Verad

I'm in the camp that says generic concepts work no matter how out-there the lore gets, so I rely on those instead of fussing about the small details of the lore, making adjustments as necessary - "necessary" being when compliance would be more entertaining than non-compliance.

There's a saying, about how some conformity prevents a lot of narcissism. There are many sayings.

Do I Care About Playing With As Many People As Possible? I say this because all of the first four checkpoints seem to rely on making the character palatable to the broadest possible audience - they're all built around not upsetting anybody who might potentially maybe be interested in playing with you. But I may not care about that. I may be more interested in playing with a group of trusted friends, and I may be making this character and developing this concept specifically for use with that group alone. If this is the case, then the first four points don't really matter as much.

Sign-ups for the first part of a new Fate-14 storyline, "Scales in the Sand" can be found below. There is space available for up to five players to start: 1. Anstarra Silverain 2. Osric Melkire 3. Kiht Jakkya 4. 5. Players who are interested in joining should have a reason to be in and around Eastern Thanalan in the Highbridge region.

Really, I should have done this one sooner. I have no idea how people are getting the italics in their quotes, though. Edit: There we go, much better.

We are currently open although activity has been slow of late. Recruitment and advertising for a Fate-14-based storyline will begin soon.

I make no claims as to balance or quality.

Usually around the Quicksand if I'm not caught up in somebody else's plot or working on PvE.

I can finally go back to being a Midlander!

Aya's comment makes a useful point - it's important to remember when starting these organizations that there is already one-such organization in Ul'dah, and it's kind of a big deal. I think it would be useful for such an association to exist, especially for Limsan and Gridanian RPers, but we have to bear in mind that an Ul'dahn mercantile organization that isn't blessed by the auspices of the Syndicate, or powerful enough to be on the Syndicate, is going to encounter friction.

What's that? A location at which I can sell crap? Done.

Edit: It's late, so I would rather not frame this in the form of question and answer on my part. A more complete response: You handle conflict RP by acknowledging that you may have to bend your concept a bit to make conflict work. As it stands, you portray the character, both in-game and in your IC fiction, as having no real weaknesses that can't be compensated for by his wealth and his network of employees and contacts. That makes for boring conflicts. It's also slightly disingenuous of you to say that the character lacks martial training, because you have also been on record as preferring a grounded, realistic approach to combat, in which size and strength can outweigh skill - and have then framed your character as having a great deal of both in comparison to most other people. Between the two, you may have written yourself into a corner with regards to conflicts, into a situation in which a fight between yourself and random-cool-guy-X (take note, too, of the way you frame the possibility of random conflicts, both in this question and in your IC fiction) has to end either fatally for Otto or the other guy, or not have such things happen at all. If you want to avoid these, seriously consider dialing back the things that make Otto a difficult character for this purpose.

What is this LS? Roll Eorzea is a linkshell dedicated to discussing the use of roll systems in MMO RP. While we welcome discussion of any roll system, our current focus is on the in-house roll-system of Fate-14 Players can receive help with making character sheets in this system, making and improving roll systems of their own, and organizing storylines for players interested in roll-based RP. The linkshell is entirely OOC, and there is no requirement to be in a specific free company to join. The only requirement is that you have an interest in the use of tabletop roll systems within your FF14 roleplay. How do I join? Contact Nihka Mioni, either here or in-game, for an invite into the LS. Can I talk about my own roll system instead of the in-house system? Sure! The LS is managed by someone who’s always interested in hearing about new systems. Players would be happy to help critique and playtest new ideas, and we can also advertise your roll system's rules on the linkshell page here. OOC Rules: Please avoid debating the relative merits of emote-based fighting, roll-based fighting, and fighting through in-game mechanics such as PvP. It’s a useful argument, but it’s one that can be had on any number of forums dedicated to discussing online RP. Assume that everybody in the LS is on the same page regarding the utility of roll systems - that is to say, that roll systems can be used to effect in online RP. Be respectful of other players’ opinions regarding how to design roll systems and run events. Not everybody is going to want to use the same system the same way. Hostility, harassment, and hate-speech will result in your removal from the LS. Mind the Hs.

