Verad

I don't immerse, don't value immersion, and find the emphasis on it in roleplay in terms of how best to achieve it and the quite-often minor things that disrupt it to be baffling.

Wit is actually really easy to write, and most of the criticisms here come from people with exceptionally high standards for wittiness. It's an unfortunate side effect of an audience that consists of self-proclaimed writers.

No, seriously, this is actually weed, and I definitely didn't raid my mom's oregano jar.

There's a pretty hefty body of research about the effectiveness of error correction in college-level composition courses. It is, at times, a contradictory mess, such that composition programs often have wildly varying approaches to the correcting of errors for feedback on student papers. Generally speaking, actively correcting grammar errors is most effective among ESL students, who actively seek correction. Some articles suggest that the overall impact of error correction, even in the form of sustained instruction and continuous feedback, has a very small overall effect on the kinds of errors a student makes, or only changes the types of errors they make. Researchers who are more optimistic about error-correction insist that it has more to do with the type of feedback students receive; specifically, that it needs to be sustained over a number of courses and assignments in order to achieve long-term success in error correction. Bearing that in mind, ask yourself how effective what you do - that is, occasionally pointing out an exceptionally egregious mistake - is going to be.

4 is going on as we speak, but I don't know if 1 is full yet or not. Ashmira's sign-up filled the last slot for 1. Fear not! There will be more sign-ups happening in rapid time here, certainly more quickly than Scales.

Nope!

Updated the time for Event 2; two days is not nearly enough notice. It has been pushed back to Tuesday the 18th, same time.

Choose 1 event and 1 character for the time being, and allow other people the opportunity to take slots. You can sign up for multiple events once others have had the chance to join and there are still spaces available.

Episode 2: 1: Open Strange Situation: A murder has been committed at Bentbranch Meadows. One of the chocobo tenders was found dead in the stables, and a number of the flock are unaccounted for after inventory. The Wailers are asking for any information or assistance that can be provided in tracking the missing chocobos and the culprits responsible. Time: TBD. Contact Spahro Llorn Slots Available: 1. Khena Ridah 2. Ginshaw Iyrnachtwyn 3. Klynzahr Irynachtwyn 4. Edda Eglantine 5. Ashmira Honzen 2: Dawn of the Deadbellies Situation: Buscarron of the Druthers has received a confused plea for assistance from the Redbelly Hive. As the Wailer response to Duskwight poachers in trouble varies between a disinterested shrug and a derisive snort, he has put out an emergency leve asking for adventurers to investigate the problem. Time: Tuesday Aug 18th, 9 PM CST 1. Mholi Mujuuk 2. R'Shesha Otharn 3. Sarnai Kha 4. Leggerless Hanzou (Lynx) 5. Leanne Delphium 3. In The Thicket Of It Situation: A lone survivor from the Sixteenth Spear, a long-range Wailer patrol hunting scavengers and poachers within the Bramble Patch, has returned reporting the total loss of his unit. As other units are understaffed or preoccupied, adventurers are requested to accompany the survivor in locating and retrieving the remains. Time: Thursday Aug 20th, 9 PM CST 1. R'elend Tia 2. Orrin Halrgen 3. Anstarra Silverain 4. Kiht Jakkya 4. A Stone’s Thrown Away Situation: A particular stone considered sacred to spirits of earth in the North Shroud has been stolen. This has angered the elementals, and Finder’s Bluff may be in danger of cave-in until they are placated. Conjurers are requested in order to help calm the area, as well as security to defend against outraged golems. Time: Monday, Aug 17th, 9PM CST 1. Franz Renatus 2. Tengri Moks 3. 4. Liadan Summerfield

