Verad

This depends on what your goal is. If your goal is to show that your character has changed in some way from what they once were, this can be shown by using incidental dialogue and actions to describe how they are no longer what they once were. Maybe they reflect on the changes and marvel at it. Maybe there are documents that show what they used to be, documents you can show players. There's options. If your goal is to show that your character is in some way more powerful or dangerous than any other given character because of in-game RP and they should be respected for it . . . well, you can't. It might as well all be pre-written backstory from the perspective of a new player who's never met you before. and, indeed, one of the most obnoxious things I remember from freeform RP sites like Ayenee and Rhydin was the tendency of players to insist because the character had been played for X years and had all these cool abilities that they "earned" through RP, that I should respond to that accordingly. I am pretty willing to react as a player wants if they want to be seen as cool or witty or whatever, but doing so based on the argument of character longevity alone was one that never quite sat right with me.

Okay, tentative group so far: 1. Orrin Halgren 2. Tengri Moks 3. Liadan Summerfield 4. Leanne Delphium 5. R'shesha Otharn. Ququki, I'd like to get you in the group and acclimated to the system before sending you off on what may prove to be a mercilessly dangerous deathtrap. People tell me it's bad form to murder PCs right away, and I generally believe them! Please PM and we'll get you into the LS and set up with a storyline. I'm usually on in the evenings. As for the rest of you, I've already spoken to several, but if you have not already, please do the following: 1. Send me a headshot of your character via RPC PM 2. Sign up for an account at roll20.net. It's free, and we'll be performing the dungeon there. In the meantime, there will be other awful things happening outside and around the dungeon, so stay tuned!

After a quick tally, the votes are in: Lost City of Amdapor: 31 Points Sylphlands: 29 Points The Thousand Maws of Toto-Rak: 24 Points So our first dungeon will be Lost City of Amdapor, to begin at Saturday, Oct 3, 7 PM CST There is space for five players. This is not a first-post first-served event. Participants should decide who will or will not be attending based on IC/OOC discussion as needed. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

Yes but in order to demonstrate that you'd need some contextual evidence that the devs had this theory in mind when designing the classes. The pattern doesn't provide evidence of intentionality. It's equally likely they were just trying to include classic Final Fantasy classes and the ones they chose happened to fit this particular pattern, which might not exist of they had chosen different classes, or if they add more tank classes that fall outside of it. It's not a fixed pattern, either, because even presuming it to be intentional, I would disagree that the DRK represents Ego. Rather, it feels more like the Jungian Shadow, which throws the model out of whack.

Step one is that Freud is outdated in the field of psychology. That said, his theories are still used for examining literary concepts, though even those have fallen out of favor in academic circles That said, the pattern recognition works, but it's a pattern with a limited connection to any sort of truth

Special Announcement By now, the group as a whole has been sussing out several possible locations of interest that are both likely to be important and very likely to be dangerous. These will be the first Deadly Events, in which being taken out in combat can result in character death. The question is where you want to devote your time and resources. I will list the options identified so far. Please respond with your order of preference. Voting will end on Friday Sep 25 at 11:59 PM CST. Also note that all descriptions are based on current knowledge available to players. Results may vary. 1. The Lost City of Amdapor The last known location of the arsonist Syros North, adventurers may need access to the city in order to confront him before he tries to burn down enough of the Shroud to trigger a large-scale Greenwrath. The possibility of other artifacts and items of interest that might help in dealing with the void is also a strong draw. 2. The Thousand Maws of Toto-Rak One consistent piece of information regarding the void-touched troublemakers that have been roaming the Shroud appears to be that they were all imprisoned in Toto-rak during its use as a prison, only to be taken into the void some forty cycles ago. Preliminary scouting of the gaol's exterior has revealed a significant and strong source of corruption that may remain in a sealed-off ward. This could be the source of things. 3. The Sylphlands According to Mermin Carter and Nicolae Lynch, the only possible hope for their redemption is the acquisition of old stones commemorating the Pact of Gelmorra and their placement along geomantic lines of power. Two of these stones are safely in adventurers' hands. The third lies in somewhere in the Sylphlands. Adventurers will have to brave a huge stretch of hostile territory in order to locate and reclaim the lost artifact. Your Choice, in Order of Preference, is: 1. 2. 3.

