Verad

Somewhere in the South Shroud: "I can't do this." Carter's hands were shaking, and though he could not see it, he could feel beads of sweat forming on his brow. The lake lay before them, if it even deserved to be called such a term. He remembered dark waters under the forest's canopy, could clearly recall the rippled patterns of a light rain when his sweetheart had told him she'd found another. He was only in his eighth cycle at the time, so the sting was, comparatively speaking, minor next to the sight of the fetid marsh in front of him. "I can't," he repeated, clenching his fists. "It's too much." "You have to." He felt a hand on his shoulder, a squeeze. "You have to. It is the only way." Nico's voice was soft, and he didn't even have the decency to use that softness to conceal an iron certainty behind his plea, a velvet glove that concealed nothing but more velvet. "It's not." Carter bit down on his lip. "It's not. We could always go. Just leave. There's nothing keeping us here." "Mayhaps." There was a note in Nico's voice that suggested the idea was not unattractive. "And then, one day, we die. And then what? We're his again. We have to do this." His hand crept down Carter's arm, a little rough against exposed skin, before clasping his hand, entangling fingers together. "This is putting a strain on you. I would do this if I could. At least, I would not make you do it alone." "You don't know." Carter wrenched his hand away, and he could hear a shift in the grass, a backwards step. He'd caused injury, however unintended. "I'm sorry. I know you mean it. But everytime it happens, every time I step through, it's like . . . it's happening all over again. And I can feel him there. Just . . . just watching. If he lashed out at least it would be something!" "I know enough to know what it must be like - going back, I mean. Even for a moment." Nico maintained his distance. "That is why we have to do this. Or it will be far longer than a moment for us." "I know, I know." Carter's lips trembled, before lifting a tattered sleeve to wipe his face. Sweat and tears. With the lake drained, the walk did not seem too far. "How many more?" "After this? Two, perhaps three, if we want to be sure. But at least two." "And you'll be at the safehouse?" "I will. I promise. What you have done will not be undone." Carter swallowed, and found his throat dry. "I'll be back," he took a step forward, and the feeling of mud pressing against his boots - the knowledge that it was mud at all - forced a shudder. "One leap, at most, if there's no danger. In, out. That's it." "That is all I could ask. Twelve guide you." Behind him, he heard Nico's footsteps, the crunch of grass as he made his way into the forest. "Why they'd guide me to here and now is anyone's guess," Carter muttered. He kept his step light and his path soft as he entered the marsh proper, the great tree of Amadpor ahead of him.

Ten. The correct number of skills is ten.

Setting plausibility is the #1 reason people fail to roleplay. Ignore it.

What's going to happen is that the only people to question them will be OOC pedants. All somebody making a non-standard Dragoon will have to deal with are "helpful" tells.

Best used sparingly.

Update! I have added the time for Nihka's event "Wailing on Wailer Weylan." Please look forward to it. In addition, the following events are now available, also as part of Episode 3. Please give priority to those who have not yet signed up for new events in this phase. 4. A Plague On Both Your Spouses Situation: A pair of beekeepers at the Fullflower Comb apiary in the East Shroud have acquired a curious illness, in which they are prone to switching between bouts of lethargy and fits of great violence. Traditional conjury techniques have proven only temporarily effective at aiding them, and so the managers of the Combs are seeking external aid. Time: Wednesday, Sep 2, 9 PM CST 1. Nihka Mioni 2. Khena Ridah 3. Anstarra Silverain 4. Enju Abbagliato 5. Fire Does Not Work That Way Situation: Wailers in Camp Tranquil are reporting water sprites on fire. After confirming that they had not taken leave of their senses, third parties verified that water sprites have been seen erupting in a bright purple flame. Adventurers with stout hearts and strong stomachs for the absurd are requested. Time: Friday, Sep 4, 9 PM CST 1. 2. 3. 4.

I'm apathetic as to whether or not the content will be gated in future expansions, and will be basing my purchasing decisions on other criteria that will often seem shallow to more dedicated gamers. Is anybody else going to do this?

As Eorzea's Greatest Archer, Pending Certain Conditions, I call into question the veracity of this claim. Verad is also, not incidentally, Eorzea's Greatest Lover and Master Merchant. It's all in the memoirs really.

Current posting is updated with all necessary slots filled. I'nhalki, there are no slots available at present, but more events will be added in the next day.

