Aya

Aya held her warm smile upon the Miqo'te woman while returning her gesture of greeting. Her own hand was covered by a cloth and lever glove that left her fingertips uncovered. She seemed to hesitate for a moment due to the fresh wetness of her own hand, before offering a gentle squeeze of Eleni's. "Its a pleasure to meet you! I'm Aya." Her warm smile brightened to something more like a grin. "Here I thought I were going to really get caught out in the rain this time! I was so happy when I realized where I was! A dry spot to sit and some hot tea. Can't beat that can you?" She asked with an amused, rhetorical note as she turned her attention back to the bar where the first preparations on her tea were being made - and then to adjusting her seat on the stool to got comfortable.

Hello, then, who is this? Someone new, unless remiss? But what is he, Whom I see? He speaks in ryhme, But, all the time! So be off and hither you, Or else I'll slug you - with my shoe.

I love that idea Dogberry! I have a very similar idea I'd like to play kicking around right now too, involving an old tramp of a healer/druid (depending on the setting!).

Be honest Warren: you only replied because she referenced the Grind Stone! What a lovely background! I really enjoy such simple background narratives, its the sort of thing that I can instantly connect with. Welcome to Balmung

Holt is always making the effort, and always coming up with new RP ideas!

The soft pitter-pat heralded the start of fresh rainfall. Most of the trees that bore wide forest leaves that sheltered the city of Gridania all summer long now found themselves bare: exposing the curved wooden roofs and canvas awnings below to the sudden chorus of rain drops. It was just the sort of weather that punctuated Gridania's warmer winter afternoons - no frost dared threaten snow from this rain. Aya turned her eyes upward, shielding them from the rain with her hand. The trip to Gridania, one of several this season, had been something of a break in the routine of Ul'dah life. But, it seemed, the weather just couldn't hold out for the entire stay. She quickened her pace, hurrying along the well trod path that wound its way through the wooded area in the northern reaches of the humble city, known as Old Gridania. She was on her way back to her room - Beneath Lea's Branches had proven more than a comfortable place to board, but something of a home-away-from-home. Or perhaps, a home away from home-away-from-home. Sometimes it became hard to tell. She'd been wise enough to dress for the weather: and the tug of a leather belt closed her coat yet more tightly around her. For a woman once accustomed to the hoarfrost of Ishgard, this would seem a trivial matter. But there was something to a cold rain, especially with even a hint of wind, that sent a shiver right to the woman's bones. As the rain thickened, the remaining distance came to feel insurmountable- she pursed her lips in uncharacteristic frustration, letting out an annoyed sigh as she rounded a corner. But the sight before filled her a sudden sense of welcome relief: The Rabbit Hole. It was one of her favorite Gridanian spots: an adorable little open-air cafe ensconced comfortably within the confines of what had once been a forest clearing. The decor was quaint. It recalled the simple, natural setting of Gridania, while the atmosphere recalled the time before the Calamity. She quickened her pace, nearing a jog as she sought refuge from the storm. Most of the seating were benches, tables, and chairs either in the open or tucked beneath awnings, but the central bar of the cafe rest on a slightly elevated wooden platform. Stools of polished wood promised relief, a crackling fire warmth, and the heavy canvas awnings above, protection. Altogether it meant comfort, despite the open air: and better than that, a warm cup of tea. Several of the stools were taken, but the welcome sight had already left the young woman feeling excited- and excitement meant she welcomed the opportunity to meet someone new. With surprising speed she slid onto the stool of her choice, not bothering to take a seat, but instead mounting it in one graceful motion. She removed her drenched hat with more care, trying her best to ensure that no errand drops splashed her neighbor as she set it onto the empty stool by her other side. With a warm smile, cheeks rosy with the sting of cold air, she turned her attention to the woman seated next to her. A rather energetic looking Keeper girl. "Bon après-midi!" she grinned in a cheerful Ishgardian voice, "Good afternoon, I do hope I'm not disturbing you!" She diverted her attention momentarily to the young, lanky Elezen fellow behind the counter. "The honey tea, please. A touch of milk would be wonderful!"