Redbelly Hive, South Shroud: There was an ebb and flow to the life of a Redbelly at the pickets. The usual state of affairs was a tense watchfulness, ears open and spears out for any Wailers that might stray too close, but that could vary. A big hit on a caravan meant a doubling of the guard in preparation for retaliation from the masks and their adventurer quislings, and then a tripling on top of that for grave detail after both sides had exchanged words and not incidentally killed a large number of each other. Afterwards, when neither side considered the other strong enough to be a threat, there would be a brief quiet as Quarrymill replenished its own and the Hive did the same. There were always more in the caves, hungry and desperate. Such matters never lasted for long, a sennight or two before there were enough fresh recruits to make the force respectable again. That was usually the case, anyroad. For the past moon, however, there had been no orders from the leaders, no mobilization for something larger. The smaller-scale business of shaking down locals and the lost alike was all they’d been allowed, and Rosette, for one, was getting half-sick of it, of staring out at nothing in the dark, spear in one hand and a flask of watered-down spirits in the other, quite certain there was no chance of something interesting like a mask rushing out of the dark with a spear at the ready or an adventurer trying something cute and heroic. She swilled a quick drink and passed it to her partner a few fulms away. He gave her a look of disapproval, brows furrowed. She nudged it in his direction again until, sighing, he accepted the offer. “About time, Burchard,” she mumbled, clasping her spear with both hands to support herself, continuing her staring contest with nothing. “Might as well enjoy yourself on the slow nights.” “It’s not that,” he said after he had finished his drink and fobbed the flask back to its owner. “I just thought I’d be drunk afore I died, you know.” She snorted, and that itself was the stifling of a much louder laugh. Even in fixed positions, orders were to be quiet on the watch. “What, tonight? Now?” “Yes, now, tonight, pass it again?” His voice was certain enough, his sharp features composed enough, that she only hesitated a moment before acceding to the request. He drank long, and deep. “Come on now, dead? Tonight? You must be joking.” Rosette tried to keep her voice light. “Well, it’s just how stories go, for one thing,” he rumbled once he’d finished, swishing the metal bottle. It sounded disappointingly hollow to Rosette’s ears. “Quiet night, nothing unusual, light guard, not expecting anything unusual, drinking on duty, so on. Good night for a guard or two to die, if you believe the minstrels.” Burchard frowned, and folded his arms together, leaning against the stumps that marked the Hive’s picket lines. “But no, somebody told me I would, tonight, and I think I believe it.” As guard pairings went, Rosette was never keen to be trapped on duty with Burchard. He was occasionally morose, did not drink enough, responded to her idle flirtations on the quieter nights without even a playful sense of rejection, and had the odd measure of respect for the Wailers they fought so frequently. But all of this was just odd. “Somebody just told you,” she repeated. “Wasn’t Stephan, was it? Because he’s just cross about losing this post for latrine duty tonight, and if he was saying that I wager a bit of ale and he’ll be fine, so - “ Burchard deigned to chuckle. “No, not Stephan. Earlier today, though, there was . . . well, we were bringing down a stag for supper, and as we were skinning things I thought I saw someone in the woods, watching. All hooded, like. Thought it might’ve been a spy so I told the rest to stay put and took off after. Didn’t get more than a couple dozen yalms into the brush, you know, and there he was. I think.” “He?” “I think. Had his hood off. It was like . . . “ His hands tightened around his arms where they were folded, and despite a warm night, Rosette was sure he shivered. “You don’t need to want to know that, I think. But it was off, and he gave me this look, you see, with his eye? And he told me to get on guard duty tonight. I did that, and I’d die clean. If not, then - “ Now Burchard shuddered, something that seemed to wrack his whole body. “Then it’d be worse. Said I needed to give a message.” “Message?” Rosette looked around the forest. All of it suggested something for her sake, but as to why, she couldn’t understand. “Why - what - you’re joking, right Burchard?” Even as she spoke, he finished the last of the flask. The pain in his eyes was more evident now, more than the spirits could allow him to conceal. They seemed to bulge in the torchlight as the rest of him stumbled forward, tried to keep upright. “No, no, it’s okay, it’s okay! Just tell me what it was. Tell me, all right?” “M-message, right.” He sucked in a breath. “He - it said, ‘Walk away from the picket, Rosette. For your uncle’s sake, walk away.’” As the words left Burchard’s lips, so too did the pain in his body. A smile and a look of great relief later, and he collapsed to the ground. Rosette took a step back from stump, mouth parted and eyes widened in shock. She drew in breath to give a watch-whistle, a call for help, and paused. At the edge of the Hive’s picket line, at where torchlight faded into the dark, she felt something. Perhaps she saw a shape, mayhaps the outline of a hood. The whistle died. Picking up her spear and taking off her mask, Rosette stepped out of the picket and away, into the dark. Buscarron’s was a close enough walk that she could get a bit of strong drink for her troubles. As she faded from the light, two figures appeared in her place, passing into the open clearing of the Hive without a word of challenge, stopping at Burchard’s body. One uttered a sharp chuckle of disbelief before speaking in a low, rumbling voice. “I can’t believe that worked. Do you think she’ll be back?” “Not tonight. Not ever, if she remembers well enough.” The other was shorter by a good fulm than its counterpart, its voice softer and composed. “Take your word for it I ‘spose. Thought we’d have to get her as well.” The first nudged Burchard with the toe of a shoe. “Do we bring him back?” “There is no need. He did as we asked.” The second’s hood turned towards the entrance of the Hive. “The rest, though - .” Nothing more was said. The pair approached the gates of the Hive.