Episode 3: 1. A Stone's Thrown Away 2: Skipping Pebbles Situation: Following the defense of Finder's Bluff, the Padjal O-Rehn Fahn has requisitioned Wailer masks for the purposes of tracking the thief responsible for the loss of a holy stone. Now protected from the worst of the Shroud's wrath, several adventurers will accompany him to search for the culprit. Time: Thursday Aug 27th, 9 PM CST 1. Liadan Summerfield 2. Tengri Moks 3. Franz Renatus 4. Leanne Delphium 2. The Dilemma of the Diverted Dead Situation: Recently, four bodies being prepared for burial in approved regions of the Shroud have gone missing. According to the Conjurer's Guild, "It's not as if they could have gotten up and walked away!" They have placed a leve seeking adventurers to track the missing bodies before they are defiled - or worse, before they are used to defile the Shroud. Time: Tuesday, Sep 1, 9 PM CST (Note: This event will be run if at least two players sign up) 1. Ashmira Honzen 2. Anstarra Silverain 3. V'aleera Lhuil 4. Orrin Halgren 3. Stout in a Strait Situation: Gerard Stout, resident of Quarrymill and a liaison to the Ala Mhigan refugee population, is seeking assistance in identifying a recent captive of the Wailers who was thrown into a gaol following a failed attempt to incite a riot amongst the camp's disenfranchised. Time: Sunday, Aug 30, 9 PM CST 1. Sarnai Kha 2. Aya Foxheart (Tentative) 3. Leggerless Hanzou (Tentative) 4. Edda Eglantine Player Events 1. Wailing on Wailer Weylan Situation: Following a recent leve into the East Shroud that was reported as "abandoned" by the Wailer leading it, the adventurers involved have "arranged" to "meet" with the aforementioned in order to "talk with" him regarding their lost pay. Time: Monday, Aug 31, 9 PM CST/b] 1. R'elend Tia 2. R'Shesha Otharn 3. Kiht Jakkya (Tentative) 4. Enju Abbagliato (Tentative) (More events to be added! Stay tuned!)

When gravid, Verad prefers cool, dry nesting locations in defiance of Duskwight cultural norms for egg-laying season.