What is ruined by the inclusion of vampires?

i hope in November the Void Ark opens and the mages inside try to drain us and we need culinarians to make dishes with garlic lol This will be insufficient, you see, because those vampires are rare and unique and could never possibly be replicated by a player character, in spite of all the rare and unique things replicated by the average roleplay character. See the roleplayer response to San'layn in World of Warcraft for precedent.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that any roleplay community will resist, to the best of its ability, the inclusion of vampires if they are not explicitly and unambiguously described as existing in the setting. I wish you luck, OP.

How many people are playing characters that would reasonably do that? How many are playing characters that have faced those things in other venues well before they met you? And is there a rough percentage of players that should be roleplaying as the former and not the latter? Some sort of guideline, perhaps?

As a fellow member of that former community, trust me, we were grognard assholes, and so were the people you played with. The ability to effectively handle a bad technique does not mean the technique is not bad. It just means you were really good at something bad.

((The following ties into events described in Stranger in a Strange Land, here. In particular, the ending of that post.)) Another drink, and the woman still looked just as good. Weylan didn't usually go to the Boar to drink; it was a Wailer bar, to be sure, but it was an older one, where the veterans and the retirees preferred to stay. Younger pups, the ones still "finding their voice" in the parlance, were not unwelcome, but they were looked at as being disrespectful without an invitation. The place felt old, too, as if the kegs had been tapped by somebody's grandsire when said fellow was still barely out of swaddling. Hadrian, however, had insisted they meet here near closing time, and had assured Weylan that his word was as good as an invite. Weylan fought to swallow the indignity, but after learning a small supply of good, strong spirits were kept in the back on request for those who "knew," then a few swallows of that had made his annoyance considerably less. And then there was the poster. The girl was gorgeous. Highlander, but she didn't have that roughness to her that he saw so many of the refugees possess, a quality that went beyond the dirt on their clothes. She was like a statue. Even as Hadrian spoke, he found himself glancing from time to time until, as the drinking continued, he stared, transfixed, until he heard the snapping of fingers from across his table. "Hey. Hey. Wey." Hadrian laughed, amused at the rhyme. "Hey hey, Wey Wey, you still looking? Look, I don't care how she looks, she's a picture. She a pretty thing?" "Of course she is." Weylan frowned. Couldn't Hadrian turn and see? Or was the mask he insisted on wearing blocking his vision. "Beautiful," he admitted. "She got a name? My letters aren't too great, you know." Weylan squinted. ". . . Foxheart. Aya Foxheart." "You ever see her, you tell her what you think of her. Guy like you, somebody good to the Shroud, she'd be lucky. Lucky, you know. But let's focus, yeah?" Hadrian swung his head to the bar, ensured the absence of interest on the part of the tavernkeep. "Like I said, you focused? You good? I just want to make sure." Weylan bristled, and pushed his tankard forward for another finger or two of spirits. "Fine," he said. "Never better." "Okay. Good. Real good. That last one you found? That bit of info? Solid. Real solid. We're gonna make a lot of money from it, you know. And we're going to show them how the Shroud ought to be run." Hadrian's smile was supremely satisfied. Whatever he'd done with that report Weylan had read to him, he didn't know. It was ciphered, and the code had made little sense. But when he'd dictated it to his senior, the man had looked as if he'd found religion. "But that said, you know, I gotta make sure. You know what we did, right?" ". . . Pretty good idea, yeah," Weylan admitted as he tipped his head back to drink. The liqour helped the sinking sensation. "Okay. And how do you feel about that?" His eyes strayed to the poster, to the faraway look of Foxheart as she stared out into the Shroud. Why couldn't they all be like that? How did he feel about it anyhow? "The thing is, Wey, they're animals. That's what they are. You don't need to feel bad about anything. The biggest lie the forest ever told you, and everyone here, was that they're anything other'n animals. So why not treat 'em like that?" Hadrian shrugged, swishing his own tankard. There was something in his voice, Weylan noted. It wasn't that he was convincing himself of it. There was no tremor of fear or stutter in his words. This was what he thought. This was what he knew to be true. He could admire the conviction. "If you say so. You know more than I, I think." Hadrian smirked, the scars beneath his mask wrinkling with the gesture. "Sure do," he said. "Anyway, you did good. When we get another shot, I want you with us. You don't have to finish it, wield a blade, none of that. But I want you with us. Extra pair of eyes and all. There was almost a slip, might've gone better with an extra pair." The coughing rattled through the bar until