Verad

I'd like to remind players to leave space for others to sign up for events. I'd also like to point out that you should probably think very carefully about who you want to take to what sequence and why. Note too that there is no schedule for these events, so the order in which they occur may make a significant impact. Finally, I forgot that the Maw is a Lethal event. I have updated that sign-up accordingly.

It's good to see people scheduling things on their own. I will now make this more complicated: A-Tonic Warfare Situation: Flyers and leaflets, some with rather vulgar illustrations for the sake of the unlettered, from the Dornier alchemical company have challenged Verad Bellveil to a public competition called the Tournament of Liniments in order to prove the superiority of Pelderain Dornier's products to Bronco Grease. The nature of the challenge is sufficiently irresistible to Verad that he will appear unless physically restrained from doing so. Will the horrible truths about Bronco Grease and Horse Oil finally be revealed at large? Are there any horrible truths, really? Time: Sunday, Jan 17, 8 PM CST 1. Verad Bellveil 2. Nihka Mioni 3. Zanzan Yanzan 4. 5. Open Strange III: Home on the Strange Situation: There's trouble at the Fahn farmstead. The matriarch of the family has gone missing, the acting boss of the farm has been injured in a chocobo accident, and a forest fire nearby has given the elementals cause to grouse; further, several armed groups have reason to descend on the place, and there are things in the woods watching the place. The farmhands and a local Hearer have scraped together the gil to post a leve asking for adventurers to provide security until things calm down: Time: Tuesday, Jan 19, 7 PM CST 1. Leanne Delphium 2. R'Shesha Otharn 3. Anstarra Silverain 4. Open Events and Ongoing Concerns The following events do not have a set date and timeline. They are here as reminders of specific, large-scale goals that have been discussed at length amongst participants in the plot, and to help players coordinate their actions on an OOC level. 1. In the Maw of Madness Situation: Hanging over the minds of most of those dealing with the matter of the escaped prisoners is the knowledge that the voidsent Neruhm, one of the catalysts for the problems of the Shroud at large, lingers within an abandoned wing of Toto-Rak. Whatever its designs in that place, it is a threat that may be too great to ignore, and an expedition into the lost wing to defeat it and whatever defenses it may have is a matter for consideration. Note: This is a Lethal Event. Your character can die as a result of being taken out in a conflict. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 2. The First and Forsaken Fahn Situation: Similarly, the other problem is finding and dealing with O-Rehn Fahn, a Padjal out of time and possessed of a lingering grudge against the Shroud. There's been significant discussion of how to deal with the problem of such a creature, but one thing that can be agreed upon is finding him; after recent events, his whereabouts are currently unknown. Whether he is found to eliminate, imprison, or redeem him is up to those performing the search. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. My Kingdom for a Horse-Oil Situation: The banning of Horse-Oil has certainly prevented what looked like the beginnings of consumer violence in Gridania, but it's also led to a second problem - withdrawal symptoms. Both the Conjury Guild and local folk-healers and alchemists are hard-pressed to manage the symptoms of former "horse-powered" users from the forest in addition to their usual duties. Those so afflicted waver between lethargy and violence depending on the day. A reward is being posted for those who can synthesize an appropriate substitute that doesn't have the addictive side-effects to help ease the suffering of former users. 1. 2. 3.

