Verad

I think that this requires reading quite a lot into the attitudes of the mods and the nature of what reports are made and why, along with a perhaps not-so-healthy amount of persecution complex.

As a member of this community, what on earth makes you think you're speaking for me?

Find Another Poster: 3 Sell My Own Poster: 5 My bit of ledger-checking theater finishes with an enigmatic smile. "You're in luck," I say, my voice bright and chipper as I snap the ledger shut. "I happen to have just such a poster in my inventory." Heidolf shows the first real expression of interest I've seen all night. It's a subtle change, seen in the lift of his traditionally non-existent Ala Mhigan eyebrows and in the straightening of his posture, but it's there. "Is that so?" "Indeed! Signed, no less." It's not signed by me, which would of course raise the value of the piece even further, but by the woman herself. Still quite valuable to somebody in the right markets. "Now I don't have it with me, but I can have it here within the bell if you're willing to wait. It's in excellent condition. You can have a look, and then we shall settle on a price?" He hasn't heard the last sentence or two, the far-off look in his eyes suggesting his mind is somewhere being dazzled by a display of Twelve-given good fortune. I have him. I may even make a profit on this. It's hard to keep my grin from being wolfish. --- The guilt only starts to hit once I reach my company's ward of the Goblet. It was polite enough to keep the pangs down to a slight itch through the city itself, but once I hit the residential areas it becomes a full-blown twinge, as such things are categorized. After all, it was the only thing left I had of our relationship. Could I really sell it that easily? Near the corner of my estate, I paused to take a breath. I could imagine several people, if they knew the circumstances, calling this quite low. The poster was a gift, after all, and a solid link to something that was otherwise only a memory. Only a memory. I can't hide my snort, expressed to nobody save myself. A statement expressed only by those who had an excess of the same, who never had to do without. The thought is left at that; no sense being bitter about it. Rounding the corner, the small wooden box, upside-down and propped up at an angle, is the first thing to catch my attention. The rest of the exterior of Dubious Distributions is as it always is - far better than I really have any right to have. It's a crate meant for a small shipment of fruit, but it seems to have been re-purposed as a simple trap; I can see a twig propping up the box's interior. Underneath is a small, wrinkled popoto. My employment rolls are still small, so if nothing else I know who's responsible for this by process of "There is literally nobody else on my employment roll who would be responsible for this." I'm just trying to figure out why she'd do it here of all places. "Miss Sandraix? Do you really think this is the best place?" There's a crash in the foliage behind the estate wall as Alienne Sandraix exposes herself from her hiding place in a nearby shrub. It's a small shrub, and she's a rather tall Wildwood, so it takes quite a lot of exposure. "Oh! Heya, Mr. V!" She gives me a bright smile before furrowing her brows and looking around the environs. "You didn't see any apes or nothin' before you cames here? Don't want you scaring them off!" This is my bodyguard. A former pirate and a born survivor in a very real sense, having survived both the Calamity and several bizarre instances of a voidsent murdering everyone but her on her vessel. When it comes to combat, there is hardly anyone better. Basic problem solving, however . . . well, I wouldn't hire security that wasn't dubious, would I? "No, Miss Sandraix," I laugh, there being no real point in exasperation with Alienne. "How's the trap working for you?" "Oh real good! I used that picture you gave me of that rope thing you used for hunting puddings." She bobs her head, the mop of dark-green hair combed to one side flailing over her face in her enthusiasm, and gives a thumbs-up. "Only I used a box on account of this is an ape and it could break out of a rope pretty easy." "It does look good - but where's the string?" "There's supposed to be a string? I thought it were a rope." Never mind. If I stop to explain this I'll be here until the next sun, and Heidolf will surely be gone. "Capital work, Miss Sandraix. Keep it up." I reach out to pat her on the shoulder. "You really think that ape will come here?" This is technically her leve - finding an ape that fled some merchant. It's been moons; I suspect it's had time to found its own empire by now, but it keeps her paid and busy. "Last place, Mr. V! Last place. I mean if I were an ape I'd - " She pauses, lost in thought. "I dunno what I'd do, but this ape'll come here. He's real crafty like that." "Well get some sleep at some point," I say as I step past her. "I'm just in to pick up some stock for a customer." "Whoawhoawhoa, a customer?" She steps in front of me. "Come on Mr. V, I gotta go with ya's." "I'm quite capable of handling myself, Miss Sandraix, it's all perfectly legitimate!" "'Ain't nobody allowed to do nothin' all by their lonesome in Dubious Distributions if they're dealing with - " She frowns, having forgotten the rest. "Well I gotta come with you anyhow." She's reciting the Martyrdom Clause back at me, or trying to, in her own particular patois. It's a rule I established as I was drafting up the company charter. Simply put, it means that no member of the group is allowed to handle dangerous situations by themselves if they've already failed to do so at least once. The intent was to try and curtail what I've seen of free companies in the past, where a half-dozen young and eager adventurers fall all over themselves trying to resolve the shadows of their past without help, fail in an overwrought fashion, and make their problems worse for everyone. It's a common problem amongst adventurers, and reckless to boot. What's the point of being in the damn company if one insists on being a stoic and standoffish loner, anyhow? So I made a rule to deny it. It is to my great misfortune that the rule is now indulging in a bit of petard-hoisting. Alienne has a point - after getting myself enslaved in the Coblyn's Fancy Mining Company, beaten by Brass Blades while robbing a warehouse, and kidnapped by Dravanian heretics, I already fall under the dictates of the Martyrdom Clause. Still. It's Alienne. What should Verad do next? 1. I'll have to concede the point and take her with me. Rules are rules, and I can't expect people to follow them if I don't do it myself. She may be a bit abrasive and prone to saying literally anything that's on her mind at any point, but I can work around that with a bit of good salesmanship. 2. The Martyrdom Clause is specifically for dangerous situations or shadows from the past. I am at least ninety-percent confident that a random stranger I approached in a bar isn't somebody who's out to kill me for some crime I don't even remember. Worse, only a few moments of conversation with Alienne can turn a customer sour. She could jeopardize everything! I should tell her to concentrate on her leve. It won't take too much convincing.