Weylan managed to catch his breath. "You want me there?" "Yeah. Pay's better, bigger cut. And trust me, you will never feel quite so accomplished. You used to hunt, right? Same thing. Animals, after all. Fuck 'em." He laughed, and drank. "Fuck 'em. So, you in?" It would be a credit to Weylan to say that he was in because of the careful and considerate examination of the pros and cons. It would also be a credit to say he did so because he acknowledged, at last, a certain darkness, and felt a value in it that he had never really considered. These, at least, would be ethical positions, stances. Respectable, if abhorrent. Instead, he drank, snorted, and nodded with no thought whatsoever. Hadrian reached out and patted him on the shoulder. He never looked him in the eye (as far as Weylan could tell), but he patted him on the shoulder all the same. "Good man. Now, 'scuse me, I got to meet with a buyer. Keep the rest of the flask, all right? On me. 'M good for it." Hadrian took his leave, and Weylan was silent, listening to the wood flooring creak, and the door open a crack before slamming shut. His eyes fell to the poster again. "Hey," His voice was low, and slurred from strong drink. He was forced to repeat himself before the tavernkeep listened. "When did you get this?" He pointed to a space three fulms away from the poster. "That?" The tavernkeep followed his finger, then corrected for accuracy. "Why, the woman herself put it there not a few days ago. Touring the city, I think." ". . . Did she now." --- "You're fuckin' late, you know. Scare a guy, keep acting like that." Where Weylan needed the comfort of a Wailer bar, and Hadrian was willing to give it, he would give no such luxuries to Pelderain. They met in the darker corner of the old city, in passages grown thick amongst the trees. In a city where the walls were hedges, the hedges could be easy to hide within. "I do apologize," said Pelderain. He was pale for a grey, pale enough to pass if he'd just die his hair to look like bark or moss. Hadrian couldn't see it now, in the dark, but he remembered it well enough. "I had something of a shock today, and it slowed my demonstration somewhat." His speech was simple and precise, elegant as it tended to be amongst some Duskwights. Nothing like the rural forestborn charm he put on for his presentations. "Shock? What, you have competition?" "No - well, yes, but I also had an old relative. Or a new one. A niece. I gather she survived where my siblings did not." He shifted, uncomfortable in the hedge, cracking the leaves beneath him. Even this small noise made Hadrian train his mask on the man, and he fell still. "It was all very distressing." "You got buyers, though?" Pelderain grinned. "The gil is flowing. Contacts in the Stalls are eager for new shipments." "Good. You can give 'er this, too." Hadrian unhooked a small pouch and tossed it underhand. Even so, Pelderain struggled to catch it. "Careful with it, it's the real deal. She's got alchemy training, right? She'll confirm it - betcha it's different than the fake stuff other people use." Pelderain held the pouch in both hands once he had a proper grip on it, staring at it in the dark as if it were a tiny baby bomb waiting to grow. "If she can - then I think you'll have what you need, once a buyer's found. A commanding price indeed." "Damn right. No other trouble, then?" "Wailers, that's all, but they're customers, so no trouble. Somebody trying to claim my products are forgeries. I suspect they're from that Dubious Distributions company." Hadrian stifled his snort. "Your products are forgeries? Dintcha say that Bronco Grease shit is fuckin' airship oil?" "With shards thrown in," amended Pelderain. "And scantily clad women for posters." "Who the fuck are these people anyhow? You think they're 'venturers?" "Could be. They do seem to be on the rise compared to the old days, and some of them seemed quite heavily armed." "Anybody we need to worry about?" Hadrian hid his amusement poorly. They both knew there were only two people to worry about. "There is, ah . . . hrm. Again, they seem dangerous, but the owner seems harmless. Some old fellow, a Verad Bellveil if all the paraphernalia around his business is correct." Where there had been the slightest rustling in the grass when Hadrian shifted, it fell completely still. "Who?" "Verad Bellveil? Do you know him?" There was silence, but not truly, as the Shroud was a forest, even in the city. Night birds called and insects chirped. "How old is he?" "Mm, let me think. There was a sketch . . . some cheap locket I found in the Stalls. Curious, you know. Best to know one's competitors." Pelderain folded his hands down together in thought. "If it was accurate, I would say in his fiftieth or sixtieth cycle. He looked quite old, for a Duskwight." Hadrian relaxed without realizing he had gone tense. "Not the same guy, then. No. That one was a Hyur. Strange name for a Duskwight though - unless . . . -" He paused, and glanced away, taking off his mask to rub the bridge of his nose. Pelderain politely became interested in a valuable patch of dirt. "Oh." A soft sound that mixed in with the sounds of the evening, until it emphasis. "Oh. Right. The infant. Corwin's little bargaining chip." He chuckled as he replaced his mask. "Where'd you say they were based out've? Ul'dah? What's it take to get there, y'think?"