Master Dunois accepted the envelope, his fingers carefully opening it to examine the contents as the others discussed the arrangement. The receipt of anything official had become so unwelcome that these documents struck him with no small amount of satisfaction. A satisfaction worn obviously on his features. Osvald offered a subtle nod, his eyes focused on the Dragoon. "I remember our arrangement. I will ensure that our terms are met and not exceeded." He glanced down to Chachanji, before returning to address V'Aleera. "The materials will be a significant help in rebuilding. There are still many families without a stable roof over their head, and the winter chill gains bite each week. Your prompt timing is appreciated." He added a curt nod, and then looked back to Chachanji, drawing a broad hand along his chin. He continued in his deep, but surprisingly soft voice. "Master Smith. Did Madame Dragoon discuss our arrangement with you? There are just two details of importance. First, that you only work under supervision. Our shop is our livelihood, and beyond that, it is essential for the well being of many beyond us." "Secondly you are to offer us your skill and labor in exchange for access to our resources. For each hour you work, you will work one hour more on building materials for our efforts. There is nothing more valuable that we can offer in this moment of crisis, than the effort of skilled and industrious hands." He paused, waiting in anticipation of the diminutive smith's agreement.

The letter arrived in a fresh outer envelope, mailed from within Ishgard. The parchment within is weather-beaten and has clearly passed through at least several hands upon its long trek. The original wax seal is broken. It may have been moons since it were initially mailed. The character of the letter itself was wholly unlike Aya's usual correspondance: heavy duty parchment, deep black ink, and a complete lack of frivolity or decoration. But the flowing hand could not be mistaken by one who knew it. The entire letter was written in eloquent Ishgardian that struggled somewhat as it meandered between the formal and the familiar. Dearest V'aleera, I pray this letter reaches you well. I apologize for my lack of correspondence--it is only concern for the well-being of my family that so encourages my discretion. I fear that a single letter cannot suffice to bear the depth of my appreciation and gratitude. For all that you have done for me - and for us. For fitful moons all I heard of home was that of rumor and hearsay: which I tried with all of my might to dispel with calm. But the fear of the unknown gnaws at the very fabric of peace. A thousand perils befell my family in my imagination and nightly dreams. How I have longed for news and word: how I have asked, as best I could, those who had themselves traveled to the city. The long end of this suffering was at last delivered to me in your hand: to hear that everyone was safekept throughout the attack brings a solace to my heart, and peace to restless nights. Still, there are friends I fear I may never learn about, but at least your first letter let me know that one of those I was most worried for had made it through the storm. I know that you are as capable as any, but the duty of Dragoons is the most dangerous known to any of us. I had feared the worst, as I think any friend must. Please stay safe. Of father: what can I say? You know how my heart aches. What passed between us; would he care to see me again? I do not know, and I do not pretend that you could answer. What must a daughter do for the man who gave her life? Who warded her along the dangerous path we've tread? I am so thankful for the dear hand of Enna - and to know that he is cared for even now. My heart breaks doubly for my brother who faces the loss of both fathers, and for his own children. I can only imagine how beautiful they are, and how beloved by parents and grand parents. There is so much more I wish to ask, and even more I wish to convey. If you find yourself anywhere our paths may cross, please send word so that I may hasten to your company. I am gladdened that your family, too, has been well. Your father has always been the most interesting sort of gentleman. What I would do for the pleasure of making his acquaintance once more, now that I feel I could fully enjoy his love for discussion. I hope that you have not suffered in the struggle, and offer my thoughts and prayers for your family, friends, and colleagues. I know the strength of the Fury runs deep in you. That the city will remain safe in hands such as yours. I know that you can only watch over my family with a distant eye, but how much better they are even for that! And how much relieved am I. I cannot be grateful enough. With Hope, A Forever Grateful Friend

To compare the Quick Sand to Goldshire is horribly misleading. Yes, there is that there. But its a quiet background matter amidst what is otherwise a mostly pleasant and active RP scene. Not liking the place (perfectly understandable) doesn't mean that it should be made to seem worse than it is. It is not a Goldshire with shining gems among muck, it is a fun and energetic place with public RP-a-plenty and some undeniable background unsavoriness that is, fortunately, not difficult too ignore. The QS should not be "infamous" in any sense of the word. For the OP: Finding RP, like making friends, is challenging. Sometimes its just circumstantial. All you can do is keep trying. There is more RP going on around here than in any other game or environment I have ever seen before, and while that really doesn't make it any easier to tap into, it does give reason for hope that persistence can pay off. I would not advise large events as a good place to meet people (though I have met quite a few people at social events, such as balls). Just continue to keep you eye out for public RP like you have been, and maybe try to find some LSes that might lead you that way.

