to clean up after me, I know to pick up my arrows, really!" The Highalnder moved forward giving a huge grin as he took the arrow from Mentor's hand and then, whistling jauntily, started cleaning up the other arrows in the yard. All throughout the man's whistled-tuned cleaning, Mentor could only watch, quietly stunned and unable to really piece together how to say anything. He doubted the man intended to kill anyone--but he had nearly done so, twice, with the same bolt. "A gods-damned record..." was all he could muster again.

One of the kickers about villains is that (and yeah, too long didn't read the whole thread) that motivations (like some have said) don't have to make sense. It all comes back to that 'everyone is the hero in their own story' thing. While it could be argued that Kefka is batshit insane (argue? Yeah no, dude is), his 'heroic' goal is nihilism. The reason for the goal? He makes it obvious in the end--he fears being disappointed. He fears loss. He sees the end as being that--the end. Everything fades and he will inevitably be left alone and with nothing, so why not simply destroy it now to spare him the disappointment that comes with attatchment later? Kuja is another fine example--a 'heroic' insanity stemmed from exestential dread. He was raised to tihnk he was perfection and more than that, immortal. And then he finds out he's going to die. He will die someday and then he too will (in his mind) mean nothing. While his motivations are largely childish (if I can't live why should anyone else?) this shows his own mental maturity or lack thereof. He's afraid of dying and so takes it out in the only way he knows how. This is actually one of the reasons why I think the Joker (while being entertaining) is largely one of the WORST villains in the grand scheme because he has no set reason for doing what he does; the Dark Knight at least gave him a goal--he wanted to prove his point. He was being the 'hero' by proving that he was right and the rest of the world was wrong. The Joker has been everything from homicidal maniac to petty thief with a gimic but he rarely has a consistent goal which every villain needs regardless. Poison Ivy is a champion to her 'people' the plants. Dr. Freeze wants to restore his wife. These are personal goals that, while in and of themselves are fine and noble, come out all wrong because of the methods--they would, in any other setting with the right decisions be heroic. That's what separates a 'good' villain from a bad one. That's what, in my opinion, people fail to realize. They want to have the motivation without the motivation. WHY does your villain seek hedonistic delights? Are they craving money to makes themselves feel more powerful but then discover, 'Hey, money buys sex and I have a LOT of money right now!' and so the hedonism springs forth from that? To use literary references, I think another great example is The Mountains of Madness. "Whatever they were, they were MEN." The aliens dissected humans--they dissected them in the same way humans dissected the aliens. It wasn't out of cruelty but rather a ntraul curiosity that, to the opposite side, would be a horrific idea.

I love research, so digging for info isn't difficult for me~! As for playing within my own wheelhouse, I'm a salesman--Tarot is a salesman. He owns a shop selling the flotsam and jetsam of ages, I will (soon) be doing the same!