I realize you're pointing this out as a matter of pride, and that's why you don't sound like a fun person to play with.

I need you to explain what you mean by the following phrases: "Richly colored" Which colors are determined to be rich, and how do you identify them as such? Supposing I have a different definition of richness in coloration, or view richness in color as a mark of lacking elegance, and instead see it as a mark of gaudiness. "Expensive" - how do I know that the clothing is expensive? If I see this clothing, how do you know I am qualified to identify whether the clothing is expensive or if it just looks expensive and is actually a cheap fake? This feels very presumptuous of you, as if you are enforcing a judgment value on my character. "Well-fitted" - Can you explain further what you mean by well, and "fitted?" What are the cultural connections between fittedness and one's attire, and how does that necessarily mean elegance when clothing that may not be well-fitted may also be referred to as elegant? "Almost aristocratic" - Again, how am I supposed to know it's almost aristocratic? That's a rather fine-grained distinction to make, and you're again presuming quite a bit about my character's ability to make that judgment. And for that matter, which aristocracy? As for what we do and do not consider feminine, I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean by "classical" femininity, because that would presume there's some reasonable baseline for femininity, and just saying something is "feminine" is, again, presumptuous. If you found all of the above needlessly pedantic and argumentative for the sake of it, that's how I feel every time I see a thread on an RP forum kvetching about "How dare they say their character is just 'beautiful' or 'ugly'! They can't control my reactions like that!" Spiteful, useless contrarianism, the lot of it. So yes, I can deny that there is such broad variations in beauty that "beauty" is insufficient as a trait, I will deny it, and I continue to deny it, because you are using exactly the same logic I am using to say that these other vague descriptors are somehow not really vague descriptors because everyone already knows what you mean. The fact that you don't apply this to another vague descriptor like "beautiful" is not a sign of correctness; merely inconsistency. So, again, this is the wit thread redux. It is the same thread in topic, it is the same thread in OP, and it is the same thread in purpose.

Instead of all the hypotheticals, why not tell us what kind of answer you're looking for?