Somewhere in the Gridanian Caverns: The pot exploded when it hit the cavern wall about a fulm from Guerrique’s head. Shards of formerly-carefully-shaped clay scattered on the ground beneath him, a few chips landing on his shoulder. His only response was to grin, and offer the recruit an approving nod. “Good swing! Hold it, hold it, don’t pull back from it yet.,” he said, giving the man a genial nod and brushing aside the stray shards of pottery. “A little over-aggressive, if you ask me.” His student, now contorted in an uncomfortable position in which the lance had been swung like a very long staff, squinted his eyes. “Why? That blow would’ve taken a Wailer’s head clean off, you ask me.” In front of him was a crudely arranged striking gallery, consisting of pots and crates the nascent clan had gathered together for training purposes. A few bartered-for bales of hay had been placed on logs and given a vague person-shape, and behind the student, were being used by a pair of other lance-wielding novices to practice their thrust. “There’s truth in that, surely, but look at your pose. Supposing you just stumble across one guard on a lone picket, then I’ll grant you you’re right. But they move in teams now, don’t they? At least pairs.” Bridging the gap between them, Guerrique jabbed his hand, fingers outstretched, at points along the recruit’s torso. “You take that one down, certain as anything the other will get you right in the sides here. Go fetch yourself another pot, start taking swipes at it that aren’t meant to make it like you’ve always wanted to be a catapult, hm?” Obliging, the novice righted his posture and went about fetching more targets for practice, but did not look quite chastened. He had good form and training, but he was raw on experience, even compared to the other two they’d nabbed who were good with a lance. Guerrique mused that it might take an unpleasant encounter with another clan’s patrol or a fight over land with poachers to get the fellow to see the error in overestimating his offense. With luck and time, hopefully that realization would not be posthumous. They were not the recruits he and Ursuline had tried to gather before being rudely interrupted by a case of the adventurers, but they would do. The pair had been forced to rely on a technique quite similar to that of the Redbellies: seeking out young and disenfranchised Duskwights and promising them, if not a better life, then at least a life on their own terms. It had worked quite well after the cleansing ritual, garnering them a good dozen soldiers. It wasn’t enough for anything more interesting than self-defense in the caverns, and perhaps the odd bit of poaching on the side, but it was a start. From there, the pair could rebuild what they’d lost before they were put in the dark. “YOU SWIVING WHORESON I SWEAR BY ALL THE TITS AND TESTICLES OF THE TWELVE IF YOU CAN’T GET YOUR GODSDAMNED FINGERS TO HOLD THE KNIFE RIGHT I’LL TAKE YOU BACK TO YOUR MAM TO TELL HER SHE SHOULD’VE STRANGLED YOU IN THE CRIB AND DONE US ALL A FAVOR!” Assuming Ursuline didn’t kill them all first, anyway. Guerrique did his best to look as if nothing was wrong while heading towards the cavern the Little Bear had chosen for training a few of the newcomers in close-quarters work. That there was a grown man of a Duskwight easily a good four fulms and thirty ponz larger than Ursuline curled up on the ground and weeping to himself was nothing out of the ordinary as far as Guerrique was concerned. Ursuline’s reputation as a clan leader in the long years past had been built around being as fearsome as her name suggested, with a stare that could make a hardened warrior flinch. Chastising a recruit, in whatever manner, was normal enough. She normally didn’t literally kick them when they were down, though, but there it was, her boot colliding with the recruit’s midsection in a few heavy thumps. “There, that’s right, go ahead and cry! Maybe you’ll cry out all the damn useless parts and we can pretend you’re almost a person!” On the other side of the room, two other novices were glancing between Ursuline and the cavern exits, trying to decide if movement would attract her attention. Relieved expressions crossed their faces as the other clan leader arrived. In the middle of winding up for another good kick and questioning her student’s parentage, Ursuline’s arms were caught from behind and held back. “Very good, very good!” said Guerrique while dragging her away from the downed Duskwight. “Ah, Rossaux, Inant, if you could pick up your friend there and get him back to his room? We’ll just set this for another day, hm?” Grateful for the excuse, the pair struggled to pick up their fellow and drag him out of the room, doing the best to ignore the stream of curses coming out of Ursuline’s mouth. When they had left, Guerrique tightened his grip a moment. “Are you calm?” “I am.” “You’re certain?” “Yes. Let me go, Guer.” “Well.” He paused. “All right.” He released her arms. She elbowed him once in the gut, as she stepped forward. It wasn’t hard enough to make him double over, but there was an audible “oof” of pain from it. That seemed to please her enough to settle her down. “All, right, so . . . so what was that, then?” He said as adjusted his clothing, wrinkled from the restraint. “That was . . . Guillaume, wasn’t it? I thought he at least knew how to hold a knife.” “It was his smirk,” she said after a long silence, her arms folded, her tone sullen. “His dumb smirk when he hit a point on the dummy dead-on.” She pointed to a crude strawman. A dagger was still embedded at an angle, where a mark had been drawn to show where to hit just under the ribs on a Hyur. “He looked over his shoulder with it and it just . . . “ Her shoulders sank. “It reminded me of the Padjal. At the farm. He had the same damn look.” “Ah. Him.” He frowned. Whether or not to go back to the farm they’d staked out and gut the Padjal before he saw it coming had been a point of contention ever since Leanne Delphium had them help track the forest-child whereabouts. She’d let them be privy to her conversation, and to learn that he was the one responsible for trapping them in the dark, for torturing them body and soul, for twisting Ursuline’s skull and nearly growing a demon from her, had been . . . well, there was no beating around it, he supposed. They were both fucking furious. But Delphium had saved them both, and had helped restore Ursuline to her original form. They owed the adventurer greatly. So they’d stayed their hands to their great regret. “There’s not much we can do about it, pet. It’s . . . it’s in adventurer hands now. They don’t brook much in the way of meddling.” “To hell with that.” Ursuline fixed her eyes on her partner. There was certainly something fitting in her having possessed the eye of an ahriman; even without the sense that she could kill with a look, there was still that lingering fear that it was possible. “We can’t let a monster like that walk, Guer. We can’t let him be revered by people. Not after what he did.” “I need no convincing,” he replied, placing his hand on his chest. “But even were we to break word, remember what the girl said. Kill him and it’s the Greenwrath. The forest protects its own, and the woods are always watching.” The mention of Greenwrath made her shudder, and he moved to put his arm around her. She didn’t shrug it off. That was the real barrier, he felt. Whatever satisfaction there might have been in slaying the Padjal, their lives would be immediately forfeit. They had nearly been forfeit to Greenwrath over a moon ago, when the elementals had risen to the aid of a Hearer in defending the Padjal (of all things!) from being captured. The two Duskwights had nearly been swallowed by the earth, and it was a miracle they were alive. Neither of them, he supposed, wanted to feel that again. “. . . So . . . what if he does it himself, then?” Guerrique’s brow furrowed as he pressed his lips against the top of Ursuline’s hair. “Pardon?” “Not murder, Guer. Suicide. Supposing he’s the one that does the deed. Poison, knife on his own throat, however he pleases. But he does it. Can they really protest that?” “Hm. There’s a thought. But supposing there’s still a ‘wrath?” “Then at least it’s not focused on us personally and we can get away, don’t you think?” She peered up at him, dark bangs falling away. There was cunning there, calculation. She’d been thinking about this, he realized. “That might be so as well. Two thoughts. But supposing they’re both true, how do we make that case? You heard the boy, or man, or whatever you want to call it. He’s waiting for judgement from another.” “I think - I think I know how, yes,” she said by taking a step back. “We just think about the answer to the question Delphium didn’t ask.” “And what question is that?” “Why is he hanging around that farm, anyway?”