I hear enough about you, Mart, that I have been wanting to meet you for months now! I think that's a compliment isn't it?

I've seen you about in the Quick Sand! I thought your name was incredibly creepy when I first saw it, and now I get the feeling that was intentional! Welcome to Balmung, its always nice for RP to have some unsavory sorts about

Interesting! Welcome to Balmung! Were you able to make characters here?

[align=center] [Research - Crimes Against Nature Part Ten][/align] Just who is Batholomew Quisby? What sort of name is Quisby? Just the sort to attach to an eccentric. His forbears were not Ul'dahn originally, and just how they made their fortune is not well known. But, a fortune they made, and after several generations enough remained to support a middle aged bachelor and his habits. And eccentric he is: his love for the curious sent him abroad in the pursuit of arcane knowledge. Rumors are what they are, but in his case they speak of a talented magician who turned his pursuits toward the esoteric and unusual. He eventually opened small storefront, moving into the apartments above. The store itself serves primarily as a repository for his collection--his pieces priced just outside the reach of reason. Regular customers know the man's trade is conversation, and at times knowledge. And it was just such a purpose that drew Aya Foxheart once more into his establishment. "Oh I see," said the rather rotund fellow draped in finery too extravagant to be fashionable. Fat fingers shook the crumbs from his graying beard, as he smiled in appreciation of one of the offered treats. "How could I refuse Momodi's own Aya? Hmmm? Especially when she comes bearing a plate of such famously delicious cookies!" He grinned amiably before reaching for another of the morsels. Aya smiled brightly; her blue eyes twinkling with that almost irresistible curiosity of which she was capable. "Such a man would be a danger, my dear. And no run-of-the-mill villain." He stopped and peered back to her with the proud look of a man sharing his immense knowledge, "You do understand, I hope, that succor is not intrinsically benevolent. Though the Magicians who mastered the art are known to us as 'White Mages'; there are no moral restrictions upon its use. It is a primal force!" He raised his hands in a flourish, before quickly drawing his hand back down to finish the cookie it grasped. "Someone versed in its power, as well as that of the void, would truly be a destructive force of untold potential!" He let out a laugh, fingers stroking his long beard. "It is a well thing, indeed, that we have no such dangers today. Now dear, why would you even have such ideas?" Aya's expression had darkened considerably, but her soft smile returned at the question; her eyes demurred as a sheepish bashfulness came over her for having posed such an inquiry. "I have just overheard some people discussing it. Are you sure there aren't any examples that you know of?" He let out another guffaw, "Of course not! I very well doubt that the city would be standing still if there were! " He turned an excited smile her way, "But how about magical earrings. They positively gleam with radiance, the perfect accompaniment to a young woman's smile. Don't you think?" Aya struggled to feign an interest that at any another time would have been genuine... [align=center][/align] She worked the pipe stem over in her mouth with an unusually ferocious energy. A warm winter breeze made for a more comfortable evening than usual out-of-doors, but her mind was anything if at ease. "Just what are we dealing with?" She wondered. "There must be more to it! But if Quisby doesn't know, who would?" She turned the quandary over in her mind with for some time until the solution presented itself with the clarity of the mid-day sun: Zaheela. Rhea Zaheela. The circumspect merchant who had let slip her obsession with rare books and esoteric knowledge on more than one occasion. She proved easier to engage on the problem than Aya could have ever guessed: like a hound bored without quarry she was ready to leap upon the quest almost before their interview were over. It was just a week later when Aya found herself once more in the woman's Ul'dah based business. Rhea lead her downstairs into the cool, dry basement chambers. To say that she was book obsessed would seem to place it mildly. The walls were lined floor to ceiling with case after case of shelves stuffed thick with books of every discernible age and nature. Just what method of organization lent order to the collection escaped the girl, whose exposure to such sights was rare indeed. But she harbored no doubt that her reserved hostess could recall and place each and every volume. The private chamber took the theme a level beyond: in addition to the reams upon reams of book-lined shelves, was a series of head-high stacked piles upon the floor. "Recent acquisitions?", she wondered silently. Not yet sorted, or perhaps of special character, or simply an unanticipated overstock. Whatever their purpose the piles added to the overall impact: the woman must possess near every tome ever authored, or so it would appear to someone who had never set foot within the grand libraries of Sharlayan or Ishgard. "I have found exactly what you asked for." Stated the Miqo'te with an even and unexcited tone. Her tail did not swish freely as so many others did, nor did an unearned smile grace her lips. "I have found record of such cases in the past. Magicians who mastered both the power of Succor, and the corruption of the Void" There was a business-as-usual sense to the woman as she moved to the back wall of her chamber and knelt down. She slipped a ring free from her finger and pressed it against a hidden recess in the wall, a keyplate. There was a muffled sound of turning gears, while Aya watched with wide-eyed wonder. Within the safe was the plain sight of gems, bars of bullion, and an aged wooden box. Rhea slipped on a pair of silk gloves before carefully removing the box. "Its even worse that you feared. Much worse." She added as she set the box down upon a small table. "I located an Ampadoran Tome that mentions several examples of the danger these magicians pose. The account is unfortunately vague on many details, but a few of interest are made plainly clear through careful analysis." Aya stood astonished. Her