Episode 4 Main Events: 1. Wood the Wailer Situation: The father of a Wailer killed in one of the void incidents, Arden Wood, is suspected to have ties to the incidents in question. Unfortunately, his retirement has him in a safe and secure location in Gridania, and from all appearances he has no desire to do much more than mourn his son. Frankly, he has no desire to talk to some wreckless adventurers, least of all about the loss of his son. But try anyway. Time: Thursday, Sep 17, 9 PM CST 1. Edda Eglantine 2. Aya Foxheart 3. R'elend Tia 4. Leanne Delphium 2. Open Strange II: Stranger Danger Situation: Depleted of chocobos, Bentbranch Meadows is struggling to survive. Rumors of a wild chocobo flock in Sorrel Haven have brought hope once again to the struggling ranch. Could these be the missing chocobos, or another flock driven down from Dravania? Either way, Bentbranch needs those birds. But whatever void tainted thing took the birds in the first place could still be lurking nearby. Time: Wednesday, Sep 16, 8:30 PM CST 1. Qara Hotgo 2. Ashmira Honzen 3. Klynzahr Ihrnachtwyn 4. Zanzan Yanzan 5. R'Shesha Otharn 3. Horns Situation: Conjurers have reported a momentary shift in the balance of the elementals in the East Shroud near the Nine Ivies, in which a small section of the forest was very briefly stripped entirely of elemental presence. The spirits returned after a bell, but the Fane would like a group of adventurers with magical training to try and identify the cause. Time: Wednesday, Sep 16, 9 PM CST 1. Reppu Hijiri 2. Jil'enkette Denma 3. Enju Abbagliato 4. 4. A Dubious Demonstration Situation: There have been a number of flyers circulating indicating demonstrations of the original form of Bronco Grease. While this is probably not Verad's handiwork, considering that Ul'dah almost had a serious dragon problem the last time people gave him the benefit of the doubt, it's probably a good idea to check this out. Time: Saturday, Sep 19, 9 PM CST 1. Leggerless 2. Nihka Mioni 3. Odile Dornier 4. Anstarra Silverain Player Events: 1. In the Nico Time Situation: Having interviewed Mermin Carter, the thief has agreed to lead no more than three members of the growing number of adventurers investigating the troubles in the Shroud to his partner. The meeting may prove fruitful, but could it be part of a larger trap? Time: Friday, Sep 18, 9 PM CST 1. Sarnai Kha 2. Liadan Summerfield 3. Zanzan Yanzan 2. Tip of the Maw'ning to You Situation: Leanne and Sarnai were assigned to scout the Shroud for any suspicious activity linked to the recent incidents. Eventually, their search led them towards the outskirts of the abandoned Toto Rak. Out of assurance, they decided to request extra help, as the place's connection to the perpetrators were made more than once. Paranoia? Or they were into something? Time: Sunday, Sep 20, 9 CST 1. Leanne Delphium 2. Sarnai Kha 3. 4. 5. 3. TBD. [Need to organize a group? Here's the space for it! Contact Verad with an idea for what you want to do.]

Flyers Found Througout Gridania: [align=center]!!!A New Release!!![/align] [align=center]Dornier Family's Own[/align] [align=center]HORSE OILS & LINIMENTS[/align] [align=center]The Inspiration Behind[/align] [align=center]BRONCO GREASE[/align] [align=center]!!!!REVIVIFYING!!!![/align] [align=center]ONCE YOU TRY IT[/align] [align=center]!!!YOU CAN'T LIVE WITHOUT IT!!![/align] [align=center]SPECIAL DEMONSTRATIONS[/align] [align=center]EVERY SENNIGHT[/align] [align=center]IN OLD GRIDANIA[/align] The flyer does not have an immediate impact due to a largely illiterate population, but word of mouth soon spreads.