I understand all the rules of the legit talk thread, and will obey them. If I am found to have broken any of the rules, I will refrain from posting in the thread for a week. I understand that the purpose of this thread is to try and maintain discussion in good faith Nat, could you provide a clear and concrete example of what you consider to be "unsanitized" good-faith discussion? It doesn't have to be something from the RPC itself, but I'm hesitant to say we've fallen from some Platonic model of what the community "should be" without knowing what the "should be" was or if it ever existed at some point. Regarding the rest of the topic, I have spoken in the past about why I have engaged in hostilities. I don't feel I need to go into that a second time. I can, however, explain why I avoid threads which appear to exist purely for the purpose of promoting positivity: many times, they feel false. Kellach (and I name him only because I am still grappling with nesting quotations) explained why he prefers the Compliment thread over, say, the Kudos thread. I've reviewed both. I've posted in the Kudos thread, but never in the Compliment thread. The material in the Kudos thread feels more earned, more genuine, and usually comes from posting good content. Those in the compliment thread feel very superficial - in the past ten pages of that thread, the overwhelming theme of them, with some variation, is "X is a good person." I don't really need to hear that. I'd rather hear "X posted good content for X, Y, and Z reasons." I agree with Kellach that they're necessary. I don't agree that they're necessary as a counterbalance. Rather, I think they're important because they highlight the fact that this is not a single community. Rather, it is multiple separate communities bashing against each other on the same website, confusing themselves into believing they are a contiguous group. I will likely never interact with the majority of the posters in the Compliments thread in roleplay, especially those who make a point of posting regularly, because we expect different things out of the website in terms of content and purpose. So what you see, Nat, as a sanitizing and a splitting of the community when it comes to discussions, I see as people realizing that there isn't - can't be - a single community. People are still fighting to believe it is, hence "why have people gotten so mean/so relentlessly positive, why can't things go back to how they were." It's wiser to accept that it can't be so. Acknowledge the difference, recognize posters who fall outside your conception of what the website's community "ought to be," and steer clear.

