Aya

Weeeeeelcoooooome to Balmung!

Aya, Momodi, and Monsieur Fats (All credit to Shotgun Shuffle):

Telluride, you have no idea the dangerous things that lurk and prowl...

A string of selfies with little or no context or explanatory text

I think the point is just for fun! But yes, there's another recent thread for it! (and an even older one than that floating around somewhere).

Mmmmmmmmm, I can't really think of a great comparison. There are bits and pieces that seem to match up with one character or another, but the whole is such a different story. I decided instead to make the best match I could to a Clannad character. Tomoyo Sakagami!

Ain't even got a silly reply. FORM BLAZING SWORD (why didn't we just do that earlier in the episode?)

You're definitely not alone, its something that people mention pretty frequently.. You've already hit upon the best advice that I can imagine. Its not competitive, its not sport, and there certainly are no judges waiting to write down a score. Its interactive, and its meant to be fun and enjoyable for those involved. And it is those last two things that should really be the focal point for determining how to respond: fun and enjoyment. People RP in different ways, and characterize their characters in a lot of different ways. Sometimes there's good reason to focus on subtle body language, or on tone of voice, and other descriptions, and these can make for long posts. This does not necessitate a long or wordy post in response, if anything the length of the response should be determined only by your own individual judgement on what you feel like should be expressed. Sometimes the best, and most meaningful response to a very long post could be immensely short. A nod. A smile. A shrug of the shoulders, or a several word verbal response. There's no need to feel like it should be in some way equal to the one that came before it in detail or length. No one will look down upon you for writing responses shorter than theirs. Just do what you feel is appropriate, and more importantly, what you feel is fun. In other words: don't worry, be happy. Edit: I just want to re-iterate what Warren said. In public, especially, say, QS RP, I tend to keep my emotes much shorter and less flowery. Pretty basic body language, expressions, and short sentences where possible. Sometimes someone asks what is available to order though... then it may get a little bit longer!

What about the silliness that is the Glittergirl?

Definitely Fei-Yen. [video=youtube] What I mean is, I'm not sure it matters what mecha she pilots, since most of her shots will just be of her in a skin-tight piloting suit, often in compromising positions while piloting - that's the way these series work right? I am actually scanning through mecha.. I just love the artwork, and I'm really missing watching this sort of series! My favorite was always the Female Power Armor from Macross/Robotech, but its looking rather dated :-]

I'm not sure what Mecha she would pilot.. but I'm pretty sure it would be all about fan service.

Since you bumped this I am just looking over all of these again.. you are so talented Tiergan. You have one of the most pleasing fantasy styles I have ever seen.

... yes please.

*blows whistle* *Withdraws red card from pocket* *writes down in notebook: * 3/22-6:50 - Briannia Dunham: ® Wearing headgear that obscures lovely eyes.