Back of the Sleeping Boar, Old Gridania: “Uh-huh. No movements. Uh-huh.” Hadrian stood near what passed for the “loading dock” of the Sleeping Boar, a small porch stacked with crates and a smaller backdoor nearly blocked by the same. He had one hand near his ear and the other tapping out a bit of ash from his pipe. His expression was, as always, inscrutable to Weylan, and he was only now beginning to suspect that the Wailer’s mask he never took off was but a part of that. The younger Wailer was doing his best to politely ignore Hadrian’s pearl conversation, having seated himself on a crate of wines yet to be unloaded and placed in the bar proper. He had been told to sit with Hadrian and keep a look out for their “supplier”; that meant, he suspected, the Duskwight who had all the patrons drinking that banned Horse Oil stuff. “Horse-powered” they’d started calling it. A bit too much like the phrases those new “Doman” folks would say, for his tastes. They always did prefer horses. But he didn’t drink it, and Hadrian was fine with it, so what did it matter? There were other concerns, anyhow. He hadn’t yet brought up what he’d heard of Hadrian’s conversation a couple sennights’ past. Stumbling into negotiations between the older Wailer and what had looked like a mob of adventurers about getting help for the next hit had not been part of Weylan’s plans for the evening, and the entire thing had left him mostly speechless. Half of the conversation had been beyond him, and the other half was merely confusing, talk about demons and cleansing and why their target needed to die. And after that, he asked for their help. Their help. Why get outside aid after all the good and right talk about Gridania taking care of its own? And why had she been there, that Keeper bitch? And hanging off of some Seeker woman’s arm like she belonged? “All right. Good.” He snapped up to see Hadrian was ending the conversation. “Keep me posted if he moves. All should be ready in good time. I’ll check in tomorrow.” Hadrian lowered his hand from his ear, and lifted his pipe to check to see if it was properly cleaned. “They’re getting bored out there, Wey. Think we have to move on this or they’re going to cause some trouble.” “Oh? A-are they?” The hitch in Weylan’s voice caught him off guard. Glancing down, he noticed for the first time that he was trembling, that his fists were clenched. His chest rose and fell as he took a few deep breaths, tried to repurpose a few bits of lancer training techniques to steady himself. “Mm. Might be that I was being overcautious there. Wanted to do this out somewhere quiet, but he hasn’t moved far from that damn farm.” Hadrian blew out his lips in frustration, an act Weylan found oddly childish in contrast to the scars around the bottom of the older Wailer’s face. “Might just have to hit ‘em and run, take the body elsewhere to get the horns sawn and ground. Risky, but . . . “ He shrugged. “Well, they’re just farmers.” “You don’t want to wait for those, uh, adventurers to confirm what you were saying? That he was, uh, you know, ‘corrupted’?” Weylan’s voice rose to a higher note than was strictly necessary for a questioning tone of voice. It brought a smirk out of Hadrian. “Wey, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were fishing for a bit more than that.” Shaking his head quickly, Weylan retrained his eyes on the path to the back door. “No, I mean, I thought you were just feeding them a line, like, ‘Oh, it’s okay if we kill this Padjal because he’s demon-corrupted,’ right? Like, they wouldn’t get it, would they? Not like you.” The space around the back door was poorly lit, the dim and fading lantern on the wall giving Weylan a few yalm’s sight into the dark, and not much else. “Or like the other guys.” Hadrian’s shoulders rose as he sighed. “Yeah, I’d like that to have been a line, Wey. Really I would. But that was pretty much the truth. I’d explain all of it, but let me leave it at this: The way I know the ‘children of the forest’ are what they are is because I got to see that one go rabid.” Rabid Padjal. Now there was an image. Weylan’s head shot to the left to stare at Hadrian in shock. “What, like, go bad? They can go bad?” “Oh, they can, Wey. They can go bad and worse. Spent a long time learning that.” He held his hands out, palms up, pipe still in one. “Can’t say much about it to the locals, though, because who’d believe that? But you get it by now. There’s more to it, but maybe when Peld isn’t nearly at the door.” A rightward glance showed Weylan that a figure was approaching in the dark. Hadrian’s sight must have been the better of the pair, because he hadn’t even noticed the dim outline slowly taking shape into a Duskwight of middling height and build, apparently struggling under the bulk of a crate in his arms. Neither Wailer made a move to assist him as he approached the porch, until at last he knelt down and dropped his burden in the dirt with an exaggerated gasp. “Hearns, you swiving arse,” he wheezed, bent double to catch his breath. “You could’ve at least helped.” “Looked like you had it. Weylan, this here’s our supplier, Pelderain Dornier, erstwhile inventor of the now-banned Horse Oil, which he is generously given to the loyal customers of the Boar and charging nary a gil.” Hearns said all of this with an exaggerated circling of the hand, as if introducing royalty. “He’d bow, but y’see the problem. Peld, this is Weylan, he’s, uh . . . “ He frowned in Weylan’s direction. “Yeah, I guess he’s my second in this. Got the records for the first hit and all, that’s something. Keeps his head clear and the boys in line. You’re both charmed, bow or nod or however you want to do it, Twelve knows it’s not my business.” Weylan settled for at least a nod of the head. Duskwight or not, the man was working closely with Hadrian. That was worth something. Pelderain failed to notice it in his fatigue, finally planting his hands on the crate’s edge to keep himself steady. “There you have it, then. Another moon’s supply. Any more and people will start getting suspicious about anise purchases in the city.” The Duskwight scowled, creasing a small, dark goatee, and mumbled something Weylan couldn’t quite hear. “Now, why this instead of the usual drop?” “Ah, that.” Hadrian leaned forward on the railing of the porch, fishing around his belt for a tobacco pouch. “Let me get you caught up. Wey here was asking me if we were inclined to take help from adventurers that came calling. Seem to know what’s what about our time in the dark. They sign on, we can take the bastard down for sure, I’ll tell you that.” “But outsiders? Come on, Hadrian, do we really - “ “Hold on, hold on. I don’t think we need ‘em, but think about it, Weylan.” He plucked a handful of tobacco into his pipe and tamped it down. “Think about that leve you went on. They didn’t do the job right, an’ then when you cancelled it, they hunted you down and threatened your life. That’s adventurers, isn’t it? Just a bunch of - of - “ He patted his pockets. “Either’ve you got a match?” Weylan provided a short matchstick, and both he and Peld endured the silence necessary as Hadrian lit his pipe. Interrupting his thought more than once was unwise. “Right, so. Adventurers. If Padjal’s is animals, then adventurers is beasts. Barbarians, really. No morals but what they decide in the moment, no loyalties but their closest friends, and too powerful to lock ‘em up or smack ‘em down. “Some days I think they get all that power by givin’ up all their sense. Think about that Seeker from that chat, Wey. She seemed on board with killin’ a Padjal, right? If he’d done something as bad as he did. But the second Bellveil got brought up, oh, no, he couldn’t have done something like that, and even if he did it didn’t matter, he’s ‘different now’. For all she knows the grey’s done worse’n the Padjal - no offense, Peld - but see if that matters a jot.” Seeming to remember the now-lit pipe, he bothered to take a small puff. “That’s adventurers, Wey. But they got interested in this, so we gotta deal with ‘em. They want proof? They wanna ‘confirm’? Well, we’ll give it to them.” He thrust his finger at Pelderain, who seemed to flinch back a bit in the dark. “An’ that brings us to you, Peld. Think it’s about time we put your real talents to use.” The Duskwight held up his hands near his chest “Oh no, no no Hadrian. Our relationship is strictly alchemical. Haven’t the faintest what you’ve got in mind, but - “ “You get to prove Bronco Grease a fraud and make Bellveil look like an idiot in public.” “. . . Pray, continue.”