Deep in the South Shroud: The dead, Guerrique had to admit at last, made poor waitstaff. This was not a discriminatory remark, and, indeed, he considered himself something of an egalitarian in that it was quite possible for everybody to be uniquely bad at something. Nor did he speak ill of the dead (a-ha) in making this claim, for they had many other good qualities. He had enjoyed seeing the fright on the faces of the Redbellies as their own men rose up to tear at their flesh while he was clearing out the pickets, "recruiting" for the siege. Their ability to withstand pain and grievous injuries were exceptional, and for things without motivation, they fought with exceptional savagery. But damned if they could actually pour a drink! He scowled as the corpse in front of him refilled his cup with fingers that managed to be both stiff and trembling at once, spilling more than a few drops of a particularly decent La Noscean red onto the table. Why the corpse in question had, in his living days, been keeping a stash of such nice wines in a cottage in an isolated part of the Shroud, Guerrique had no idea, but he hadn't thought to ask before killing the man. Scowling, he reminded himself to prepare a checklist as he waved away the carcass to stand guard at the door, then checked the cup's interior to make sure no bits had fallen into the drink in the process of being served. The body didn’t seem to have gotten around to rotting yet, its skin still possessed of an unhealthy pallor rather than the various shades of putrefaction, but one never knew. "Ought to be in the Hive, pet," he said, making a point of keeping his voice airy and conversational despite his mood. She was seated across from him at the table, one spaciously large enough to accommodate two, though the pair had seen no sign of any occupants beyond the one they'd slain. Perhaps he'd purchased it in better times, or in hopes of better times, a quiet little cottage where he and another might live amongst the spirits. She did not make an immediate reply, or much of one at all, her face still and hidden beneath the cowl of her cloak, her hand likewise motionless save for the grip she maintained on her cup. Why she kept herself hidden he couldn’t guess - he knew what was under there, and it hardly mattered to him at all. He shrugged off the minor confusion and lifted his drink to sip. It was sour for a freshly unbottled red, but mayhaps that was a side-effect of the escape. It was not the first sense to feel oddly warped since the pair’s return. “Really ought to be in the Hive,” he repeated, and, knowing how constructive she would be to the conversation, continued. “Heard some things when we were scouting out, you know. Arranged very nice there, very nice. Wouldn’t think it was a war camp, the way they’ve put their keep together. This - “ He glanced around, took in the slight warping of wooden walls, the dust and cobwebs that had gathered in ceiling corners. “It’s quaint, like, but it’s not enough for you, I think.” The Hive. His next drink was a longer one, long enough he had to learn to savor the sour. He wasn’t sure what to think of what had happened there. Adventurer interference, to be sure, but from the few scattered images he’d been able to pick up from his “men,” they caused as much damage to the Redbellies as his soldiers had done. Some madwoman with a great, heavy sword. He hadn’t been able to pin her face, the closest look any of the boys having received was a brief glimpse of hate before losing a head to that blade. “Pet,” he said, caution in his voice as he framed the question. The wrong word and she would get entirely the wrong idea. "That one in the group we met, the one that tried to get the drop on us,” he mused, resting his hands on the table. “You got a look at her, didn’t you?” There were no changes in her position, or her appearance, but Guerrique was nevertheless aware that her demeanor was different. If he would have called her “at rest” before, she was now quite clearly “on guard.” There was an eye upon him, a croak in her voice that, other unfortunate circumstances aside, might have been a growl. “Why?” “Not - not for anything like that, pet,” he said, holding up his hand, palm facing out. “I just had a thought, that’s all. You got a look?” “Yes. A good one.” “Same one with the sword? What the boys saw?” He saw the slightest shake of her cowl. “A ‘Kote. One of the ones with a bow.” “Mor-balls,” he grumbled, glancing aside - but not completely, casting her a glance. “How is it today?” “Worse.” “Worse? What - how much? The pain’s back?” “Worse.” Her voice held enough of a warning note to know that the eye was upon him. Guerrique turned to face her. “Ursuline. Show me, please.” Her name seemed to strike her, the way a child might when hearing both the fore- and the sur- together. With a shaking hand, she drew back her cowl. He knew better than to cringe or gasp. “Rebuilding’ll wait, pet. We’ve got to get that fixed, and proper.” “It can’t wait.” There was a hiss in her voice he could not recall noticing before. “We need this, Guerrique. We need this, and we need men.” “Men we’ve got. I can get more. That’s not a problem. This we won’t need, if we can get enough. Getting everything back the way it was? If we don’t get this fixed?” He shook his head. “Too a high a price.” She frowned, and started to rise, leaving her cup behind. His hand caught her wrist, and, after the initial resistance, slid down towards her fingers. “We’re not going back. We’re not. But I’m not letting you stay like this.” Her expression, such as it was, started to waver. “Recruit, then. A clan’s worth of spears. Show me those. Then, yes.” Guerrique gave her a broad smile, and leaned over the table to press a kiss to the back of her hand. “Well, whatever the pet wants, then. Living and willing, or otherwise?” Ursuline struggled to smile. “Whichever pleases you best.”

To what end? At a certain point commiseration isn't very useful, especially if it starts veering into the realm of conspiracy theory.