Alder Springs, North Shroud: Another step and his lungs would shatter, but to stop in his tracks would see his spine do the same. All the same, the latter impulse won out over the former, and Carter collapsed, falling to his knees and propping himself up and out of the dirt with one hand. Even in exhaustion, he clutched the package in his other arm, wrapped hastily in a canvas cloth, to his chest, unwilling and unable to let go. The ground beneath him trembled, pebbles and dirt rattling around his body as the golems approached, implacable, untiring. Lifting his head to take in his surroundings, he cursed his luck. It was wrong, all of it. He remembered the site from his boyhood, and it had been there among the trees, but everything else was not. It was all rock and root and ruin, and at points on his approach he could look down and see there was no end to the earth beneath him, just an empty drop. This was not a problem in and of itself. It was an existential crisis that could be partitioned and managed at a later date. As his father had always said, it was better to move forward in the dark than to wait until dawn. Of course, his father had tripped and fallen down the stairs in the night on the way to the privy when Carter was but fifteen cycles, so what was his advice worth anyhow? No, the trouble wasn’t that everything he knew was wrong. The problem was that he knew nothing about what was right. The theft was simple, the sneaking and the light step and the lifting of the stone an easy thing, and nary a spirit to strike him down. The trouble was the exit. Couldn’t just walk past wards, could he? Had to go round the back. Only there was no back, and in his haste, he had not scouted. A slow slide down into the earth beneath, and he had found himself surrounded by stone monstrosities, eyes aglow and faces (why faces? Why would something that was an amalgam of animated earth need a face? No, Cart, no. Not the time nor the question, focus) lacking any expression but nevertheless malevolent as they advanced to crush him. So he’d run, and run, and now he was here, dirt beneath him, stone behind, and air ahead. For he lifted his eyes once he caught his breath, and saw a gap of some ten yalms between he and safety. There wasn’t much of a distance between he and peril, of course, but he wasn’t looking for that kind of thing. It would be simple to - but no, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He could jump. He was fast. Nicolae had said his step was light and his legs were quick. He could jump. Couldn’t he? Well, no matter. The rumble of stone-shaped feet behind him said that he ought one way or another. Rising to his feet, he took a deep breath, and tensed his legs for enough time to put force into his initial sprint. He was fast, faster than usual, to be sure, hoping that he could force his body to do what he wanted before its physical state caught up to him and started asking very serious questions about his intentions. His lungs seemed ready to tear out of his chest and his legs for all their swiftness felt like shackles weighing him down, as if to free himself of them would bring him to the edge that much closer, closer, and there He leapt. In better circumstances, the moment might have been exhilarating, that feeling of nothing beneath the feet at great speeds and greater heights. He remembered leaping from the Jadeite Flood as a child, remembered the thrill, remembered landing wrong and breaking a leg and months of pain when they couldn’t afford the conjuror. And here, too, the opposite edge seemed far, too far, farther than he’d thought, and higher too, and only as he fell did Carter realize “Oh.” He did not look down at the sky beneath him, or wonder how far he was from ground. If this was it, this was it. He could avoid this, he could, certainly, absolutely he could, but he would not, he would not call on it, that was unacceptable He came out of the darkness and onto the opposite ledge. Controlling his fall was difficult, and so he hit the earth facefirst, with a groan, but alive, the stone still cradled under his chest, the golems on the far side of the rift. Carter could hear them stomping away, their quarry (hah, haha ha) lost to them. A small miracle, he thought, that they didn’t leap across themselves. Choking back a sob, he thrust his fist into the earth, punching it until his knuckles bled.