To move beyond sending a tell or just approaching, it's also possible to use a couple of passive emotes to show that you are interested in/about to join a conversation. If you post that your ears perk up as you listen in to what they're saying, that you're about to turn and say something, then that gives players an opportunity to incorporate by either responding to your obvious interest or decide to take the conversation somewhere more private. Further, I'd suggest that when you jump in, you make sure you build off of what's already being said rather than use a complete non sequitur to enter the conversation (he said, when he uses the same damn pitch to enter pretty much every conversation). Most people will likely appreciate adding to the conversation more than they will redirecting it.

Sometimes I worry that people think the character is a joke. Then I remember that of course they do, and move along. Most of my other anxieties are centered around my LS and have more to do with mechanical complexity and balancing the need to make things interesting with the need to accommodate new players, and so are of limited value here.

I'll remember the population is illiterate when the devs do the same.

There are a lot of really good responses in this thread, and I hope people are keeping them all in mind when approaching strangers. Now, let's take a look at how our characters behave when they're the ones getting approached. There you are, either minding your own business or perhaps engaged in casual conversation with somebody else, and a total unknown approaches you and begins to insert themselves into the conversation. Under what circumstances would your character go along with this? Antihero loners, I'm especially interested in your responses. Bear in mind that these responses can, but don't have to, include instances where your character is in an extremely important or personal conversation when this happens. If your character would balk at an unknown third party getting involved in that, that is fine, and doesn't need to be addressed. Again, Verad's: 1. The most common instance of this is when a third party interrupts Verad's sales pitch in order to provide their own commentary, whether that's to derail the sale, question the sanity of his business, or try and escalate the pitch further by suggesting even more dubious products. He always gamely attempts to incorporate the questions. 2. Somebody is actually approaching him about buying or selling dubious goods unprompted. Verad would be so ecstatic that he'd probably drop whatever he's doing, up to and including his own wedding, to conduct the transaction. 3. If somebody were to approach Verad claiming to know him or remember his actions from the larger blank space in his past that is not represented by his memoirs, he would be skeptically interested in learning more. 4. Anybody challenging his self-proclaimed status as Eorzea's Greatest Archer (Pending Certain Conditions) and Lover, among other grandiose titles, would immediately start a blustering match. 5. Verad is a sucker for a sob story or somebody in need of emotional support, and he will always be happy to lend an ear to somebody in a bad spot. Even if his advice is often terrible.