lips parted, eyes unblinking for a moment. She grasped for some hint of good news, "They must speak of some ways to stop them?" She asked, in a clearly plaintive tone. The book was carefully retrieved from the box, the cover ancient and marred by signs of deep wear and tear. "Yes. The suggested method seems to be to stab the Magician until they stop twitching." She had opened the book, but paused as if trying to recall something important. "And then stab even more to make sure." With her suggested method finished she looked back to the book with an intent interest, "Though I am to understand that method is familiar to most." The blonde stood dumbfounded a few feet away. So great was her concern about the danger of the magician that even this heartened her spirit, "At least that means they are vulnerable to arms..." Rhea nodded, her attention still consumed by the book. "It is the most common method for dealing with such problems. Even if some people won't admit that such a simple method is best." She looked intently upon a page, "I also fear that I was unable to uncover what you asked for regarding a method for tracking such an individual. Normally, of course, tracking such a powerful magician, especially one corrupted by the void, would be a rather trivial matter. So I was curious why you had asked about means for tracking such an individual." Rhea cupped her chin for a moment, Aya a captive audience. "But I was able to uncover the reason for that. There is a method that these magicians, in the past, have used to hide their true power and thus avoid detection." Rhea lifted the page so that Aya could regard it, as if she were able to make any sense of the Ampadoran record. Blonde eyebrows rose in anticipation. Unconsciously Aya leaned toward Rhea, anxious for every morsel of information. "It is a method most sane and humane souls would never considered. But one untethered by morality, and so empowered, may offer another as his vessel for corruption. The darkness is thereby channeled into the vessel's body, thus sparing the master of its taint. The vessel is treated as little more than a living, breathing ward of power." Aya gasped - Rhea's intonation was even and unemotional, but it was still obvious just how deeply the thought of so profane an act moved her. 'What sort... of darkness...' asked Aya as if the breath had been sucked right from her body. The implications for the Ghosts already plainly obvious. "Though we may not assume to know it from experience, our enlightened scholars concluded that, if an acceptable sacrifice were provided, the magician would be able to summon power from the vessel. Thus retaining full destructive abilities with nary a sign of corruption. The corruption would, instead, effect the vessels who are sacrificed to bear the burden for him." "I see..." replied Aya in an near-whisper. She clutched her cloak more tightly around her collar, as if she could ward off such evil with the gesture. "So the vessel carries some of the power reserved by the magician, who then appears incorrupted?" Rhea nodded, carefully closing the tome. "That is correct. It is the enslavement of a person, against their will, to hold onto the magician's void power in the manner of a battery. Given the unwilling and unwarded nature of the sacrifice, it is likely that the void corruption would run free and obvious upon him or her. But the magician would be beyond notice." Aya clenched her jaw. Liadan had been attempting to cleanse the Ghosts, the vessels, of their void taint. The potential for danger suddenly seemed to close in with increasing urgency. "This means that we could be dealing with an individual with dozens, if not more, vessels walking aro..." "Is there any way to reverse the process?" interrupted Aya. Rhea's ears lay back flat against her head and her tail tucked at the interruption, while she seemed to ponder. "It seemed that the same approach as in the case of the Magician were preferred." She paused, "But, there is a problem." As if problem enough were not already apparent, "A problem?" Aya asked with a ready hint of exasperation. Rhea looked around the room for a moment before retrieving from her safe a relatively flimsy looking bag, stretched taught with black and white pearls. She carefully sorted out the black pearls, setting them aside on the table. "Say that these," she gestured toward the black pearls, "represent his vessels. This bag of pearls is our mage. Say someone locates one of his vessels, who is showing signs of void corruption, and exterminates him, like most would. The problem is, what happens when the vessel dies? Normally the void magic would disperse or, in the worst cases, run wild. But, in this case, what happens in the record, is:" she pinched the bag of pearls where it iwas tied, opened it and poured in the black pearls that were the vessels. She shook the bag, mixing the pearls together, and then attempted to retie it where she had pinched it. So hard she pulled against the tie that the bag burst, scattering the pearls dramatically across the chamber. "Like a bomb. A walking, living bomb of corruption. The record indicates that the corruption released by his vessels' death rebounded unto him, suddenly killing him instantly, even though he were malms away." "A bomb...?" asked Aya, looking half petrified, and half excited. "The release of so much void energy at once could have any number of unpredictable consequences for those around the magician. An explosion, or corruption. The summoning of a void beast, or even ripping a tear right into the void." Rhea returned the tome to its velvet wrapping, and placing it back into the box. "It is just my personal opinion, but if this man were smart he would be using this danger to his advantage. Perhaps hiding himself in a position where he could do the most damage if this weakness were exposed. Though, it is possible that he is too foolish to realize his own predicament. That said, I have found that such people are both reckless and bold, but rarely fools." Aya nodded slightly, her grip upon her cloak slowly relaxing. Rhea stopped at her safe, turning narrowed eyes back toward Aya with the look of either accusation or amusement upon her nearly expressionless face. "By the way: This tome cost me half a million gil." ((Thanks to the fantastic Rhea for the RP scene this was based on! ^^))