"I don't know about this, Mentor--" The young woman, a slim Midlander with a pretty (though currently worried looking) face shook her head. She turned her large eyes to their trainer and gave him a pleading glance. "I'm just not cut out for fighting, really!" She shifted anxiously on her feet, looking down at the grass a moment. The three of them, Mentor and his two pupils, stood outside of the Astral Agency Company house, the two students currently armed with long training poles. Mentor had been given the task to make them combat ready should the need arise and he was firmly set on doing so--whether they liked it or not. "Miss Polly, I understand your hesitation. It is natural to feel anxious about fighting, even in practice, but know that you are in good hands" Mentor had wanted to help her feel a little better and so had whole-heartedly permitted her to wear some of the training gear he'd found in the basement of the house, though the young woman had been more than insistent on wearing a leather helemt plus a cooking pot on her head. It wouldn't get in the way of her vision so, for the sake of the moment, Apollus had permitted it. The Highlander watched the proceedings with more than a little cockiness as he stood by with his own training pole, stroking his full beard with his free hand. "I don't want to hurt a lady--" he remarked, his smarminess showing all too well. "I don't see why I'm here anyway. I know how to fight." "Knowing how to throw a punch and knowing how to fight, I'm afraid, are two different things, Wichard." He kept his tone even and firm, not allowing the smugness to sway his focus now. "Besides, you will rarely be facing each other in combat--this is merely to gauge your effectiveness and give us a starting point to work from." "B-but Mentor--!" Polly protested, fixing her pot-helmet anxiously. But Apollus Mentaurus remained steadfast in his stance. This form of training had never failed yet and it certainly would not fail now. "Recall, Miss Polly, we are all currently under the employ of Ser Armstrong. I've been tasked with training the both of you and I do not mean to disapoint him. In the same token, I would imagine that refusal to undertake this training would result in being released from service." The young woman sighed at this point and nodded, conceeding. "Are we ready then?" "Like I said, I don't want to hurt you, little lady--heh, but then, maybe you should just worry about hurting yourself!" Wichard snickered meanly as he looked across the yard to the Midlander. He gave his beard another stroke before pushing off the fence and taking up his polearm. "I--I--I--" Polly panted, then nodded, trying to hold her own weapon in the manner that Mentor had shown them. "R-re-ready--!" Her voice squeaked a tiny bit. "Then begin." Wichard, seeing that he already had the advantage of intimidation, sprang forward with a terrible roar and ran towards the young woman. Mentor didn't like seeing him bully the poor lass but they all were here for a reason--still, he would need to talk with Wichard about his attitude regarding the more untrained pupil-- A squeal of abject fright came from Polly as she saw the large Highlander come barrelling down towards her. With a flight of panic she threw her training polearm at him in an attempt to slow him down. He took it to the chest and moved to throw it aside when, cornered as she was, the young Midlander woman threw out a panicked kick--which connected with the thoroughly unprotected groin of her sparring partner. Wichard went down on his knees in a moment, eyes bulging as his hands went to his sore 'wound' but Polly, now in a full grip of hysteria, wasn't quite finished. When he fell, is own polearm dropped from his grip and Polly had nearly taken it to her face- Hands grabbing it, she started swinging wildly, the padded end slapping the prone Highlander about the face and chest this way and that for a full three seconds before he collapsed and lay on the ground, groaning. Mentor blinked, shocked. Polly, who was breathing heavily, looked on in equal shock at what she'd done, the humbled Highlander on the ground shuddering from the blow to his groin still. "Oh! Oh! I'm so sorry Ser Wichard! Are you alright!? I didn't mean--! Oh--!" Mentor looked over the scene a moment as Polly tried to comfort the man on the ground who was obviously trying his best to not set Polly off on another panicked beatdown. While it wasnt the most graceful first lesson he'd ever given, it was one of the more-ground levelling. Gods willing, Wichard had learned his lesson. Of course it also taught him another important fact. "Polly, I think--I think we'll start you on learning how to use a polearm for the time being. Polly Fletcher had an incredible back-handed swing.

Welcome to the RPC! I hope you have a great time here and rest assured there are plenty of people to RP with and plenty of character building activities to be done! As for what else to say, why not tell us a bit about your characters? Just little things!

Wow. End of an era! I played the game fully on the PC (I could never figure out how to work it on PS2) but even I can see that this marks the end of one of the more defining periods in MMO history. Sure, PC will still run but that will still cut down a large population of Vanadiel!

Tarot likely wouldn't mind cutting a deal on bulk weapons or gear that he could re-sell, or having things he buys repaired so he can then turn around for a profit!

Dear Wants an Opo-Opo, I have owned an Opo-opo at one time when I was young and while I did love having him around, I found quickly that they typically don't like having people that aren't also opo-opos around. Rest assured, you would, like myself, likely get rid of the thing the first time it throws something that is very much not a lump of rotten fruit at you. I recommend a coeurl kitten instead. Signed, The Phoenix

I know Tarot get embarrassed if proven wrong about nearly anything, especially when he KNOWS he's right.