Old Gridania: The clink of a coin, the glint of gil along with a bright smile, and a hasty goodbye, and Helena offered a small but bright wave to the customer as he parted, his purchase tucked under his arm in a small sackcloth. The wave faltered as a cough, short but sharp, wracked the Midlander’s frame. The forest did not agree with her from time to time. But with the end of the transaction bringing a slight lull in her business, she took the opportunity to place her hands on her counter stall, catch her breath, and survey the markets. Business was booming, as much as it could be in a smaller exchange like the Stalls anyroad. It hadn’t been easy. Rebuilding the family after the Calamity, cycles of training with the Alchemist’s Guild or the appropriate credentials, applying for the mere chance of entry into the Shroud, and the constant need for gil to keep palms appropriately slipper had all been grueling, miserable tasks, and in some moons she had felt like giving it up. But here she was, a thriving independent in the midst of the Stalls, away from the cut-throat trades of Thanalan and enjoying a simpler way of life. Even after all of that, however, she had struggled for moons. Gridanians were slow to trust those from outside the Shroud, and rightly so in her opinion. Helena knew too many honest Ul’dahns (in that they were honestly Ul’dahn) to think their suspicion was unwarranted. But sympathy alone would not put gil in her coinpurse, and she had been very close to closing up shop and handing in her license. And then, half a moon ago, he had appeared, a broad grin on his face and a twinkle in his eye, and changed the course of her business. What had attracted him to her stall, Helena couldn’t say; perhaps it was that she did not look at him with disgust, as many of the other merchants seemed to do. The absence of such behavior, she knew, was another thing that made her stand out in contrast to the native Gridanians. But why should she care if her customer was a Duskwight, so long as his coin was good? It turned out, however, that his interest had not been in buying, but in selling, and a very strange item it was indeed - a package of vials, all of a strange, dark-looking color. She remembered shaking one, and seeing it froth in the vial. It was nothing she could quite place. “And you’re interested in selling this through a middle-man?” she had asked, placing the vial on the counter. “A bit strange. There is hardly a lack of street peddlers in the city.” “Indeed, madam, indeed!” He had clasped his hands together and pointed at her as if she had grasped the situation precisely. “While I am hardly at risk of violence if I walk these fair streets, I think you will find - ah, but you are a relative newcomer, are you not? Yes, I think you will find that my wares will be passed over not because of what they are, but because of what I am, you see.” “And you’d like a share, of course.” Helena had spoken without rancor. There was no other reason to discuss the matter, after all. “A small one, to be certain! My needs are equally small, you know, my living conditions rather, ah, dubious by the nature of the city as well. It is no matter. I can come to collect on each sennight.” “Certainly, certainly. You see, the thing is, well, it could be a good deal, and we could come to terms, that’s clear as a lake.” She had splayed one hand. “But what does it actually do? I haven’t seen a potion like it.” “Nothing harmful, I assure you, madam! You may sample the components for yourself, and I trust you may analyze their contents as well. In general, however, you will find it to be an excellent panacea! Entirely revivifying.” “Revivifying.” “Indeed! Your viv will be entirely reified, such as it is!” She couldn’t help but laugh, though she hadn’t been quite sure why. “You’re not selling snake oil, are you?” Here the Duskwight’s face seemed to bristle. “Madam! I have divested myself of such inventory entirely. If you are uncertain as to the effects of the product, I would happily try it myself to assuage your fears.” If nothing else, it would have been worth a laugh. She offered him the vial. Swift as a shrew in heat, he’d snatched it out of her hand and consumed the contents, though not without a gagging noise in the back of his throat. That hadn’t bothered her. Medicine wasn’t exactly known for its taste. But he hadn’t died immediately, or even had any ill-effects afterwards at all. She had thanked him and agreed to take the potions to at least see their effectiveness and analyze their contents. Nothing had been odd about them, but there was a certain ineffable something that did make them seem almost . . . lively. Testing one was inevitable, and perhaps against her better judgment, but there did not seem to be anything she could see that produced ill-effects. And, indeed, his claims had been sound. She had felt briefly and momentarily alive, and for the rest of the day she had felt exceptionally healthy. Lacking in somnus or other such restricted concoctions, the effect had made her all the more eager to sell them on the strength of the product. To rejuvenate one’s health safely? That wasn’t quite the same as lead into gold and reviving the dead to ask impertinent questions about one’s own inability to achieve emotional closure, but it was very close. So she had pitched, and the items had sold, and sold, and sold all the faster. When the Duskwight had arrived the next sennight to ask how his wares had fared, Helena had negotiated terms with him on the spot. “But what do you call this, anyroad?” she had asked as she handed over the gil. “What I call it?” The Duskwight had considered this at some length while weighing the full coinpurse in his hand. “It lacks a name as yet. But . . . mayhaps you’ve seen the ads around the cities.” Helena’s eyes widened, and she nodded. “Right! A test market, then. A new flavor! You’re doing me a bigger service than I’d thought.” “Yes!” He smiled at that. “A test market, absolutely. Now then, if you’ll excuse me, I shall return on the day, on the bell, if that is all fine for you.” And so he’d left, and since then business had been fruitful. Helena drifted off in her thoughts only to be interrupted by another customer. She smiled, knowing what he wanted, and reached out for another small, dark vial. She stifled a cough. Those had been growing lately. The forest did not agree with her from time to time.

No, populist scum, now go back and keep reading.

The Graffiti of Pompeii also has good examples: http://classicalwisdom.com/dirty-world-ancient-graffiti/ “The one who buggers a fire burns his penis.” Or the poetic dissing of the Romans, this one starts off with 'I will sodomize and face fuck you' https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Catullus_16 No doubt someone got a kick out of it, or it wouldn't have been written down. This is actually one of the great ironies of how we perceive wit - the prevalence of this material in the work of people considered wits. Lord Rochester was specifically called a court wit, and his poetry is full of dick jokes and impotency. Swift is one of the great satirists, with such memorably cutting moments as Gulliver pissing on a palace to put out a fire, engaging in what we would consider revenge porn against his intellectual opponents, and, of course, the whole incident with the baby-eating. One sees a shift in 19th-century Britain in which this material can be referred to only obliquely, and we are still grappling with that shift today.

And how you receive that wit - how you determine whether that response is witty or not - is going to be based on linguistic markers that are culturally determined, and, in this case, were determined by historical issues of class, education and speech. These issues are also much more historically recent than what you're describing - the connection between wit as in wittiness and the intellect is an Enlightenment-era conceit. "Wit" as a term doesn't even enter the lexicon as a specific marker of cleverness until the late 13th century. What the lower-classes said may well have been thought of as funny, but as we've already established, funny and witty aren't necessarily the same thing. My grasp of the Poetics is lacking, to be clear, so I don't doubt that the Greeks introduced the idea of wit into Western thought; however, how we perceive wit is a product of modernity, not of Classical thought. And yes, it really is a matter of broadening horizons. If it connects or it doesn't, ask yourself why it does doesn't. It's certainly not because the writer is necessarily stupid, or smart, or has failed/managed to connect to some essential quality of a social marker that's existed since time immemorial.