Pah! Lol! Eva owns the record for shortest Aya rumor ever! Will have to add an updated one (That was during Scales when Eva was busy stirring up anti-Ishgardian sentiment! Do you know how much in tips she cost Aya? Pah!)

Similarly, an Ishgardian noble is one of the few people that will automatically start off on a bad foot with Aya - but that's part of the fun of RP!

[align=center][/align] [align=center][A Curious Night at Work - The Curious Curio Part Four][/align] Long run the nights of an Ul'dah winter. Where could anyone find time? Some days had passed in the quiet activity of the season: work, play, and perhaps a bit of pleasure mixed together to occupy the time. At last she closed the door of her dark room one evening, knowing that the hours ahead were her own. The early shift had begun in the markets that morning, one of her favorite errands, and ended just after the supper rush. It was near nine bells before she slipped away into the quiet dark, but none now would bother her. Approaching the small, worn table that served in the stead of a workbench, she struck a match and lit a small oil lantern on the nearby shelf. She took in a soft, deep breath as its gentle illumination settled over the area. A pleased, anxious little smile crossed her lips as she took in her workshop, Lalafellan stool and all. The expression slipped away as she began her preparation: she tied her hair back, covering it with a scarf, unrolled her small set of heavily used tools, set her miniature crystal work-light above her ear, and donned the wire framed lens holders and lenses that would expose the smallest details of the miniature parts which she would be working. She covered the work surface with a cloth, and at last brought the cigar box whose contents resembled a veritable pile of miniature gears, cranks, and fasteners down to the work surface. Each was individually bagged and labeled, and she set about sorting them placing them in the order they would be added back to the reassembled mechanism. She had noted many of the part when it had first been disassembled, and now thanked goodness for the detailed nature of her notes and drawings. She settled in upon her stool, having to carefully manage her balance so that she could never quite relax. Gear work came as naturally to her as the graceful lightness of her step, still the miniature nature of such watchworks pressed her finesse to its very limits. Slender tools worked beneath the intense but shadowy light of the work light, every otherwise indiscernible little motion of her fingers wildly exaggerated by the tiny scale of the parts as viewed through a magnifying lens. Blue eyes strained and focused. It had been months since each part had been carefully disassembled, but the memories were still sharp. Still, she was thankful for her notes as no fullness of detail could stand the test of so much time. Though, even that did not prevent mishaps: the ordinary mistakes that mark every tradesman's day. The slightest error in assembly would not be uncovered until several later steps, necessitating backtracking through a half-hours' tedious work. The spring that found its way free of her grasp, located again only after a quarter hours relentless, maddening search on the floor. She set the most important tool aside. A crystal oscillator; it appeared little more than a fancy tuning fork, but the crystals embedded within its design could either set a crystal in motion, or if properly used, bring it to a stop. It would be the only way to restart the watch once reassembled, or, with luck, to stop it if something were not working correctly and more work were required. The hours stretched from evening into night. The lantern burned low, the flame dimming as the supply of fuel was supped away. Still, she was consumed in her purpose and engrossed by the task at hand. As the inner workings of the piece began to take shape, she was reminded of past work. Most of what she had done had been larger in scale, excepting some control systems that had sought to rival this watch's complexity. Some of those had seemed complex beyond need, as if designed as a tribute to the craftsman's ingenuity and cleverness. Making them even more challenging, many of those could only be worked on in place. Often in cramped, awkward space that made the work all the more difficult even with her lithe frame and dexterous fingers. Still, in this case she found herself far from her old suppliers and their supply of replacement parts. If, indeed, replacements could even be made for this piece. Every project presents its own challenges. And that was the way of it: challenge after challenge as the night grew late and passed into the early hours. The lamp wick flickered out, hastening the darkness of the shadows that plagued the overworked little crystal-lamp that was now her only illumination. Still, there was no thought of pausing, stopping, or halting. She worked on, enshrouded by darkness as the pile of parts began to take the form of a watch. This piece was different from those control mechanisms and their overly-convoluted arrays of inputs and calculations. This was no practical equipment, but instead a work of art in its own merit. In that sense the craftsman's cleverness and artfulness became a thing of beauty. The intricate gear-work, the perfect notching and threading. The careful weaving throughout the mechanism that left one to wonder how any portion could have been conceived outside the whole. But what was the purpose of it all? The appreciation she held for the inner workings were never meant to grace the owner of the locket itself. It must be there for some more meaningful purpose, rather than to impress a future tinker utterly unworthy of the locket's intricacy. Whatever it was, she hoped she would know soon enough as each additional piece left precious few and fewer remaining for the reassembly. She would know soon, very soon, despite the lateness of the hour that seemed to stretch and stretch. Her eyes strained for focus. Her fingers were long ago sore, but now her whole body ached in the clutches