I pay much more attention to the way in which I'm being shown to be just another mook or the true hero of the setting moreso than whether I'm one or the other. I get more from knowing that Warcraft portrays itself as a ridiculously cartoonish world in its plot, or from knowing that FFXIV is more straight-faced but with a dry sense of its own absurdity, than I do from my character's actual role in the story.

I've seen a number of Duskwight players with characters that look similar enough to a Wildwood to play as a "passing" Duskwight. There's some interesting roleplay opportunities in that, especially if it's done in Gridania and, to a lesser extent, Ishgard, and you can find some players who are committed to playing Gridanian xenophobia. As for the reverse, I think that's a little more difficult in terms of making it work in the character creator, but a Wildwood that "passes" could certainly see uses as a spy in and around Gridania, especially if their work involved spying on the various Duskwight cave clans we're told about in the character creator.

As the title describes. Think of them, and list them here. Keep them in mind when you're not sure how to walk up to somebody. Verad's, for reference: 1. He is trying to sell and/or buy something to/from somebody (I include these together so as not to be a cheater and make them two entries). 2. Something has gone terribly wrong with an experimental new product and he's checking strangers to make sure they haven't accidentally consumed or interacted with it. 3. He is performing an extremely low-value, low-risk leve for the sake of maintaining his Free Company's legal standing. "Excuse me, sir and/or madam, but have you seen this missing corpulent cat?" 4. Verad has been strongarmed by a member of the Highbridge Blades division into serving legal papers so she does not have to make the trip into Ul'dah, and is about to serve the wrong person. 5. He is scouting potential Bronco Grease models to warn them from getting into the business before Spahro Llorn gets to them first. Some of these are obviously used much more than others, but all are viable. What are your five ways?

Will hold this last spot until you can confirm/deny that you'd be able to attend since you signed up first!

Certainly! Do you have a specific character in mind?

Whoops, thought I had the time. It's been added.

There's a Succor Born Every Minute Description: With all of the pactstones finally acquired, the void-tainted prisoner Nicolae Lynch is ready to begin the ritual he believes will cleanse those subjected to it of their void corruption. He has selected the area around the Blessed Bud as the first place to test this. He's going to need the assistance of anybody who can help keep the place free of prying eyes as well as conjurers and other magic-users to conduct the ritual itself. Presuming, of course, that Lynch can be trusted. Time: Friday, Dec 4th, 9 PM CST 1. Liadan Summerfield 2. Anstarra Silverain 3. Tiergan/Lurial Vashir 4. Leanne Delphium 5.

Were you wanting in on the Sunday run? Because I think it's still open. Jana didn't mean to sign up for that one. This is correct. I've fixed the mistake and added Zanzan to the Sunday event. It is now full! Again.

"It's a Bad Idea To Put Verad Bellveil In Charge Of Things" is now full!

You are welcome to continue to join events, though event DMs are given discretionary power over whether or not to include people. This is no different from what they would be able to do in any case.

There is no middle ground in this, and the stakes are incredibly high.

Cross-Cultural Inebriation Description: Spriggans can be nuisances at the best of times, but typically restrict their antics to those in the rock-breaking professions. Of late, however, merchants en route to Gridania have reported spriggans breaking into and stealing supplies of strong drink, and the attacks are getting worse. Guard the latest shipment of wines meant for the Carline Canopy and ensure that the good folk of Gridania have the ability to numb the pain of existence once more. Time: Monday Nov 23, 8 CST 1. Gallien Vyse 2. Khena Ridah 3. Kestya Nolan 4. Tiergan Vashir 5. It's A Bad Idea To Put Verad Bellveil In Charge Of Things Description: While Verad proved an efficient caretaker of comatose or sleeping prisoners, putting living, breathing, thinking void-tainted in his care has led him to believe that they require some sort of exercise outside the estate in order to avoid going stir-crazy. He promptly lost track of them half-a-bell later when somebody asked about purchasing some Bronco Grease posters. They now need to be tracked down and safely contained before the Ossuary notices or collateral damage occurs. Time: Sunday, Nov 22, 9 CST 1. Leanne Delphium 2. Liadan Summerfield 3. Tengri Moks 4. Reppu Hijiri 5. Zanzan

Update: Due to scheduling concerns, Sylph-Destructive Behavior will be moved to Friday, Nov 13, 7 PM CST In addition, the success of the players at the Mending Fences event means the /Responsible For Slaughter/ Aspect is removed before it could do any significant damage to the participants. Good work!