((Overwhelming victory for 3.)) The most interesting thing about the Quicksand is that even the wallflowers are signalling something as they attempt to avoid notice. My chosen quarry is, in some respects, not so different from a shy Dunesfolk reading a book in a quiet corner; for some reason, he has taken an activity that is typically a private activity and made it public. 'Twould be foolish to think that the reason the activity is public is because the fellow wants to be approached about the matter, but there has to be some reason that he isn't sharpening his axe at home - and, come to think of it, mayhaps that's because to be thought of as spending all of one's time sharpening one's axe at home is to leave oneself prey to all sorts of terrible euphemisms. I can see why the man would take it out of doors. Well, whatever his reasons, I will assume he is comfortable with being approached. It will be a very poor night for me if I don't. I put on my best smile and circle the Quicksand towards his spot near the wall. There's enough of a distance between the two of us that it gives me time to examine him and do something of an assessment. There are minor details like the shape of his face, the gentle downward slope of dark eyes, the shaved head, the mild wrinkles of middle age, so forth and so on, but these are glossed in the presence of a very large double-bladed axe and the absence of anything resembling upper body wear. One of these days Momodi will need to institute a dress code. But that will be a day that hempen attire stops being fashionable, so mayhaps she shouldn't. In any event, the two features dominate, and the scrape of his axe's blade against a whetstone as he idly runs the latter over the former cuts through the bustle and chatter of the crowd as I step closer. The physique suggests he can use it well, too, though I've yet to see an out-of-shape male Highlander, so that could mean nothing. Even the fat ones are just using their bulk as some sort of strange muscle-cloak. Nevertheless, I come to a stop outside of swinging range. Safety first. And then we begin. I start by applying a thin smile, a little less than my usual full-wattage grin, and break the ice. "And a good evening to you, my intimidatingly undressed fellow! Can I interest you in any fine dubious goods tonight?" It's a common greeting for me, and if somebody followed me around often enough they might hear me say some variation on it with such frequency that they might consider it a religious mantra. They're right. The words have the desired effect. He stops his work and he looks up. He doesn't smile, doesn't raise an eyebrow. This close, there's a hollowness to his eyes, as if they're set a little too far in, a face in dire need of a nap. Not a hard stare, though, so I assume he's waiting for more. Hardly the first time a customer has reacted to the pitch with silence. I press on. "Ah, I can tell by your weary and resigned look that you are interested!" I say in violation of the facts. Sometimes that gets a laugh. It doesn't. "Mayhaps I can interest you in some of my newer products. Is your whetstone in need of replacement? I happen to have an excellent drystone here. It's half a whetstone. Just add water it works just as well!" Nobody has ever actually bought this particular item, but there's nothing like a good bit of illogic to get the customer talking. It's with a note of some satisfaction that I find my expectations being met. His brow furrows as he considers the offer in question. The hooks are in. "That . . . what?" His voice is a deep rumble, as if someone had shoved a herd of stampeding aurochs down his throat. Rather rich, actually. He should use it more often. I wave my hand. "Well, it's fine, it looks like your whetstone is in good shape at the moment anyroad." In fact, I have no idea; I'm no blacksmith. "But mayhaps I can interest you in an Existential Axe? You see, I have the handle of an axe here, and all you need to do is - " "Neither, thanks." He shakes his head as he puts his whetstone away, before hefting the axe into both hounds. "Y'have any real products?" He had to ask that question with that gesture, didn't he? "If by that you mean 'Do you have any gil you could give me,' then I'm afraid not!" I laugh, and I try to keep it light, but my knees are doing a bit of that quivering thing they do when I suddenly and unexpectedly find myself about to die horribly. Maintaining eye-contact while scanning the crowd for anybody who knows me and would be inclined to help is difficult, but Miss Foxheart is tied up with some customers, and Ser Crofte hasn't been near the pillar in moons. Defending myself is up to me, then. I put my hand on my hip, placing it near the hilt of one of my knives. Still haven't had to hurt anybody with these things, but there will be a day. Fortunately, my fears are at least a little unfounded. "Nah, not exactly," he says, keeping his weapon in his hands, but not shifting his legs into a fighting stance. Perhaps it's just a comfort axe. "What else you sell?" I go over my stock in my head. If he's rejecting things related to what I see, then other things like plot devices and imitation fool's gold are also going to be unacceptable. He's not going to buy something for novelty value. He may want something that's actually dubiously useful. Blast. It pains me to do this, but I may actually have to go to the open portion of the script. The smile remains, and I gesture towards him with an open palm. "You need only speak, and if it is a sufficiently dubious product, I will try and find it for you. Do you have a request?" For too many moments he just stares. It isn't even scrutinizing, or suspicious. It's an empty thing, as if he were flashing back to Cartenau and watching the moon erupt. But perhaps that is a presumptuous simile on my part, for when he next speaks, there's a sense of hesitancy. "There's a gladiator I used to follow here, fought in the arena years back." He draws out the words. I can't tell if he's holding something back or trying to frame the truth correctly. "Hellsguard woman. Big on showmanship. Firey hair - " I know of whom he speaks once the first sentence is done, but my surprise stops me from responding before the next two. I snap my fingers in recognition. "The Burning Blade Edge." There's a name I hadn't spoken aloud in moons. Burning Edge - for her stage name was never too different from the real one - ran the gladiatorial circuits a decade and some years ago. Promising career, all told - good stage presence, ability to look good even in very heavy armor, a willingness to advertise in very, very light armor, and actual martial skill on top of that. Her career was ended by a very bad match before she could reach the upper echelons, but she developed a following all the same. I was a fan. At least, I think I was a fan. I am fond of Burning for a number of reasons, and one of them is that of the many stories in my memoirs, she was able to prove that the one about her was true. It's an embarrassing one - I may or may not have accidentally stolen her clothes (I am quite sure it was accidental) while making ends meet by sweeping the stands - but it's one she corroborated by hitting me when I admitted to it. She remembered it quite vividly. There's also the minor matter of her assistance in saving my life during that business with the stolen rug and the debt-slavery ring. It was she that put me on the trail, in fact, which means it was she that nearly got me stabbed to death in a Twelve-forsaken copper mine, but having a pet couerl eat my assailant more than made up for it. But it's been moons since I or anyone has heard from her. To my last knowledge, she was deep enough in debt to take on an indentured post as a day laborer. I have never quite felt right about that. Still, to hear her name at all after so long is a shock, and it's hard to conceal the surprise after the initial moment of recognition. The Highlander sees it too. "Ah, you're a fan?" he asks. "I am," I say with a nod. That narrows things down. "You're looking for old merchandise?" He grunts. It's close enough to a nod. "Any'll do. Poster would be good especially." "I see, well - I'm sorry, could I get your name?" "Heidolf." He doesn't give a last name. That's fine. I've dealt with people who insisted on calling themselves "The." No moniker. Not the start of a phrase. Just "The." Pretense is rampant in Ul'dah. I take my ledger out of its place in my vest, a small quill nib, and start scribbling. "Burning Blade's Edge merchandise for Heidolf," I mumble, making a show of flipping through pages and looking over the lines. This is all theater; in truth, I already have such a poster in my possession. She gave it to me out of gratitude for shutting down the debt-slavery ring that was hurting her business. Ironic, considering she then left the business, but I have the poster all the same. I could go to the estate, fetch it, and come back to haggle a price without trouble. Still . . . What should Verad do next? 1. Surely I can't have the only piece of strapping Hellsguard gladiatorial paraphernalia left on the market, and the poster is the only memento I have left of a friend. I can make a promise to find such materials for him for delivery at a later date. Still, that could mean losing the sale; even if Heidolf agrees, I might not be able to find him again, or I might not find anything he's actually seeking. 2. I wouldn't have even approached this fellow if I weren't already desperate to make some kind of sale. Why should I balk now? I have plenty of fond memories of Burning Edge as it is, and the knowledge that she is a point of truth in my otherwise fuzzy origins is more than enough. I will fetch the poster from my estate and have it back here within the bell.