of a tiredness that was resisted by every nerve of her frenetic energy. Almost there... almost there. So cold... so very, very cold. The young girl shivered against the rush of a gale that forced its muscular way deep within the tunnels and wide-open caverns that cut their way through the stone foundation beneath the city. She was a young woman, barely more than a girl, and that frigid Coerthan wind cut right through the meager cloth of her cloak. Where was she again? She turned around in her spot trying to take in the surroundings. Oh, right, right... she knew. It was her loft. In reality no more than a hollow between the roof of the smithy and the ceiling of the office below her. It was almost completely unprotected from the outside winds. Why is it still so cold? She wondered for a moment. It seemed like the Spring was now months behind schedule. She let out a huffy sigh and flopped her head back against the wooden planks that made for a bed in the loft. There must have been a party last night; she'd have told her friends she was headed home, that was always the way. Late nights galavanting, drinking cheap wine, and often worse. It was all there was for exciting life on these streets. Sometimes it was different: an arranged evening with a gentleman. Fan, potential patron, or admirer the suitors were themselves of every stripe and suit. Sometimes it was for fun, other times because she simply thought it best. She always teased, sometimes they had their way, more often she left them dancing at the tip of her fingers. But always, always, came the moment to return home. And the wrath of the parents. Especially father. Here she had found an alternative to, at least, delay the inevitable: her brother's shop. Not his, really, he was just an apprentice. But it was safety, shelter, and a warm bed without father's thundering. The parent's had found out at some point, of course, and she'd brought the weight of the seven hells down upon Osvald's head. What now after that little falling out? Why not the loft: he need not even know. She pulled herself up to peek outside, only to be greeted with the the dull red glow of these inner halls, and the near perfect quiet of night. Down here the sun was not around to offer its evidence, the time of day had to be discerned from more subtle clues. With a quick arm-hanging dismount she found herself silently on the floor of the smithy. Suddenly everything seemed familiar, her eyes were caught by a rusted and worn-looking piece of equipment that occupied a large space nearby the forge. It was as if she could still hear the angry word's of her shouting father echoing in her ears: "and you are helping her!" What exactly with she knew well enough without having caught it in time, "Its bad enough that you have abandoned your duty, but I will not allow you to aid you sister in betraying hers!" The next time she set eyes upon her brother, his were not friendly. They bore the anger and frustration of father: the sentiment having been transmitted from father to son. What more could she do? And what did father say? "Trollop!" "Harlot!" The anger rose from father's eyes like fire. The words crashed viscerally against her flesh as she stood, she felt, bare and exposed against the lashings of the storm. "We had but one expectation of you: how can you disobey us!" She was never one to cow. Obeisance was not in her blood: she always did what she would. But she was one to cry. How many tears had been shed in that shrouded space between the rafters and the metal shingles? She turned her face into the gale. She let the words wash over her, joining with tears of defiance. "No daughter of mine would behave such as this! No daughter of mine would so defile her name! No daughter of mine would engage in such scandal!" No daughter of mine! No daughter of mine! No daughter of mine! No Daughter Of Mine! Eyes shot open above tear-stained cheeks. They gazed upon that worn out, broken down piece of junk. The auto-bellows that decades afore had served to fire the metal-working forge. A task that now fell to the Master's apprentice, and his day's endless toil. Perhaps... it was as standard model, I've seen the type before haven't I? I'm in good with Belincourt. He'd be willing to spare a few parts... my performances are paying now, well enough to scrape enough coin together I think. Then he could focus on learning the trade instead. He never liked to complain, but I've seen the disappointment wrote on his eyes. They would both be so much more productive if they didn't have to pump the forge by hand! And maybe... maybe Oswald... maybe he will forgive me. Maybe... he will... KNOCK KNOCK What is that yelling? Father again? KNOCK KNOCK "Oi now, lass, you'd better be a'right in there! Now speak up right this instant! I don't really wannae bash this door downae, ye 'ear?" Her head was filled with the thick miasma of interrupted dream. The heavy grogginess of an unexpected awakening. She lifted her eyes, glancing in confusion about at the soft daylight intruding upon the curtains of her room. The voice seemed disembodied, muffled by the door as her friend called to her from just the other side. "Jeh... Jericho?" she barely managed. "Aye, 'course lass. The Madame, that is Momodo, is sent me tae look in on ye. Says yer shift started half-a-bell ago. Yer alright in there?" With another shake of her head she suddenly caught sight of her desk. The locket was open, the watch face exposed, the hands reading half-past-eleven. A second hand hummed quietly along its way. It was what surrounded the watch face that truly astounded her. There in the intricate filigree that seemed to flow in its ever-changing character around the watch, was the image of Althyk, in whose month the calendar hand was set, illuminated by the pink-blue glow of the crystal buried within. The figure seemed to leap from the mithril-work: A stern countenance, great axe in one hand, and hourglass in the other. He scanned from side to side, while the sand of the hourglass steadily emptied in an endless cycle. "By the Twelve..." she gasped in delight.