The thing is, you do that. Your RPC description makes it clear that players are meant to find Sasha Rochester both intelligent and physically attractive. Phrases like "blessed with a chest size and hips she adores to flaunt" make it clear that you believe your character to be, to put it academically, stacked like a brickhouse and attractive for it, and if people started reacting to your description as if she were flat as a board both ways and making a fool of herself for acting otherwise, I think you would be rather cross about it. Unless "blessed" is meant to suggest flatness is the attractive trait in Eorzea? The description is quite vague that way. Likewise, acting as if there are wildly different definitions of attractiveness within the general body of roleplayers, such that one can't use vague descriptors like "beautiful" and not give people a pretty clear idea of what is going on with your character's looks, feels willfully obtuse rather than spiteful, as if you are ignoring that while there can be very broad ranges of difference in how people view certain appearances, there is still generally some common ground because of culturally received definitions of beauty. It's not as if players have such wildly divergent definitions of beauty that no one person can really understand what the other's is, with one player demanding nipples all over the face and the other demanding hair of cheese in order for looks to matter. But you're right - sometimes it's not spiteful, sometimes it's just dense. Anyway, speaking of "show don't tell," you will find if you look through your description that about half of it contains adjectives that rely on culturally received definitions of what your character might look like - "elegant," "feminine," "provocatively," so forth. It's all pretty telly, and I'd like to see a more objective description provided before you go making aspersions about vague characterization. Speck in the eye and plank in one's own and such.

s2tKbmaW8Lw

Intentionally steering RP in a direction satisfactory to the player over the character counts as using external factors to affect a game. This is fine. It's not actually a problem.

The controversial statement, then, is that meta gaming isn't as taboo or as universally negative as RPers tend to treat it.

This thread exists because RPers are spiteful, contrarian little shits who don't like being told what to do - but only if they're told to view a character positively. There is no quibbling over "ugly." There is no quibbling over other vague descriptors that imply other informed traits like "sickly" or "plain." It is only when a player dares suggest a character is viewed in a positive fashion that players get their hackles up and start fleeing to the warm, inviting confines of subjectivity. This is the wit thread, redux.