Dear Bad With Names, Where to even begin with this one. This is a huge problem with many a sellsword--even I myself had this problem for several years when it came to letters and contacts within the 'exciting' world of advice column work. To get out of the situation with your dignity intact is very simple; If you haven't contacted them in so many moons and they have not done likewise then obviously, you're not in a place to feel ashamed. In fact, it's a prime opportunity to make yourself feel very important! By contacting them, you could always drop the ever popular, 'Oh, I'm just SO popular and SO called upon that I couldn't POSSIBLY be expected to remember EVERYONE,' line. This works incredibly well for business purposes and, if worded properly, can make the customer (i.e. you contractors and fellow-sell swords) feel as if they are wasting YOUR time by not getting in contact with you more often. Or, I suppose, if you want to go for the more civil way of doing things, you could very politely contact them and say something along the lines of 'Hello. I once worked with you concerning some mercenary job or other and I still have your information. Do you have any further need of my services in the near future?' You could also substitute the latter phrase with things like, 'For the sake of my records, do you recall the exact details of the job in question?' or something similar. At least in that case, you're being tactful and avoiding the social blunder of looking like an uncaring rube. I prefer the former of the two, though, since it leaves the one on the receiving end questioning their life choices as to why they aren't NEARLY as popular as you apparently are. Signed, The Phoenix

The only character I have that actively uses glamours is my Moogle side-kick for my main, for obvious reasons. Folks are actually pretty good about remembering that most folks can't see through their glamours (which is especially good since I don't remember half the time! ). If you want to have a person who uses glamours, I don't see why not so long as you're careful about what works. Tarot, my main, uses disguises that I cobble together with gear and uses practical make-up on occasion, such as false-noses, make-up, contacts (os whatever the fantasy equivalent would be) amongst other tricks of the trade. It doesn't effect his ability to play and in fact leads to some fun interactions. Just be mindful of what you do and you should be okay.

Dear Phoenix, I sometimes have to watch my little brother when my mother and father go out to run errands but he hurts himself by falling down a lot. I'm tired of having to bandage his scraped knees and elbows. What should I do? Little Big Sister ========== Dear Little Big Sister, The next time your darling and precocious little brother decides to hurt himself, just tell him this: 'Sack up and play hurt, pissy-pants.' My dear brother told me that every time I injured myself, including the time I broke my arm by falling out of a tree. Suffice it to say, I learned quickly to either be more careful or apply my own bandages. Signed, The Phoenix

There was a subtle romance to the action and feeling, there really was. 1-2-3 1-2-3 1-2-3 It was difficult to describe it to the outsider, to the layman on the street that would, undoubtedly, frown upon him for the action. It was understandable and he didn't resent them. They weren't unwashed masses that didn't 'get it'. They simply never experienced the thrill and feeling of it. The subtle art of it. 1-2-3 1...2...3 1-2-3 1-2-3 There was another attempt to break free and it was quickly stopped again. All the training in the world wouldn't save him. One could argue that it all led up to this moment--and even if someone could say that this was no act of the gods--well, he wouldn't argue. It was, to him at least, more an act of men--you simply either were prepared for a moment like this or you weren't. 1-2-3 1...2...3 1-2...3 1-2-3 This man wasn't. He could feel that now, as if everything else didn't say as much. As the powerful arms tightened, locking inexcoribly tighter, the pulse could be felt, the breathing was stopped and the heart struggled in its now broken rhythm. Actually, now that he thought about it, no--this wasn't art. Not really. Maybe math and a sheer set of numbers. A formula that led from the beginning to this end result. 1-2-3 1...2...3 1...2...3 No, this was a job--just like any other--that relied on simple math. This man had trained, according to what his assailant had figured, approximately five years in the art of pugilism. So, by that logic, he, his assailant, who had trained for almost three times that, would be the most obvious winner. This guy was good--but his assailant was simply better. Speaking of math.. 1...2-3 1..2..3.. It had been a good run, his assailant supposed. Five years of training, of making oneself better. He could appreciate the philosophy of it. After all, how many other lives had this man defeated with his own 'numbers'? Ah, but he was letting himself get philosophical again, wasn't he? He really didn't have time for this. 1...2...3... 1...2...--SNAP. The body was dropped from the man's arms, the assassin flexing his fingers as he stood up from the hold he'd locked onto his 'fellow' assassin. "See now, I went and started mentally meandering." He looked down at the man on the ground, the mask on the man's face denoting him as being one of the 'Faces of Mercy' or some other silly nonsense like that. "I've got work to do and you got me turning killing into math. For shame." He turned and started away, leaving the fallen pugilist and assassin of five years dead, his neck snapped and body lifeless--maybe one of his fellow Faces would find him, who knew? The assassin with the superior number of years had someone to find and he couldn't do that if these Faces guys did it first. "Always hated math."