Castille cannot make you happy because he himself is never satisfied unless he spends several hours a day staring at sweaty people of all genders grappling with each other for his amusement.

I like to think that, having spent as long in my profession as I have, that I am quite adept at reading the expressions of others. A peddler, and especially a dubious one, must have a sound understanding of every twitch and quirk of a person's face. And the Seeker in front of me is quite twitchy and quirky indeed! From the lift of a well-arched eyebrow to the narrowing of her heterochromatic eyes, and the upward twitch of her lip to the folding together of her arms, I can see it all quite well: She wants it. She needs it. She will do anything for - "No, that's quite all right, thank you. I'd much prefer real gold." On the other hand, body language is a lie and it can quite often be misleading, and anybody who thinks otherwise is an absolute fool. I do not see any irony in this statement. One thing I do know, however, is that there are times and places to press a customer, and this is not one of them. This comes from verbal rather than physical language, whether their words express interest in seeing just how far I'll go (the answer is always "very far") to make a sale or whether they express an interest in seeing my backside as I retreat to another corner of the tavern. Here, the answer is clearly the latter. I smile and I bow, and I say what, in some variation, I always say. "But of course, madam. If you find you require any goods like those that I offer, please, don't settle for anything less than Verad Bellveil, Ul'dah's Premier Distributor of the Dubious!" I do not give her an opportunity for a parting shot beyond a wave and a nod as I turn on my heel and march to another part of the railing. It's a busy night in the Quicksand for pretty much anybody except me. Momodi is clearly making her rent's worth of coin, and Miss Foxheart does the same in tips. I catch her eye and we offer a smile and a wave to each other as we pass, but there's no time for conversation on either end. Even now, a high, hoarse voice calls out for another round, and she has to dash towards a table I can't see in the bustle. Ah, Miss Foxheart. Some days I envy your profession. The leers and the stress and the infrequent declarations of love must be a frustrating thing, to be sure, but nobody has ever tipped a dubious peddler. And in my current circumstances, I would be very much appreciative of a tip. Once I find a spare space on the rail next to a pair of sniping Midlanders - one male, the other female, their barbs of such a tone and content that it suggests this is how they say they love each other - I place my hand on the railing and lean out over the crowd. My situation is a curious one, I think, and not one I ever suspected would happen, could happen, but happen it has. In short, I believe I am losing my edge. This has been the fifth night in a row that I have attempted to peddle my wares without even the slightest hint of success. My usual standards of imitation fool's gold and defective treasure maps never sold any more than sporadically, but even my hottest items like my supply of plot devices have gone untouched and unpurchased over the past few suns. This is a fairly new development - during the incident with the relics, I was more than able to make a few sales from time to time, when I was not hiding in my house. Now, though, I find I am hard-pressed. It is as if the No-Eyed Man left a curse on me on his funeral pyre; a laughable concept, to be sure, but I take laughable concepts quite seriously. They are my stock and trade. There is no existential or financial threat in this, as my circumstances have left me comfortably well-off. In selling control of my estate to the Shroudwolf, I am free of the expenses of rent - beyond the occasional outrageous tale at their regular story circles - and taxation. My income is supplemented by my dividends from Vesper Bay, ensuring maintenance of a well-off, if dubious, quality of life. There is no real need to do what I usually do. That, I think, is the problem. Gone are the days of making a rug in Pearl Lane my office and struggling day by day to ensure that I can live to see the next. Gone are the days of scraping and scrounging and setting aside every gil I had to pay the Debt. There is no more Debt to pay, after all, and no more cause to scrape and scrounge. Gone, too, are the problem of the relics from my life, and in its place is control of an entire company with a number of employees. There are people who look up to me. And what isn't there to admire? But there are too many people who look up to me. In short, I have become distressingly respectable. And we can't very well have that. So we must return to the basics, to the core of my identity, to my essential and primal dubiousness. Otherwise, I may as well hang up my beard and get a stall on the Exchange to sell respectable goods like any other respectable merchant in the city. A stall. I suppress a shudder at the thought, and scan the crowd again. Tonight, I will make a sale. I will get in touch with my inner dubiousness, and I will rekindle what has been lost over moons of good fortune. But who shall receive my pitch? Who should Verad annoy next? 1. There's a dark-clad Elezen woman lurking by the bar. For a moment I suspect the conspicuously brooding fashion is an affectation, but she seems to have an understated demeanor which takes it quite seriously. The earnestly depressed are always good targets; they never quite know how to react. 2. A trio of adventurers - two Miqo'te, one of either clan, and a Sea Wolf - are bickering over something I can't quite hear. I don't typically like interrupting groups, but their conversation seems heated without being private. Mayhaps I can redirect their energies to something more lucrative. 3. There's a Highlander fellow with no shirt on conspicuously sharpening his axe near one wall. It's a policy of mine to avoid selling to lone men - they have, in my experience, proven to be the most hostile to my pitches and my wares, to the point of violence in some cases. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