Old Gridania: “‘Honor and dignity’.” Weylan spat the words, out of anger in part and out of insobriety in another, significantly larger part. A number of tankards were scattered around the table, some of whom had at least most of their contents drained. “‘Honor and dignity’. That’s what this fucking Duskwight tells me. That’s what he has the balls to tell me. To treat everybody in the Shroud with it.” “A fucking grey?” The man in front of him sounded incredulous, but sympathetic. “A grey told you that. Remind me how many of ‘em treat us with that kind of respect?” “Right?!” Weylan spread his hands wide in shock, as if he couldn’t believe anybody could reasonably tell him such things, before taking another pull on his beer, then signalling Astidien for another. The barkeep of the Spear and Arrow sighed, but prepared another tankard. Weylan’s new drinking partner was buying, and his pockets were proving quite deep. The place was small and out of the way, shadowed from cheap candles and a dark varnish on the wood in its construction, but well-frequented, and for a very particular and profitable reason: Here was where Wailers and Quivermen alike could come for some solace, a tavern where they wouldn’t be forced to rub shoulders with the liberal-minded adventurers at the Carline Canopy or drink beside Duskwight bandits and Keeper poachers at Buscarron’s. Here they would not have to suffer the polite lie that the Shroud, by being too weak to keep the outside out, was somehow stronger for it. Business was quiet, even if the customers were loud, as Weylan was, once a few pints were in him. “I mean, bad enough he tells me this. Bad enough. But he tells me this after they’ve been threatening me with a diremite to the balls. Some honor! Some dignity! Like I was holding out on them, or, or fucking cheating them to cancel their precious leve.” He rolled his eyes and made an exaggerated circle with his neck to emphasize it, giving a passing not to Astidien as his drink was delivered. “I ask you, what does a leve pay? Two hundred gil, three-hundred?” “Thereabouts,” said his companion. He’d been engaging in sympathetic listening for the most part, having introduced himself to buy a pint for the last survivor of the Sixteenth’s patrol. Weylan had nearly run him off with a few choice words, but it was clear the man meant no respect, even if he was a bit odd. What sense was there in keeping his mask on even off-duty? He was a patriot, to be sure, but Weylan could never understand the spiritual types. “Must have cost them twice as much just to go through all this. Well maybe,” he said, pausing to take a deep drink of his ale, a little spilling down the side of his tunic in a drunken dearth of grace, “Maybe they should have done their fucking jobs instead of standing around chatting and leaving me to cart off my mates’ bodies! What they were hired to do!” “That’s outsiders for you, isn’t it?” His partner’s voice was rough, a mixture of wear and age in tandem. Weylan gauged him to be in his fortieth cycle, thereabouts, when he could bother to focus. The grey streaks in the dark hair were the most tell-tale sign. “Lazy shits, all of them. Ul’dahni, ‘Kotes, greys, always looking for an easy mark.” “Yes, right! Exactly right.” In his outrage, Weylan found, he could forget the fear the helplessness of being overpowered and tortured - oh, they’d call it something else, but that’s what it was - to give them information they’d had no right to receive, all out of spite for not being paid and an insistence that he was somehow the villain for daring to be on the same patrol as dead men. “Why do the work on a leve when you’ve got a Wailer to do the lifting, and you can stand around talking about whether some bloody red bitch is a witch or a monster?” “I hear you. I absolutely hear you.” It was hard to see his companion’s expression with the mask on his face, though he was far from expressionless; his lips twitched in sympathy, his brow wrinkled, and the scars scattered along his cheeks scrunched up in smiles or tugged inwards in frowns at just the right moments. “At least tell me the Adder did something about all this, though. Complaint? Fines? Even a sternly-worded missive?’ If Weylan could, he would have crumpled his tankard in his fist. “Fucking worst part of it, er - sorry - “ “Hadrian.” “Right, right. Worst part of it, Hadrian. I’m the one gets sent back to the Bannock for retraining an’ reassignment. Haven’t heard a word about them, you know? Might as well have been the spirits for all the effort they put into hunting them down.” Privately, Weylan was glad of it. Meant nobody would look too closely into any missing records. The fear had lasted well beyond the act of torture, and their demands had been extensive. He didn’t think the Adders would be too interested in arrest records from the last decades of the Sixth Astral Era, but one never knew. “Nophica’s tits, nothing?” Hadrian leaned back in his stool and placed his hand against his mask, wincing in frustration. “I think that’s the worst part of it, y’know, Wey? That’s the worst of it. Shroud’s in a shambles, spirits can’t just oust troublemakers like they could. And who should be stepping up?” He thumped his chest. “Us, that’s who.” “Damn right,” said Weylan, irritated by the shorthand but too caught up to correct it. “Wailers, Godsbow, we need to be stronger. We have t’be! If the spirits can’t do the job, we need to be doing it for them. Ask me, shouldn’t be a single outsider even gets near the woods before they’re bristling with arrowpoints. Ul’dahn, Limsan, Ishgardian, take your pick. Not a damn one of them.” “Damn right!” “But what happens?” Hadrian made a show of displaying his fingers as horns up at the top of his single tankard of ale, still half-full, and spoke in the lower range of a falsetto. “‘Ah, we must work with all to protect the forest from further danger! Never mind the trouble they bring, invite them all in!’” Weylan was drunk enough to laugh. “Ask me,” Hadrian finished, dropping his hands, “Only place they ought to be allowed is Sylph territory. Maybe help them clear each other out, thin the ranks.” “It’s true,” said Weylan, his nod emphatic, the mess of dirty blond hair falling in front of his eyes.”Absolutely true. Try telling that to the bosses, though. Naught to be done.” Here, Hadrian quirked his lips. “Well, not naught, I say. Just depends on how you tell them.” He glanced over Weylan’s shoulder. Astidien appeared to be busy with cleaning and taking inventory for the evening. He leaned forward. Weylan could see, through the haze of ale, a few chips in the mask; it looked like a very old one indeed. “No, what you do is, you show them. An’ I bet you can help me with that, if you like. But if you don’t like, I’ll say nary a peep more.” It was a serious question, and one Weylan hadn’t expected in an evening of commiseration and general venting of the spleen. What he heard next if he asked, he supposed, would be something treasonous. But damned if he hadn’t already done that stealing records for the adventurers, for those fucking ‘Kotes and the gods-damned grey. What was one more? His eyes narrowed as he thought of the people who’d responded to the leve in the first place. The laughing Seeker with her flirtations and her swaying hips. The foul-mouthed Blade overstepping his bounds. And Keepers. All the damned Keepers in all the damned woods. If he was going to break the law, then why do it for their sake, when they would do naught for him? “Go and tell me,” he said, leaning forward. “And keep it quick.” Hadrian grinned. “Well, first, we’re gonna need a few spare masks . . . “