I question the assumption, knowing that wit is culturally determined, that it is possible for somebody to be universally regarded as lacking in wit.

We have no lower-class zingers because people chose not to record them as much as they couldn't be recorded. Their speech was low, and to be corrected, because it lacked the linguistic markers of upper-class wit. They might have referred to vulgarity directly, rather than obliquely; their wordplay might have lacked the appropriate grammatical structures to be worth recording (a serious concern in 19th century Britain in particular, where correct speech is seen as a marker of moral character) or it might have been accidental. What value, then, was there in recording them? Now this is admittedly much more true for Britain than for the United States, where it's possible to have a "folksy" wit and the lower-classes, or the rural ones anyway, are seen as respectable in their own right. But a lot of our markers for witty speech come both from the educational opportunities for the upper classes and how they policed what speech was considered intelligent. That we perceive wit as a sign of raw intelligence rather than education is a holdover from that period. Knowing that the notion of wit in the modern day is an accident of history and culture, why are we telling people they can't be witty instead of questioning our own perceptions of wit?

Not quite! It is, historically, a snob's argument, the same way that Shakespeare couldn't have possibly written his plays because there's just no way anybody in the middle-class could have written things that sharp. Perhaps you are not consciously being a snob about it, and that is fine. As for time, well, you went to architecture school, and I to a liberal arts degree. Clearly the time is self-evident. Wit isn't necessarily the tool of the snob. Just recall that wit was the province of the literate and the educated, and for the better part of a few thousand years, the only people getting taught to read, in fact taught at all, were the rich and privileged. Off-topic I guess, but again, not quite correct. This was not the case in all cultures, and in fact, was mostly the case in Europe. Tribal societies schooled all their members in what was known, and in their history, local geography, culture, etcetera. China practically invented the standardized test for the sake of admitting government officials for employment and further education (though whether or not it was aimed at the masses or the few varied by dynasty). The Aztecs implemented mandatory schooling for all over the age of 15. These are just a few examples. Intelligence, wit, and education aren't class-specific all the time, everywhere. It varies greatly, and it might help our view of this topic as a whole to stop viewing it strictly through that lens. This is quite true, and I thank you for pointing it out. To clarify, when I'm speaking of wit, I'm speaking primarily in the British and American contexts. That said, I think your point can lead to another - there is no real "wit," in this case, because wit is a culturally defined concept. The idea that speaking with a quick retort is a marker of intelligence may hold no weight in a culture where that's considered to be a marker of thoughtlessness. In this view, being witty in RP is simple: You already are, to somebody. It even dovetails nicely with the idea that wittiness is based on reception.

It would have been a lie from an idiot who died behind a tapestry in either case.

Another similarly murky, culturally-defined term, that. The fact that a distinction has been made in this thread between technical proficiency and intelligence is just one facet of how vague it can be. But to get to the point: All you really need to do to be seen as a wit in RP is portray your wit with sufficient authority that when it's well-received, it's seen as intelligent, and when it isn't, it's seen as pretentious snobbery.

Yes! And that wit is a snobby wit.

Not quite! It is, historically, a snob's argument, the same way that Shakespeare couldn't have possibly written his plays because there's just no way anybody in the middle-class could have written things that sharp. Perhaps you are not consciously being a snob about it, and that is fine. As for time, well, you went to architecture school, and I to a liberal arts degree. Clearly the time is self-evident.

The notion of real wit is a classist one. It presumes a certain style of speaking and a form of quick response that was most easily accessible in the past to those with certain educational and financial opportunities. In this we need to think of wit as distinct from humor, because even if we hold the idea of "Do those around the speaker find him/her to be witty," then this man: Is very witty to a significant portion of the population if we don't make that distinction.

Wit, at least real wit, isn't easy. Real wit is relevant to the discussion being had, and it's cooked up on the fly. That's relatively hard for most people to do consistently, even with the time granted by RP post-lapse to do. Much easier than one might think! All it requires is a healthy dose of snobbery and classism.

Once again, wit is actually very easy. There has been a lot of discussion in this thread that seems to think otherwise, but it is irrelevant.