You are all too, too unbelievably kind to somebody playing an old man, and if he bursts into tears that's almost like making an old man cry. And you don't want that, do you? Do you?! Beyond that, as promised, here is an OOC post-mortem, focusing on some of the strengths and weaknesses of the storyline in terms of structure and the use of the system. If you have comments, please feel free to add them. Scales Post-Mortem

Coke is not cocaine. Coke is coke.

I require new employees. Please submit an application in writing to Dubious Distributions at your convenience.

How might we regain your good graces? How can we turn that mime-frown upside-down?

Sometimes they have it coming. This is especially true if evidence of predatory behavior is available. What about when it's hearsay at best? What mood am I in that day? A White-Knight-y one. Angry. Rageful. But you can't name names, because that'd definitely expose the victims you feel you need to protect. Then I think I need to post a thread on the RPC about the problem despite the absence of evidence because I'm sure everybody will "know" it's true.

Sometimes they have it coming. This is especially true if evidence of predatory behavior is available. What about when it's hearsay at best? What mood am I in that day?

Sometimes they have it coming. This is especially true if evidence of predatory behavior is available.

There is no problem. I'll stay on the RPC as I please, thank you.

I'd like to go back in time chasing after Nero when he leaps into an alternate reality where Gaius didn't let the White Raven send the moon crashing into Eorzea and now raises an army to take the continent in earnest.

Experience: For those of you who have Fate-14 sheets (which is probably most of you following the thread at this point), you will note there is no clear sense of levels or experience points. Advancement of your sheet is awarded in milestones, which provide bonuses for participation. We're going to ignore minor milestones for this post, because you've been using them all this time, every time you tweaked your skill list or adjust your Aspects slightly. The rules for these weren't enforced because everybody was new and learning how to make the system work. These will come up again in a later storyline. That said, let's move onto the other two categories. Significant Milestones If you are listed here, you were involved in at least two events or did a great deal of background work outside of events themselves: -Kiht Jakkya -Nihka Mioni -Jana Ridah -Kale Aideron -Coatleque Crofte -Rinh'li Nelhah -Airka Lakshmi -Klynzahr Ihrnachtyn -Lynx (Leggerless Hanzou) -Barbarccia Valadis -Inessa Hara -Enju Abbagliato -Nyxh Jakkya -Osric Melkire These characters receive the following benefits: 1. Add +1 to a skill of your choice, up to the maximum value of +4. 2. If you have a Severe Consequence that has gone untreated, rewrite it to put it into recovery without having somebody help with it. Major Milestones If you are on this list, you were either a frequent participant in events or did a great deal of work in the background, and tied your character's development very closely to the storyline: -Aya Foxheart -Evangeline Primrose -Anstarra Silverain -Orrin Halgren -V'aleera Lhuil -Kyrael Astares -Verad Bellveil (Nepotism! Nepotism!) In addition to the benefits of a Significant Milestone above, these characters receive the following: 1. A free permanent Fate Point. This can be used to either put your starting FP total during an event to 4, or can be sacrificed to give yourself a fourth Stunt. 2. You may use the +1 skill point awarded by the Significant Milestone to push a skill past the limit of +4. 3. You may rename your High-Concept Aspect if you are so inclined. 4. You may rewrite any Extreme Consequences you may have received. Please mark any changes you make to your sheet based on these awards on the sheet itself. Special Achievements The following have no bearing on anything in terms of actual rewards, but are based on DM impressions throughout the event. Please review them to engage in mandatory bonus fun. Most Likely to Kill Every NPC in an Event: V'aleera Lhuil, whose presence in an event generally meant that somebody, somewhere, was going to die violently. You are a credit to the zealotry of your kind. Keeper of Secrets/Chronicler: Aya Foxheart, who sussed out the No-Eyed Man's identity on her lonesome, and has written a truly absurd amount of words about the plot (go check her IC thread if you haven't, it's well worth it). Most Politically Turbulent: Evangeline Primrose, whose interactions with the No-Eyed Man, Wyrmtears, and the Ul'dahn political structure shifted her goals from scene to scene. The "Are You Sure You Want To Do That?" Award: Kyrael Astares, for marching into the enemy stronghold with only an elderly Duskwight for backup. Workhorse: Tie between Kiht Jakkya and Jana Ridah, who appeared with great frequency to offer support in events even when they weren't a leading figure. Several characters may not have survived without your assistance. Honorable mention to Klynzahr, who took up this spot in the late game. The "How Did He Roll That High" Award: Rinh'li Nelhah, who trivialized what I thought were difficult fights through a direct connection to the dice gods. Smallest Role, Biggest Impact: Airka Lakshmi, who randomly had a strange glowing stone fall out of an aevis' corpse in the very first event, and told me to do whatever I wanted with it. Look what you did. Look at it. If you have other award suggestions, feel free to post them, and let me know if you have any questions about how to assign your milestone rewards. Post-mortem to follow in the next few days.