It's All Fahn and Games Situation: The Padjal O-Rehn Fahn has defied the will of Stillglade Fane and the Order of Entwined Serpents by rescuing three of the void-touched prisoners from captivity in Gridania. Now, he intends to meet with his contact, Liadan Summerfield, in Snakemolt in order to discuss how to manage prisoners far more dangerous and potentially volatile than the last batch. Nothing can possibly go wrong. Time: Friday, Nov 6th, 9 PM CST 1. Liadan Summerfield 2. Leanne Delphium 3. Tengri Moks 4. (Note: Contact Liadan IC before signing up OOC for this one) Sylph-Destructive Behavior Situation: One more of the pactstones, the holy items commemorating the Pact of Gelmorra, remains to be found. Acquiring it could be the means to cleanse the void-touched prisoners of their corruption and the demonic hold on their souls. Unfortunately, it is hidden somewhere within the Sylphlands. Adventurers will have to brave dangerous territory in order to find and return the pactstone. Note: This is a Lethal Event. Being taken out in combat can be fatal to your character. Time: Sunday, Nov 8th, 7 PM CST 1. Liadan Summerfield (Tentative) 2. Anstarra Silverain 3. Nihka Mioni 4. Kiht Jakkya 5. Jana Ridah Mending Fences Situation: A certain adventuring party failed to subdue a horrible monster in and around Camp Tranquil, resulting in mass casualties for the Wailer and civilian population. This has led to a distrust of adventurers, and may interfere with effectively containing the problem of void-touched prisoners. Some diplomacy in the form of helping to repair and guard the camp may be in order. Note: Success at this event will remove the /Responsible For Slaughter/ Consequence inflicted on the story as a whole as a result of a past event. Time: Thursday, Nov 5th, 8 PM CST 1. Leanne Delphium 2. Orrin Halgren 3. Reppu Hijiri 4. 5.