While I will relate to you, dear reader of impeccable taste and exquisite looks, many of my earlier exploits, I would like to assure you that I will not waste your time or mine with the very beginning of things. Beginnings! Such twaddle, as if the tales of when I was yet to walk could prove of interest to anyone! Too many memoirs concern themselves with these trivial fancies, sure that the lives of their subjects before they became important are as fascinating as they are after the fact. You, however, may be at ease in knowing that I have skipped over some of the dullest parts of my life. -Introduction, Memoirs of a Masterful Merchant: The Verad Bellveil Story Sixth Astral Era, Somewhere in the Shroud "Really," said Corwin, glancing at his companion in mild irritation, "I think you're taking this a bit too hard. It's quite nice here, you know? There's shade for a hot day, there's cover, it's a nice broad space - you could do a lot worse for yourself than here." The caravan driver's only response was to whimper as he lay flat on the ground in a sloppy approximation of the manner in which he'd been directed. Corwin frowned. "Well, suit yourself." He squinted out at the road. From his angle underneath the caravan, there wasn't much to be seen except the occasional spattering of feet, crunching out a steady rhythm in the dirt as combatants ran past. "But I think it's quite all right." An arrow acquainted itself with the caravan's side with a solid thunk, prompting a yelp from the driver and a vigorous attempt to curl himself into the tiniest possible ball. Corwin sighed. He had taken a chance on the man - his first time driving in the Shroud, but he'd come with good references, and he'd been told that he had two things that were absolutely necessary for the journey: the ability to handle a chocobo well and a healthy appreciation for taking cover in the event of danger. As things had turned out, he had proven himself quite ably in the act of the former, but Corwin felt there was room for improvement in the performance of the latter. Nor could he blame this on having left him unprepared. It had all been explained in advance: upon reaching the Shroud, the first caravan went a few thousand yalms ahead of the others as a decoy. The bandits attacked. The Wailers and the Quiver were signaled. There was just enough blood and death to scare them off, and the rest of the wagons could then proceed in peace. All of this had been explained. But no, Corwin found himself trying to talk the man through the act of hiding very still on the ground. What he got for taking a chance on a Lalafell, he supposed. The kicking of dirt to his right interrupted his thoughts, and he noticed the driver kicking himself up to a crawl before attempting a scramble for open ground. He was quick to grab the back of the man's shirt and drag him away, holding him down and still, little legs kicking up dirt as he tried to wrench himself free. The position may have been awkward, and Corwin may have been short for a Midlander, but he was hardly slight, and he certainly had the strength to keep his driver in place. "Can't have you doing that," He said. "Say the raiders win, and they see you, who's not a Wailer - well, maybe a wailer, but not a Wailer. They'll get curious where he came from, won't they? Might go poking around elsewhere. So you have to stay down. Do you understand?" He smiled, bright and razor-sharp, until the driver nodded, brushing a few tears from his eyes. "Good." Corwin released his grip. "Stay. Down." A thought struck him as he took in the general din of scattered shouts and the occasional sound of an arrow striking something firm, whether the thump of a tree or the scream of a combatant. "It is taking a while, though. Is this how long it’s supposed to take? Worse aim than usual, I suppo - " A body collapsed in the visible space between the caravan and the ground, its face turned away from the pair, and even Corwin started up in surprise, a moment passing before returned to his face-down position, resting his hands in his cheek. "Better that than to hit one of the balloons and send the whole thing crashing down on us, eh?" Receiving only a quiet sobbing in response, his face turned sour. "Remind me to put this on your performance report when we get back." "Clear! All clear! They yield and flee!" The call came from the east, where he had seen the Wailers break free of the forest growth, soldiers of the God's Quiver in support, before halting the wagon and ducking beneath. The driver wasted no time, scrambling out from underneath the shade and into the open air, hardly paying the body in front of them any mind in his effort to kick dirt out from under his feet and be free of cover. Perhaps a fear of closed spaces, Corwin supposed. He’d seen a few men have such frights. Later, he would have to lock the man in a box and see if it bothered him, to be sure. Couldn’t allow himself to take risks. His own exit from his hiding place was far more leisurely, and he took the time to brush dirt from his knees and the front of his jacket - real goatskin, too high-quality to let it be ruined by a little thing like an ambush of an ambush. The day was clear and the sun was bright, and stepping out from under the shade forced him to squint, wrinkling worn eyes further as he surveyed the surroundings. While no expert on the matter of how bloody a battlefield ought to look, he expected a little better, a little more in the way of carnage. There were bodies, to be certain, at least a dozen-and-half or so scattered along the treelines, or flat on the ground where one participant or another had broken cover for some fool reason. Mostly the local cave clans, as far as he could see, with a handful of the green-and-browns of Wailer leathers