Update: With the completion of the most recent post, here, the Scales in the Sands SL is at an end. I welcome anybody who has been involved with the story and wishes to do so to post their own epilogues and final IC thoughts in the thread as they see fit. To follow: XP, Awards, and a post-mortem.

Panic at the Sacrarium! No-Eyed Man Shot! Top Royalists Under Suspicion! Normally, Didino Dino was not one to read the myriad scandal-sheets that plagued the city of Ul’dah. It was all trash, so he was told by those he paid to read such things, mere rags that often sought to propagandize against the rightful place of the Monetarists and the Syndicate within Ul’dahn society (though, he noted with some pleasure, a few buyouts of late had many of their editorial staff changing their tune). Even when they were aflutter with the rumors of conspiracies and Dravanian cultists lurking about the city, he’d abstained. Gerchon had requested a free hand, and Dino had given it, for as long as he was able to manage. On the evening that the No-Eyed Man had left the estate to give his final performance, however, Dino had requested as many of the broadsheets on the incident be brought to him as soon as possible. He rose just before the noonday bell, much earlier than usual, in order to read the results along with his breakfast. Each headline left him with an increasing state of glee, and when he reached that about the Royalists, the Dunesfolk bounced in his bed, spilled a bit of his chilled apkallu egg and opo-brain soup. Well, that was all right. It was time for a new one anyhow. The only headline that gave him pause, a slight frown, and a desire to fire the person who’d collated the information, was Spahro Llorn’s. It was an earlier article, surely mixed in with the rest of the dross, and likely relevant to the larger picture, but this kind of inattention to his specific instructions was unforgivable. He made a note to dismiss the man. Although - had he given specific instructions? Well, of course he had, he wouldn’t have said otherwise. Better to dismiss him anyway just to be sure. The Lantern’s article was troubling, of course. It came too close to the truth, even if it was misplaced. Whether or not the No-Eyed Man had been Dravanian himself, Didino didn’t know. Gerchon had assured him otherwise, just as he’d assured him he was himself an ex-patriate. But it was still too close, and if Miss Llorn had mentioned Didino’s own name in the paper, it would have put him under suspicion. Fortunate for him, then, that no such connection appeared. Fortunate, too, that the No-Eyed Man had been able to use the article so neatly, to deflect the claims at the scene, so the article said. Fortunate that he’d been able to implicate the Royalists that had hired the cultists to spread relics in the first place, mere moments before his tragic end. A strange thing, watching a man arrange his own demise; Didno had been sure he had a double somewhere, but no, he’d been insistent that he die, well and truly. Curious, but one rarely found a loose end that tied itself. Between that, the sellswords in the crowd, and the assistance of the Blades, the No-Eyed Man had a final showing that left dozens injured, members of government exposed to charges of corruption, and a dramatic, definitely permanent exit. All well and good. Didino smiled and took a sip of his soup. It wasn’t quite chilled enough, the texture of the opo brain a little rubbery. He’d have to fire the chef, as well. It had been a shame to see Gerchon take his leave from his service - he really seemed to take to being a steward. A pity that he’d parted ways once the Syndicate had taken an interest in his plan, but that, too, resulted in one less loose end to tie off. Minor annoyances, all. The names of the Royalists that had hired the pair in the first place had been passed to the Syndicate. In due time there would be an investigation, an announcement, and their little “conspiracy” would collapse. And finally, finally, Didino would reach the upper-middle ranks of the hierarchy. Mayhaps he’d finally get an invitation to the better parties. The thought very nearly made him spill his soup again. He was careful to finish it quickly and cleanly, however, and soon went back to sleep, never minding the spill in the sheets. --- “It’s been nice, though,” Donnell protested, underplaying his dismay. Malin was at least well-versed enough in the nuances of his smirks to know when this one was really an upside-down frown of a very literal sort. “You haven’t had to go back to the garrison in moons.” Malin dared not look over her shoulder, merely shaking her head and continuing to fill her pack. “A few moons too many,” she said. “It’s been long enough that even Longhaft has looked up to wonder where the Twelve I went. Any later and he’ll be asking questions. I already expect a bell’s-long verbal report to give him.” She was careful not to say “oral.” The captain’s reputation of dallying with his soldiers was well-known, and though Donnell had never been jealous or suspicious where it wasn’t warranted, he was one to tease. If he teased, she’d turn around, and if she turned around, she’d be tempted to listen. “Just at least consider a transfer, would you? The other orders can’t be all that bad.” Her face soured. The riot had passed around the news among the city’s guard posts with all due haste. It hadn’t been anywhere near as serious as the refugee outbreaks last year, but a few dozen or so saw a fair bit of action that day. She recalled one guard in particular, a bruise on the side of his jaw, chuckling and treating it like a badge of honor. This one bitch, he said, she’d put the fist to him when he was just trying to calm her down, so of course he had to kick her teeth in, and she’d fallen back with blood from her mouth, and see if she stood up again after that. Was she a cultist, Malin had asked, in spite of her better judgment, and the guard shrugged. Sure, he had said. Why not. “Oh, they can,” she said to Donnell, taking another bundle of clothes from her dresser. “Come now, at least the Rose - “ “Would still put me out in Horizon, and that’s close, but not the city. There would still be travel.” At last she turned her head, lips up in a smirk of her own. “Don’t tell me I spoiled you here in the city all this time?” “A bit.” He frowned, picked at the ring on his hand. He said it itched quite often, and had since they’d bonded. She tried not to think of it as an ominous sign. Heaving a small sigh, she tied up the bag of her belongings and rose, turned towards Donnell, clasped his cheeks, pressed her lips against his temples. “You’ll be fine. You can come with me once the qiqirn aren’t like as not to kidnap you for being there. It was all work anyway, save for Starlight, so I’ll be back for Moonfire. We’ll