A Series of Short Conversations In and Around Stillglade Fane “No.” Guerrique snorted and turned away from his cell door’s window.. It was a surprise, to him, that he would have been brought out of repose for this. It was a surprise that he had been brought out of repose at all, really. The Fane believed it better to keep prisoners resting and docile save for when meals and the privy were required. In the . . . it had to be sennights now, didn’t it? In that length of time, he could remember but two moments when he had been brought out of slumber for other purposes: first when the Hearer had come to offer Ursuline a bit of surcease, and second when members of the Wailers had come calling. That had not been so pleasant a conversation at all. They hadn’t laid hands, and all the better for them, but it had been of a certain tone, one that suggested only a very slim usefulness kept him away from the hangman’s noose or the headsman’s block or whatever it was the citydwellers were using to cut off heads these days. And always the same question, asked with the same patiently frustrated tone, their armor so white compared to the usual Wailer garb he hadn’t seen they’d been a bit blinding in the dim light of the cell. When he had left the prison, did a Padjal come with him? He didn’t know. And if so, where was he? And again, he didn’t know. And now there was a Padjal in front of him, short enough that Guerrique could barely see the horns peeking through the cell window, and here he was offering something he couldn’t have been. The Duskwight had been through his share of false promises by now, and he knew another when he heard it. On the other end of the door, the Padjal sighed. “I apologize, but this is no mere jest, ser,” he said, “And I would not come were the circumstances not dire. If you do not take this opportunity, then your life is assuredly forfeit.” “You’re a neat speaker, an’ that’s plain enough,” said Guerrique. “But no. Fane an’ the masks doing at odds? Doesn’t make sense.” “They are not at odds, I promise you that,” continued the Padjal. “But I am at odds with both. You have met my comrade. She eased the pain of your lover, did she not? We would see you both released, and not in the manner the Fane would prefer. Please. Take this chance.” With his back turned, Guerrique could make his hesitation more plan, his expression uncertain. “You think they’ll do for ‘er? Looking like she is?” “I do. They will not suffer the corruption within you overlong. Once their tolerance has reached a limit - “ He could hear the Padjal’s throat as he swallowed. Exaggerated, perhaps, but sounds could carry far down here. “But she and I - we may have a way to cleanse you.” A click on the bars sounded behind Guerrique, and he turned his shoulder to see a small hand clasping the bars in his window. There was something perverse, he’d always thought, about the spirits making their servants out of children. He scowled, and wrinkled his nose. “You get her first. You bring her here, and we’ll go on our way.” “Ser, I cannot allow you to just leave unfettered - “ The Duskwight held up a hand. “Snakemolt, if you please. We’ll hold up there. If you’re good to your word, it’ll be you and the Hearer come calling - no later than a sennight from today. If not, y’won’t see us. Just give us a means to leave, and we’ll creep on out.” The Padjal on the other side of the door said nothing. Then, slowly, the door in front of him was unlatched and creaked open. Guerrique hastened to slam it shut. “No! You get her first, you understand? You fetch her and bring her, and we’ll go separate - “ This close to the window, he could see through it, and the forestchild was nowhere to be seen. He frowned. “Terrible at directions,” he mumbled, opening the door and glancing around the hallways of the Fane. “Think he’d never broken out’ve prison before.” --- Another sun, and Hamond Wolfedge would be free. He had not planned for the possibility of recapture, but he had not anticipated the presence of many things. The eastern watchtower, the metallic fort in his path, the interference of adventurers, so on, so on. Nothing but obstacles since his first escape. When he was laid low, he was sure the demon’s game had ended, that he would awake in Toto-Rak in some newly-concocted hell. To find himself in the Fane was an unexpected outcome. Unexpected, but not unwelcome. Their security was firm enough, and to be in the heart of Gridanian governance had given him ample opportunity to take what notes he could from the chatter of guards and the occasional mumblings of Conjurers passing by. If this world was a trick of the demon, then it had made it real, more real than any of his illusions of time past. If it was not, then the Young King would find what secrets he could glean from the halls of power to be very useful indeed. He set about tensing his wrists in his shackles. The locals preferred to keep their victims in slumber (a far cry from their last gaol, in his view), but after reports of his escape from Quarrymill, and his capture at the tower, he had been bound and manacled twice over. The less he could move, in their view when they required him to be awake, he supposed, the better. It had been highly effective. He had not been able to manipulate his chakra and muscles alike but for brief moments during feeding, delaying his efforts considerably. Another sun’s worth of meals, and the chains binding him would have been strained, worn thin enough to break. Their spells of slumber, too, were not so powerful as they would have been on lesser minds and bodies; to a Fist of Rhalgr, at least, they were a nuisance, a state of somnolence in which he was dimly aware, but unable to move, to strain. He could sense his surroundings, though, and he could hear the click of footsteps down the hall, the clatter of a key in a lock, and the creak of his door opening. And when the Young King entered the room, he was grateful that he was in this state, for fear that he would weep at the sight of him. Clad in the robes of the childseers that controlled Gridania, he raised a staff of wood and ivory high and, with but a word, the sleep that always threatened to overtake Hamond was gone. In an instant he was up on his feet; in the next, his shackles strained and shattered as he pulled them apart, chains clattering to the floor of his cell in pieces. In the third, he was down on one knee in front of the Young King. “Liege,” he whispered, breathless, reverent. “I know not how you have come, or if this is the demon’s trick again - but no, it cannot be.” Hamond shook his head. The demon had sent him glimpses in the past, to be sure - visions of Theodoric. It was surreal, to be sure, that he was here. But too different from the workings of Neruhm to be anything but real. “Er.” Hamond glanced up. In his forcefulness, he seemed to have caught the boy tongue-tied. “Right.” He cleared his throat. “I have secured your release, my, er . . . loyal . . . subject? If you would follow me, please. But be wary. The guards abound.” “Yes, liege!” He sprang to his feet, the impact from his legs creating a rumble in the wood underneath them. “. . . Wary and quiet, please.” --- “This’s gettin’ us nowhere’s, Thya.” One shadow spoke around a mouthful of chestnuts, the crunching sound making every word a crackle. “You hush it, Pah. They ain’t seen us all sun, an’ this is the last batch. Boss’s gonna want to know who’ve them Padjal got what kinda guards, right?” “‘S right, and most’ve ‘em got guards now. Lots an’ lots. We had our shot, n’ we got paid, so let’s take that an’ leg south.” “Just another couple bells, is all. Don’t even need to shoot or nothin’, just stay -hid-.” An extremely perceptive onlooker might hear the whispering, but see little more than a pair of potentially argumentative bushes. And so close to Nophica’s Altar, who would find it odd to hear a little bit of unexplained whispering in the air? “Don’t like this city, y’know. ‘S all wrong from what it used t’be.” “Got that right. Gettin’ all their birds sick, lettin’ in all these ‘venturers, an’ half the masks have new suits. T’ain’t right at all.” “Gil’s still good though, least the boss’s is good. We get another hunt, get ‘em good, then we cut clean and go southwise. Ul’dah’s nice ‘cept for the Keepers.” “Oh, we’ll get ‘em good. You seen that shot I made, yeah? Never heard it comin’, the kid did.” “‘Course he never heard it, Thya, nobody did, tha’s the point.” “Well, yeah, yeah, but even so, takin’ into account all them factors, wind an’ such, even if he coulda, he wouldn’t’a.” “Maybe so, maybe s - oop, looklooklook!” The bushes waited until an appropriate breeze had passed through in order to rustle. “Right there, you see? The little’n.” In the near but not-too near distance, a view of the Fane allowed the two the sight of a Padjal, his robe pulled over his head to obscure his face, exiting the cave entrance that led to the Conjurer’s Guild. Behind him was a hulk of a man, clad in a ragged robe too short to cover powerfully built legs, but with a hood heavy enough to keep him likewise concealed. “Why’s he hidin’ his face, y’reckon?” “Maybe he’s incognitoing.” “Tha’s not a verb, Pah.” “Oh, you hush. Look at that fellow, though, big as an’ ‘ouse. And look, look - “ The pair had not gotten more than a few yalms out of the entrance when the shadows could see the figures of a troupe of Wailers approaching. “Why’s they all in white?” “That’s Serpents, Thya. Boss said about ‘em, you recall? Elites f’r the elite, you know. Half-a-dozen I’d say” The shadow sighed. “Pass me them chestnuts ‘fore they turn black. That many guards? This’n’s a bust.” “Sure, sure - wait. Wait, Pah, look.” She pointed. “They s’posed to raise spears? like that?” “Nah. Not ‘sposed to surround ‘em, either.” From their point of view, they could no longer see the Padjal, or, for that matter, his companion - the height of the Elezen obscured, and the white of their armor distracted. “Don’t see ‘em do that often to one’a them. Sure ‘s not a ritual? Look, ‘e’s raisin’ his staff, see?” Thya felt a hand on her back before she was shoved down into a bush. Above them, a bright and blinding light flared out over the Fane, followed by the rapid passing of two pairs of feet, one light, one heavy. “Nophica’s arse, Pah, wha’d you do that for?!” said Thya, raising her head from the dirt. “It’s tits, Thya, and nasty magic. Worst kind. An’ look.” The pair chanced peeking their heads outside of the bushes. In the distance, bodies clad in white armor lay collapsed on the ground. Civilians and Conjurers alike had not yet passed from shock to panic. “Think they’re dead?” “Nah. Padjal? Just sleepin’. But he’s runnin’ from guards, not goin’ with ‘em. You follow?” “. . . Means he’s not got any.” “Mmhm. Keep eyes on ‘im. I’ll go tell the boss.” --- “Twenty gil?! Last sennight it was only ten!” Helena did her best to maintain a bright and businesslike smile in the face of customer outrage. Fortunately, it was only mild exasperation in this case, a young woman with a wrinkled duneapple she supposed was a relation. This was not Ul’dah, she had to remind herself, and the prospect of a wildly fluctuating price was much more of an outrage. Not for the first time, she found herself wishing she’d cultivated a customer base of adventurers. They would put up with whatever insane spikes might be thrown at them with a smile. “I’m afraid that’s so, miss. Horse oil’s been very popular with a number of Wailer Spears of late. They’ve placed a number of orders in advance. Would you like to do the same? If you pre-order five vials now, I’ll be happy to throw in this . . . “ She glanced down at the contents of her stall. Pelderain Dornier had slipped her a number of what he called “collector’s edition vials.” As far as she could see they weren’t much different from the usual kind, save for having had the stopper painted gold. “Actually, forget what I’d offer extra, it’s not worth it. Still cheaper to place an order in advance these days. Would you prefer that?” “Ah, yes, yes, I’d prefer that very much.” The woman brushed aside a lock of dusty blonde hair. “I’m sorry, I think I might have lost my temper. It’s just we have a family anniversary coming up, and gran’s mind isn’t as sharp as it might have been last cycle. Thought maybe the horse oil would’ve gotten her a bit of wits back.” Helena gave the woman’s gran a closer look. A duneapple, to be sure, and her eyes distant, lost in whatever else might have been more interesting than the Stalls. Most things, to be sure. Her hand lowered down to underneath the counter, where she kept her own supply of vials. A week’s worth, usually taken from each of Pelderain’s offerings. If he had a problem with the loss of coin, he never said. Surely, she could stand a day without. Sure she could. She dropped her hand, and withdrew her ledger instead. “Very well then. You needed just the one, correct? Simple enough to offer a ten-gil price for that in the next shipment.” “Thank you,” said the customer, with drawing her coinpurse. “Thank you very much, mi - “ She stumbled forward as a pair of men brushed past her in the Stalls, both cowled and robed. Helena leaned forward to catch her shoulders before she slammed into the front of the stall and rattled the merchandise. “Are you quite all right, miss?” “I - yes, I think so. Rude of them, wasn’t it?” The woman pushed herself away and adjust a short, threadbare tunic. “But - yes, here. Ten gil. For Linette Fahn.” “Done,” said Helena, making a note in her ledger. “And done. Stop by same day next sennight and I’ll have it ready.” “Obliged to you, truly.” Linette bowed her head and turned to take the older woman’s hand. “Come on now - gran? Gran?” She had turned to stare down the path of the Stalls, her eyes open, unblinking, as she followed the pair of robes until they were out of sight.