This works only insofar as actions occur within a vacuum, affecting only the two parties involved. As soon as the actions are implied to have a larger impact on the setting, it becomes more difficult to justify. It's also really bog-standard criticisms of early empiricism mixed with a bit of solipsism, and feels a bit Philosophy 101. How do we really know our actions have an impact, you know? Man?

Nothing, because I'm probably the one who fired it in the first place. Not that I was trying to kill myself. I just fired an arrow at some innocuous thing other than me.

Absolutely. I make no judgments on whether or not systemic racism can exist independent of racism expressed as acts of individual violence. But playing systemic racism is difficult when you're playing only one character. You can certainly make a character unthinkingly racist because of systemic influences, but this operates in the manner it does in real life, as a largely-invisible, easily-denied motivation. It sounds like many of the posters here would prefer to openly and overtly express in-character racism. And when it comes to that, this tends to get performed as rude remarks and minor inconveniences. So is there only systemic racism in Eorzea, or are there also expressions of racial violence? If there are, why don't they get played, especially given the body of evidence suggesting that the setting can be that violent?

I don't doubt it, and in Gridania's case I am in fact kind of banking on it in future events! What I doubt is the desire of players who are interested in playing racism when it comes to portraying the real extremes of racism. If the evidence in-game suggests that racism can get that overt and brutal, then the expressions of racism desired by the OP and others in this thread seems sort of . . . soft, in comparison. I find it unlikely, for example, that Kale is going to have a moment where he gets some Blades together and strings up some Ala Mhigan unfortunates in an expression of nationalist sentiment. Such a thing would be a powerful scene, I think, if played effectively, in which he makes clear that he has cast aside ethnicity in favor of nationality, even though he is in a nation in which he himself would admit he can only be a second-class city given the dominance of lalafell in its ruling class. But it is more likely that Verad will shave off his beard before that happens.* So what's being argued isn't the extremes of racism, but rather the right to rude remarks and mild bigotry, using the implied extremes of Eorzean racism to justify it. I'm not sure if the point is to show they could be RPing much worse than what is available or if the two are being conflated as identical expressions of racism, but really, it seems very mild. Make remarks, by all means! When somebody forms a PC lynch mob to hunt down undeserving Duskwights, then I'll take more interest. *I bring up Kale as an example here only because I am at least passingly familar with his character and because this is a frequent concern of his, not out of any particular rancor.