Osvald stood back at his full height - hardened eyes offering a curious look downward toward the Lalafel the Dragoon had introduced. They offered more than a hint of disbelief, of doubt, if not a suspicion of mischief. He glanced to his master, whose self-possessed and friendly countenance seemed a stark contrast to his own. Hesitation was writ across Osvald's usually emotionless features, and reticence through his body language. A moment passed before he took a step forward, taking a polite knee upon the tiled forge-floor of the Smithy to offer his large hand - one easily capable of grasping the fullness of one Gegenji skull within its breadth. There was no smile upon the man's stoic visage, but he did not seem one who would offer many. "Osvald Tharintreu. At your service." His voice was more quiet than the breadth of his body would suggest, just audible above the steady pitch of the auto-bellows and simmering furnace. It was obvious that he did not have much use for the common speech, but the accent upon his tongue was that Ishgardian lilt with enough Highland burr to be recognizable. Chachanji had heard its like before: upon that of the man's sister, spinning her cheerful notes throughout the Quick Sand on a near nightly basis.

I would like to attend Inquisition for Blood - that could go very interestingly. But I think its full already, so I guess I'll be a reserve or something

Would love to make that connection! :-D

Hooray for wierdos!

Was there any more evidence needed that Santa's a heretic? Hmmm...

Don't worry, Halone mails out baloney for Starlight right?

Since Liadan tried with both her first and full name.. here is just "Aya"! Aya, do you really think Santa is unaware of your inappropriate Facebook posts? Naughty. :blush:

"Well, Aya Foxheart, I don't know how you pulled it off, but you actually made the Nice List." SCOOOOOOOORE!

Its just a big stupid jellyfish! Welcome to the RPC! :-D (and if that's not an intended reference, then sorry! :-D )