[align=center][/align] [align=center][Meanwhile in Ishgard][/align] Rich black smoke bellowed from the tall, masonry stack of the solid stone structure. Even in the lower levels, deep within the foundations of the Tower City, land was at a premium. The one level shop was built of stone, covered by a sloped slate roof resistant to embers and sparks that would sometimes rise from the roaring furnace within. Attached was a split-level home, modest, but warm and mostly dry. It was a busy shop, passersby and neighbors could hear hammers ringing throughout the long hours of each and every day. Kael was familiar with the spot. When he opened the door he was first greeted by the gentlemanly Duskwight owner of the property, Master Dunois. His white hair was thin and long, covered by a handkerchief that looked rather out-of-place. His features worn with the advance of age. His arms and chest still bore the powerful muscles of his trade, though they too had grown stiff and drawn. He offered a cheerful smile; the light of eyes that once bore the spark of a master smith, had long ago gone out. Replaced by the dullness of a man worn down with the destitution of hope: his wife had passed away decades hence, and his only child, Lorraine, had vanished around the same time as Aya. Worry and loneliness had scuffed away sheen off of the once inspiring man down, finding support in a feverish work schedule and the blissful bleariness of drink, but there seemed not an ounce of bitterness in his tired heart. "Kael Tharintreu!" he exclaimed with a tone just as friendly as his smile. He set down the tools with which he was working. "Tell me, how is the wife? How are your children?" Kael allowed himself to smile, it was a subtle expression upon his chiseled features. "They are well Master Dunois." He was dressed well, well enough, at least. Endless-winter had left linen an expensive import, and most were now reliant upon locally produced wool for every article of clothing. Only a few could still afford linen cloth, and while his vest was worn, the dye still held. Sign of a man of means, at least in these parts. For this, he had his wife to thank. "Ah, wonderful, so wonderful." smiled the old man. "Ah, ah, I am sure you are here to speak with your brother! I'll leave you two!" Kael nodded in gratitude, the Duskwight turned and walked through the shop toward his kitchen, and perhaps a taste of wine. Within the shop a hammer fell—propelled by the burly, forceful muscle of the Highlander smith. Osvald had always been large for his age, and had grown into a beast of a man. With club-like fists, fearsome arms, and a barrel chest whose muscles had developed through consistent hard work in ways that the field of battle simply could not avail. His way was quiet: he had metal and stone upon which to take out his frustration. When Kael entered his brother did not look up from his work. Dressed in a thick blacksmith's apron, his arms were bare and dark. Singed by embers and stained by soot, he seemed, as always, unmoved. The hammer fell once more, a peal that tore piercingly through the shop. Kael stood for a moment, and nodded, his hands upon his hips. "Osvald." The hammer fell again, striking the red-hot spearblade against the edge of the anvil. Tempered, shaped, formed. What had once been raw iron would be worked, at last, into the form of a Dragoon's armament. "Osvald." he repeated somewhat louder. Osvald lifted the hammer once more. Kael flinched at the anticipated fall, but the tool had not budged. The smith looked up. "What do you want?" he asked in Ishgardian, with a tone of quiet annoyance. "I just want to speak to my brother," replied the elder to the younger in the brogue of their native tongue. "You could have come later," he replied in kind, using the language of their blood-kin, "Some of us must work for a living." Kael, stoic, was unmoved, "And some of us must tend to our families." The smith huffed. The hammer fell. Kael flinched, but did not move. "Have you heard from Aya?" Osvald lifted his eyes, the hammer at rest. He looked at Kael - a look that spoke more than words between brothers. He turned his eyes toward the forge. Toward the box that hummed quietly; the gears within whirled and turned upon an endless cycle driving the bellows that fed the forge. It was the auto-bellows that his teenager sister had repaired in the dark of the night, years ago. A gift, a repentance, a way of making up for all of the trouble she had caused him in the early years of his apprenticeship. It hummed, but it always ran. He treated it like a member of the family: freshly greased and oiled. It was something like an alter, it always reminded him of her, and sometimes he worried what it would mean if it ever broke down. "I have not." came the quiet reply in his deep, heavy voice. "What makes you ask?" "I saw one of her friends earlier today, at lunch. I could have sworn I heard her say Aya's name. I thought perhaps she had written again." Osvald looked back to his work. He clenched his teeth together. How badly he wished that were the case. "Not that I know of," he said with a voice that refused to share his emotion. Kael tensed. He always seemed in-control. In control of his surroundings, in control of the situation, but most of all, in control of himself. He drew his hand up, fingers drawing across rough, fair stubble. "Why doesn't she write us? Why doesn't she tell us what is going on? What is she even up to out there?" Osvald looked up. "She's not out there for us, Kael." Kael scowled, "Maybe not. But she is 'of Tharin', yet. By blood, by birth, by everything that matters. She is our sister, she could write us at least." Osvald's gaze was steely. Blue eyes, like all three of the siblings, capable of vicious piercing stares, as well as the full depth of warmth. "Tharintreu." he said, simply stating their Ishgardian-adoptive name. That first borne by their distant cousins settled in the city generations afore. Few things were more offensive to Kael - the very name had been forced upon them by circumstance. It robbed them of purpose, of being, of the very essence of who they were. However; he contained the snarl that grew within his chest. Osvald was not the object of his frustration. They had fought before, but that was not his intention this afternoon. "You've heard the news?" he quipped, rapidly moving the subject forward. He unfolded his arms, pacing slightly, "Refugees in Ul'dah have revolted. Mobbed against the gil-whoring Lalafelen who run the place. She could be among them! Maybe she was? Why doesn't she tell us." His voice had grown energetic. He lifted his hands, fists clenched tight. He wanted to scream with frustration, but he unleashed all he could in a grunt. Osvald stood silent, stone-faced. His eyes followed his brother's movement. Kael continued, "That is our place. That is where we belong. Not in this Twelve-forsaken pit of a city. (Even Halone herself refuses to bless these ingrates!)" "No, not here, but amongst our people, standing ready to reclaim our homeland. Where our banner can fly once more! Perhaps she has even laid eyes herself upon Tyr Abania." His expression was something of a smile. Such a note of high optimism, of hopes and dreams despite the insurmountable obstacles. It had always been foremost in his heart. Osvald still did not budge, but he answered, "You could serve a House. You could become the soldier you always wanted to be. You do not need to leave for that." Now Kael snarled, his arm swung out in Osvald's direction. "I serve a House, and you will not forget. The only house that matters to you, or I. The House of our Fathers. There is none before it. Never forget our father. Never, Osvald, forget our duty!" The smith grunted with a defiant gesture of his hammer-wielding hand. "Still stuck on the same godsdamned thing. Always, aren't you. Chase your dreams, Kael, but I have a life to lead and so does Aya." This, Kael was used to taking in stride. He nodded, his body relaxing somewhat. "I will live the way for which we were born. Father expects no less." The quiet smith remained silent. He knew how right Kael was. "A living, Osvald?" Kael asked, as he began to examine the ongoing work in the shop. Numerous practical, every-day metal objects of use in this quarter of the city, along with a handful of bladed weapons in various states: spearheads, dirks, and short-swords. "And good work it looks to be, brother. Perhaps someday you shall make hammers and axes that make Rhalgar smile." He looked to his brother with a grin. Osvald glanced up, but said nothing. Kael shrugged, turning back toward the shop's entrance. He stopped as Osvald reached across the anvil, grasping a finished dirk. He tossed the blade casually; Kael caught it by the handle. "The master believed it was time I use my own trademark." Kael turned the weapon over, looking down at the base of the blade just above the guard. There, blackened and engraved was a small slightly oblong square-shaped crow, its wings spread. Just as it flew in their memories. Kael nodded, testing the weight of the blade as he let out a breath that approached a laugh. He looked back to Osvald with a fraternal smile—his brother reciprocated, happily.