talk transfer then. All right?” A bow of his head and he nodded. There was less protestation on his part, more assistance with the packing. They sorted out their affairs, said their goodbyes and loveyous, and she was out the door. She walked a hundred yalms before she let a frown crease her features. Transfer? There was no hope of it. But try explaining that. Try explaining that it was better by far to work in the hinterlands, where the enemies were in front of you trying to attack the Highbridge road, where the corruption was a little bit of graft and a few fines and putting up with the captain leering at your arse when his usual girls were out on a mission but never touching it because he wasn’t that kind of man, where you could see a problem and make an excuse and go take care of it because everybody knew when you said you were going to try and solve a problem, they knew you meant it. Take that, and then take the cities, where the guards were yesterday’s gangs made strong enough for someone with a shrewd mind and no scruples to decide to co-opt them, where people panicked at the mere thought of a threat they couldn’t see, but still tried to exploit it for everything it was worth, fearing dragons and their relics but making cheap fakes to sell for the faintest hope of a half-gil. Where you could find a criminal and know, know in your gut that he had done something wrong, but be unable to perform any kind of real justice between apathy from the city’s orders and the hordes of the wrong-doer’s heavily armed friends, who were sure he was being a better person now and therefore could not possibly be called to account. Compare the two, she thought, and it was clear a transfer was impossible. It was the one gap in her marriage that would never quite be bridged. But compare it through her eyes, and a transfer was a slow creeping death, where a few compromises could be made, and then suddenly she was no better than a guard slapping his own somnus on a caravan; no better than a Monetarist hiring sellswords to hurt civilians and kill his own agents while the Blades looked the other way; no better than another leaving holy artifacts in a warehouse for some idiot peddler to loot. Bellveil. The frown faded. In the end, she let him go, let the earnest pleas of a few of his friends convince her that three cycles in the oubliette wasn’t what he deserved for his role in the whole mess. They had insisted on his better nature, the redhead in particular. Strange that she’d accepted responsibility for the robbery, she thought, but a sun later she’d checked old records and found the woman was wanted for a half-dozen different colors of conspiracy against the state. Character references in the city were useless without references of their own. Too late to take it back now, she supposed, as she made her way through small streets and alleys to the city gates. She could only hope he wasn’t already making her regret the decision. --- The fire had spread faster than Verad had anticipated. He wasn’t used to the business of building funeral pyres, particularly when they were on his front lawn. The body had been cold enough thanks to being stored on top of used ice-sprite cores that he had presumed he would need to make the flame especially hot, otherwise he wouldn’t so much have cremated the remains as lightly thawed them. And, yes, true, he did stumble a bit and spill a bit more diluted ceruleum on the logs than he’d intended, and tried placing a bit of spare Vylbrand gunpowder on the logs he’d managed to stack together (a ponz was only a bit, right?), but these were all minor details in the scheme of things, mere wrinkles in the tapestry of the event that added up to a lengthy fold in the form of the semi-massive explosion that issued forth once he’d set the pyre alight with a torch. Once Verad had regained his senses, checked to ensure he hadn’t lost his eyebrows (which was bad) or his beard (which was worse), he frantically gathered dirt from his garden patch to try and contain the blaze. Somewhere in the white-hot fire, he knew, lay the remains of the No-Eyed Man, his body recovered from the scene. Once he had enough dirt scrabbled around the blaze to hopefully contain it and keep his yard at least somewhat respectable, the Duskwight stood before it with hands folded together in front of him. Eyes closed in a respectful silence. Kyrael, he knew, would mock him for this, but Kyrael stuck his fingers in the corpse’s nose for fun, so Verad considered the opinion unworthy of consideration. Other, more credible people might also consider this gesture somewhat amiss. Here was the funeral of a man who had riled parts of the city into panic, drawn Dravanian cells into their midst, and been at least partially responsible for Verad himself being kidnapped and nearly sacrificed out in the middle of the Sagolii. One did not need to be vindictive to find Verad’s behavior somewhat odd. What he would tell people, he thought as he watched the blaze, his eyes lowered enough to avoid being blinded by the bright light of a white-hot fire, was that it may have been so, but if he did not respect someone who had been his enemy after a fashion, then he could hardly respect himself. Dubiousness was all well and good, but it was possible to be both dubious and decent. What he could not tell people, save in this moment, he murmured to the by-now ashen remains. “I am sorry,” he whispered, his voice making the noise a bit low. “You were brought here because of my own foolishness, and mayhaps you needn’t be here at all otherwise.” People would argue with Verad on this point, he knew, as they had several times. He would, publicly at least, agree with them. But it was still his hands that left a warehouse door open, that left a pile of relics to fall into the hands of the Ul’dahn populace, and left the city open to the predations of mischief makers like Gerchon. He was as complicit as the hands that brought the relics to the city in the first place. “We thought you a pawn at first, of your partner,” he said, as if the fire could listen. “But you had your own plans, didn’t you? The Lay of Leofric, the stones . . . “ Verad quickly shook his head. There was no use speculating. The leads were dead in their entirety, in many cases quite literally. “Whether it was my hand alone or something else that brought you here,” he finished, “I’m sorry it ended this way.” That said, he took a deep breath, and made a small gesture in worship of Oschon at his chest. “May your path on the lifestream guide you to a better one than this.” A spark jumped and hit the grass. Verad yelped, and stomped it out with his boot. He went looking for more dirt. The blaze was growing, and the smoke rose high; someone from the Goblet Housing Authority was sure to file a complaint.