Faye's advice is pretty solid. Let me add the following. Spoilers for various stories that are well past the spoiler statute of limitations to follow: 1. If the the twist is going to undermine the assumed premises of the plot, you will have to put in much more work. Sixth Sense has a twist that works because it works within what the story establishes as being true about the world: Bruce Willis being dead all along works because the film establishes the ability of the dead to communicate with Haley Joel Osmont as true. By contrast, The Village has a twist that doesn't work because it relies explicitly on undermining the premise of the setting - 19th century village menaced by monsters. The monsters turning out to be faked does not undermine the premise much, but the village not being in the 19th century at all undermines it completely, and in a way that the film does not foreshadow. 2. As a corollary to the above, placement of a twist within an arc's structure can give more or less leeway in terms of what you can get away with. If a twist is part of establishing the premise of the setting - think The Matrix, in which the reality of the setting is presented as a twist in and of itself - then audiences and presumably players will be more willing to accept it. A twist presented near the end of an arc can cause all sorts of problems if you have not laid appropriate groundwork for it. 3. Distinguish between twists and plot complications to avoid confusing the two. I don't actually consider "Surprise he had a backup weapon" in the circumstances described to be a twist, because it's just continuing a sequence that had already occurred: characters were fighting, one was thought to be disarmed but wasn't, fight continues. It's a complication - a thing that made a previously expected course of action more difficult. A twist is something that would unexpectedly change the way the audience of a plot viewed everything that came before or could come after. Rather than hewing to expectations, it alters them. These can be very small actions like pulling out a dagger, or noticing that everything in the room around you has a name your suspect used in telling his story, or saying "I did it thirty-five minutes ago" as you reveal your evil plan, but if it doesn't then dramatically shift perception of the narrative, it's a very slight twist at best. 4. Recognize that after several decades' worth of various forms of fiction abusing sudden twists, often badly, that we are all quite used to them and expect them as a matter of course. Playing a problem straight can often be more unexpected to your audience than trying to "surprise" them with a revelation they already expect.

I don't feel like you're developing the deer side of this enough. Can you include more deer?