I would be surprised and frankly impressed at the chutzpah of the player that did attempt to be a hood-wearing KKK member or equivalent. Part of the reason the amount of effort put into these arguments continues to baffle me is that it involves ardently advocating for the right to have a new category of mean comments to make and little else. Rarely, if ever, does the IC racism of the racist character in question go further than that. And really, there are lots of ways it could go further. Presuming the argument that Eorzea is pretty racist when reading between the lines to be true, I could easily see a darker interpretation of Gridania in which men come in the night to deal with the new Duskwight that's shown up in the village and been causing all sorts of trouble with the elementals (they're sure he's the one, he has to be). I could see well-off nobles in Ishgard playing all sorts of games with the Hyur masses for sport, because really, who matters that would actually care as long as there isn't a big fuss about it? The possibility of violence against Ala Mhigans in Ul'dah goes without saying, and Limsa's piratical tendencies could allow for pirate gangs of a specific breed that give no quarter against any other. We talk about nuance in racism. We talk about making it believable and plausible and contributing to verisimilitude. But we don't want too much of any of the above, really. Snide comments and minor arguments. Maybe a little abuse of authority in the characters that have it. Not much else. Which, well, if you needed eight pages to get permission for that, wish granted. Go forth and be snide. You have my dubious blessing.

Current sign-ups for the plot are confirmed. Stand-bys will be contacted as needed if/when players are unable to make it to this event. If you didn't get in, fear not! This plot will be run like Scales in the Sands, the last big Fate-14 storyline. As such, updates will expand to include multiple sign-ups and player-created events.

Crimes Against Nature Episode 1: A Tree Burns in Gridania Note: This is the beginning of a storyline using the Fate-14 roll system. The IC thread can be found here. Characters should have a Fate-14 sheet in order to participte. Players who are unfamiliar with the system are welcome, and should speak to one of the Roll Eorzea LS moderators about how to get involved. Situation: A holy tree considered sacred to the elementals and thrice-blessed with aspects of air and earth has been set aflame in a blasphemous act of arson. The guardians of the Shroud are furious, and they must be placated and put to rest lest they engage in greenwrath. Wailers of the Fifth Spear are on the scene with members of the Conjurers’ Guild, and able-bodied adventurers are asked to assist in both containing the fire and purging the area of woodsin before matters worsen. Day/Time: Thursday, July 30th, 8:00 PM CST Slots Available: 1. Leanne Delphium 2. Edda Eglantine 3. Nihka Mioni 4. Leggerless (Lynx) 5. Franz Renatus Story Aspect: [The Woods Are Watching] - The agitation of the Shroud is palpable following the event, and the elementals seem keenly interested in punishing perceived acts of woodsin. They may lend their aid to adventurers engaging in proper conduct, but even an unknowing violation of their inscrutable rules may lead to a sudden case of treant attack.

((The following thread is open to participants in the Fate-14 storyline Crimes Against Nature, here. IC discussions, forum posts, journal entries, and plot updates can be placed here by those involved.))