I really don't see the problem with a gun that shoots blades.

Verad congratulates the Black Mage on being present to aid and abet in his daring escape, and is pleased that the mage was so honored to be able to play a large part. He then asks the Black Mage if he can get a ride back to Camp Dragonhead, because this rescue happened in Coerthas and, for reasons Verad refuses to explain, he has no pants and it's terribly cold. Also, would he be interested in a plot device?

"I don't have any money, go away."

While Warren's sword arm and my heart are all aflutter at a faction war and social infighting, we're dealing with a "GS never existed" situation instead of a "GS can not now exist." BUT MAN, THIS IS MAKING ME WANT TO WRITE ALT-VERSE FICTION. This raises another good point - how do you handle the retcon itself? Who have you interacted with, whose interactions are based heavily on the retconned material, and what do you tell them? For example, if two characters would have met only through retconned material, do you have them meet again?

My point is to get you to talk about your character in specifics and in detail rather than express the same platitudes about headcanon and working with the creative tools you're given which, I assure you, the majority of the RPC community knows. Thank you for doing so! What circumstances would cause this mental state? If the training did not have the particular impact that it does in-game, and has some other affect (unique or not, given that this is a fantasy setting and this can, thoughtcrime though this may be on my part, indicate that not everything is based in real-life historical reresentations) on his personality, what would that be?

I have no interest in whether or not SE will or will not actually do this. The question is a hypothetical. Plausibility rarely matters. That said, while you say it's a fighting style, your wiki also very clearly explains how it has a definite impact on a student's psychology, to the extent that you explicitly state its students have to learn not to think that way. If it turns out that the fighting style of the Temple Knights is one which similarly influences psychology to the extent that they are all, say, completely sincere and openly emotional in contrast to the absence of emotion that your current style describes, will Kayllen's psychology change to follow suit?