[align=center][/align] [align=center][The Nightmare Cometh - The Scales Part Twelve][/align] Part Eleven - The Master Forger - was written by C'kayah and can be found here. It was a quiet afternoon down market. At Madam Momodi's request, Aya had worked the morning shift. Early visitors were mostly looking for a hearty breakfast and a cup of coffee. It was a less rowdy shift than the evening; the patrons were distracted by thoughts of the busy day ahead, less moment for worrying themselves about the staff's accent. Besides, it bought her a free afternoon, and she used it to visit her favorite spot in Ul'dah: the bustling marketplace. She was glancing down, admiring the rings adorning her fingers. She'd purchased another just a few minutes earlier, and it filled her with a warm glow of satisfaction. Her admiration was interrupted by a mellow buzzing in her ear. A link pearl? She thought she recognized the voice, but cupped her hand over her ear to make sure, "Enju?" she asked. There was a pause before the voice of Kiht's associated resumed, "Well, it'll do..." he sounded disappointed, "I assume Kiht's already informed the pearl of Verad's disappearance..." there was more, but Aya didn't hear it. She stopped mid-stride, the baggage born Roegadyn behind her nearly toppling her over. She didn't hear his curses either as he pushed his way around her. It couldn't be. The last she knew Verad was bed-ridden. Kiht had just invited her over to visit him, since he was stuck at home and unable to be about his daily business. Kiht would have told her if anything had happened, right? Right? "Informed the pearl..." maybe that was it. Aya was far from religious in keeping hers handy. Perhaps Kiht had tried to tell her - the Keeper seemed to have her hands all too full at the moment. Then again, maybe she had just misheard. She tried to summon her voice, offering a faint stammer, "... Verad's what?" she managed to ask. "He's missing." came Enju's almost immediate reply. "And from the looks of it, certainly not beacuse of legality." She was suddenly aware that she stood in the middle of the busy boulevard. She glanced around bashfully, made a few quick apologies, and stepped aside. She braced herself against a wall. She closed her eyes, her voice soft though she struggled to keep it firm and steady, "Kiht told you this?" She had to make sure, just one more time. "She has, yes." "For how long?" she asked. Could he have just been misplaced? "I've been informed three suns ago. At least that long." She closed her eyes, and rest her head against the wall. She once more saw Verad's silent, scream of terror. She was reliving the moment again, and again as Enju continued. "I have questioned Ser Crofte about it..." Crofte and Kiht, no doubt the Keeper would soon have Osric on the case as well. She could once more hear their distant cries growing faint. Verad transfixed in terror, held aloft as a sacrifice to the Dravanian Horde. It was her nightmare: she was living it. There could be no doubt.