“Do you remember the first time you planted a tree?” Syros asked the question without looking back, his gaze fixed upwards at the trunk towering over him. Nighttime in the Shroud, even with a clear sky and a full moon, could be obscured in the few regions that still qualified as overgrown following the mass deforestation of the Calamity. If it weren’t for the outline of the trunk in front of him, solitary in a small clearing of the underbrush, and the occasional shadow of foliage twisting and swaying in nearly-calm winds, a casual onlooker might be deceived into thinking they were underground. Such a thing couldn’t deceive Syros. Not anymore. He knew exactly where he was. Behind him, his partner hummed in thought. “I am sorry, but I do not recall,” he said, his voice apologetic. “After so long, they have all become a blur.” Syros smiled. “It’s all right. I remember mine, though. Family tradition. When one of us could listen to the wind and understand the words, whenever anybody could hear, it was quite a big to-do.” He stepped towards the trunk, ran his hands along it, a lover’s caress in the dark. “A binding pact between man and spirit. We would hear, and we would be heard.” His head dropped, examining some knot in the bark. “My parents picked out a little maple sapling for me. For balance, they said. I wanted oak, for power, but they said that wasn’t right.” “Did they?” Syros could hear his partner shuffling his feet, shoes making a small crunch against soil. It was strange, he thought, to hear somebody walk, stranger still to be able to walk at all. “Were you happy with the choice?” He shook his head “No, not at all. What child is happy when he doesn’t get his way? I think - it’s hard to recall, but I think I threw quite a row, at least until it was planted. I could hear the spirits. It was like - hm.” He pursed his lips as he stepped back from the tree. “How to describe it.” “There is no need. I am sure it is difficult.” “You’re right, you’re right. It was good, that’s what I remember. But not as good as later, you see. When the years had passed and it grew tall enough, I took leave from the Guild for my nameday and came back just to see it. Still a sapling, but it had grown tall enough to fit in with the rest. A pretty little grove of a dozen or so.” His smile widened. “Now when the fire started? When the flames took the leaves, spread to the others? That I remember. The spirits - it was like watching light scream. I’d never heard anything like it. It was good. Better than good. Never could see how someone could get tired of it. The family was furious, of course, but, well.” Syros shrugged, and turned to face his partner. “And what you’re planning - there will be more of that?” He stepped forward, palm outstretched. “If we do this,” he said, his voice carrying a measured enthusiasm, “Then it will all scream like that. Every tree, every plant, every spirit in the Shroud. It starts here. I promise you.” He pushed his hand forward. “Here - flint. I found it on our way out.” His palm hovered over his partner’s for a moment before Syros took the flint from his hand. “Surprised you found the chance. Everyone else seemed to be in a rush.” “They do not matter, I think. You and I, we matter. It is why I offer you this chance.” Turning, Syros placed his hands on his hips as he looked over the tree. “This is somebody else’s, you know. An old one, very old. Some other family, who knows how many cycles back, planted this, I think, because a child could hear.” He snorted, and wrinkled his nose in annoyance. “Whoever it was, they got oak. That’s hardly fair.” “You are welcome to correct it, of course. I look forward to the results.” The crunch of feet on soil passed Syros’ ears as his partner stepped away. “We will speak again later. I trust you can survive out here?” “Easy enough to find a mask, I think. People will be busy soon anyhow.” Syros squatted down near the base of the tree, groping with his hands to find grass, leaves, branches, whatever would serve. “But - “ he looked over his shoulder. “How do you think we got here, anyhow? From where we were.” There was a pause in his partner’s step. A tapping of his foot. “If I said it was my design, would that anger you?” Syros laughed, truly, for the first time. It sounded strange to him, a strangled and barking croak. He cleared his throat. “If you had brought me anywhere but here, then yes.” “Then it was my design.” His partner’s voice was bright. “Please, enjoy yourself.” The sound of footsteps grew distant, and faded. Syros turned to his work, piling leaves together, finding suitable stone, and, when the wind proved uncooperative, twisting the wind in his hand to create a breeze. A small light, flickering and orange, appeared in the dark. It spread.

When it's happened, it's because the rug was pulled out from under Verad. Finding out his efforts at paying his debt were all part of a scheme to twist the knife for past misdeeds was probably the most severe blow, but he tends to bounce back from these things. Generally people are more worried when he loses his temper at all, which can happen for any of a number of perfectly normal reasons. It just seems jarring.

There's some passing commentary in the Golden Saucer about a parent selling his children to work in the mines for a few months until the parent can pay off his debts. Based on that, I'd argue that apart from outright slavery, there's also a kind of quite-legal debt slavery employed in Ul'dah. Can't pay your bills? No problem, just work it off. Forever.

As a boring person, I prefer Ul'dah.

Roll-based combat, you say. We should talk.

Well, I call it a tantrum, but I think we're thinking about different things when we think of "it." Edit: You know, maybe I'm confused. That does happen at my age. So please, explain this to me. You paid the appropriate money for the expansion. You will receive the items promised in the expansion with a patch for which you will pay no extra money. Where is the DLC? What extra money are you giving somebody on the promise that you won't get the AF2 armor otherwise? Do you mean your monthly subscription? Has it been gated behind the online store? Did a stranger wearing a shirt saying "I am Yoshi-P, Really," come to you and tell you this?