She watched with a half-amused, half-confused (confamused) expression. The slight raise of blonde eyebrows, lips slightly-parted amidst a partial smile. Her eyes shone though, with that cheerful energy Kage could so easily recognized. She glanced at the cats, a soft giggle rising within her. "With your friends?" she asked amidst the light effervescent laughter. Her accent so noticeable, the light-hearted tone of a delighted Ishgardian girl.

I might bite. Rawr.

The cobblestones were rough upon the avenue in this forgotten corner of Ul'dah. Frequented more often by beggars and ne'er-do-wells than tradesman or Brass Blades, it was not exactly the sort of space a young woman liked to cross on near daily basis. But, space was always at a premium in the city, and that is just where the dancers had found affordable room for their studio. She was just returning from a double-session, first in the morning, second that afternoon with a break for lunch in between. Two different groups were preparing for performances, and neither minded having Aya join their sessions. It was not just practice and exercise, but more than that: an indulgence. Although she would rather have been performing, at least she was dancing, and that is what mattered in the depths of her heart. The smile she bore as she walked through the rugged avenue reflected upon the truth that dire surrounds were no impediment to happiness. There would be leers, even jeers and catcalls, but mostly it was friendly waves, and nods of the head between her and the local residents whom she had come to know over the past year. She did what was usual, trying to spread a little good cheer where she went. It wasn't quite ritual: but it was routine. Her heeled boots made their tell-tale sound as she passed step-by-step along the broad sweep of the avenue that spoke to the fruitless high hopes of its original planners. As she glanced up she noticed something strange upon one of the balcony's hanging off to the side of the route. She was familiar with the spot, an angle in an alleyway that provided a phenomenal view of the sandstone neighborhood sprawling below. However, what made the sight unusual was puff of blue and red hair rising from the head of a diminutive Lalafel. She shook her head, she must be seeing things—moons ago she had lead Kage there, when it seemed like he hung upon the edge of a precipice. She always imagined him floating above the business of the trivial business of the day-to-day; stuck in a never ending search for a grounding anchor. He had once found three to secure himself to. But in subsequent misfortunes each had crumbled beneath him: the clan, the Sworn, and Natalie. Aya had tried to help him, to offer what advice she could. And that had been the spot she had chosen for it. She looked away, blinking slowly as if making herself conscious of any disruption to her vision. She turned her gaze back, and there he was once more. Looking around with an expression of mixed hesitation and expectation. It really wasn't the sort of place she thought Kage would normally hang around. She turned from her path, ascending the stairs and rounding the corners of the alley before passing under the archway that lead to the corner-balcony. "Kage? What are you doing up here?" she asked softly. There was no longer any doubt that it was him.

I'm happy to help, Rhea!

The fun is in the game, not in winning or losing! Most of the time

Osric's not so much a food, as a type of meal. The late night snack. You really don't want to, you really don't want to. But you've just got to.

YOU CANT DO YOURSELF

Osric messed up my response for C, but I'm giving it anyway! Spicy kebabs. A bit of everything, with enough kick to notice. And decidedly Ul'dahn in flavor!

THAT HAT! I like that hat :-]