besides. Arrows, everywhere, stuck in the ground, the trees, into an outside the caravan. An archery battle, he supposed. Typical of these skirmishes, or so the brat had said - the Duskwights and the wilder of the Wildwoods preferred to use the cover to their advantage, and avoid engaging the open road. Still, he’d expected more. The plan demanded it. But far be it from Corwin to criticize for not killing enough people, as if he had done much of the same in his time, and things had gone well. He walked amongst the Wailers as they pushed the dead out of the road, surveying the cargo and caravan alike for signs of serious damage. “Always puncturing,” he remarked over his shoulder to one man as he pushed aside a Duskwight. “One of these days they’re going to learn to aim for the float, and that’ll be the end of it, hey? But good work, good work.” He took the liberty of patting the man’s back, made him stumble and drop the carcass. Certainly there was a glare behind the man’s mask, if the frown he gave beneath it were any indication, but Corwin grinned all the same. “So, shall we signal the rest along? All clear? I’d like to have everything in the markets by sundown.” The Wailer’s frown only deepened. Something about an Elezen Corwin had never liked - when they frowned, even the faintest twitch of the lips seemed to indicate the greatest disapproval. Couldn’t they at least bare teeth or spit, or something? “This was nothing,” The Wailer explained, gathering the body a second time. “Too few by far. We came in force and if they had the same, we’d have been met in kind.” A grunt as he hoisted his fallen comrade up to waist-height. “This was skirmishing, harassing - delaying tactics. Do you not know this?” The tone in his voice indicated the answer - Of course you do not, outsider. Corwin balled one hand into a fist. “Pardon me if I’ve been uninformed, ser, but I’m no martial man, y’see, I was told this would work. Even worked it out with the brat, special, to bring what I’ve got to you and your kin.” And a little bit to someone else, of course. But no sense in saying that. “So did it, or didn’t it?” He was ignored, the man shaking his head and dragging the body away. Such priorities, Corwin thought. Pace shifted from leisurely to laconic, and may well have reached haste, as he searched amongst the soldiers for someone who could explain. “Here,” he said aloud, and with increasing aggravation, the wry, brassy tone of his voice taking on a hint of growl. “What’s the plan, then? What happened? It worked, didn’t it?” He gripped the shoulder of a man of the Quiver, directing his fellows to gather those few arrows that could see re-use. “Man over there says there’s too few, like it didn’t. Did it? Is my damn cargo safe?” At first there was no response, save for a glance aside to the treeline, and for an instant Corwin felt as if he ought to raise his hand. No martial man, he, but he was stout and strong enough to break a jaw if he felt it. No need to be martial for that. It was fortunate that a response came, and in such a hesitant fashion that he didn’t think it Gridanian aloofness. “It’s . . . well, we expected more, that’s all,” he said. “With the attacks they’ve made - it couldn’t have been with so few. There has to be more out there. We sent a runner with a squad to your liaison, but if there’s been a problem - “ He stopped. “‘Liaison?’” Corwin’s brows, thick and beetling things, clumped together as they raised. “You mean the - “ He swore and released the man’s shoulder, jabbing a finger at the driver. “Unhook one of those chocobos!” --- When he got back to Thanalan, Corwin thought, he’d have to praise the local chocobokeep for her discerning taste when it came to pack animals. Unburdened by the caravan, the chocobo was strong and, mercifully, fast, though every yalm of his ride through the forest paths only made him aware of how many yalms were remaining. It was a short enough ride south, no more than a matter of a quarter-bell at speed, and if the matter had been an idle one he would have enjoyed it. Instead there was nothing but a gnawing worry, one that grew when he saw one caravan float, detached and deflated, little more than a bright cloth sack, along the side of the road. He cursed, increased his pace, and rounded the necessary bends. Credit where it was due, the cave clans were never fool enough to try to burn a caravan. They preyed upon trade, certainly, robbed and murdered, shot and stole, sometimes kidnapped to ransom, sometimes kidnapped for its own sake. But they never burned. The risk of the fire spreading to the Shroud was too great, and the risk of the elementals reacting greater still. Thus Corwin was not granted the benefit of a conspicuous plume of smoke rising out from the trees to presage the fate of his cargo. The entire convoy was exactly as he’d left it when he had split off from them shortly after entering the Shroud, save for the small matter of being utterly destroyed. The caravans were upturned, the chocobos slain, or close to it, if the fluttering of a few feathers and the kicking of legs were any sign. Bodies littered the ground without the uniformity of character at the decoy site; his drivers and porters had been a mixed lot, and they were as diverse when prone on the ground as they were when they had seen him off on his part of the plan. A few members of the Quiver were present, checking the caravans for damage, for survivors. The cargo was irrelevant, of course. Priorities indeed. “No,” he murmured, dismounting and leaving the chocobo to rest, the word repeated and rising in volume as he moved from a walk to a run, half-stumbling over a broken harness in his path. “NononononnononoNO!” Where the soldiers concerned themselves with the dead, his interests were in the inanimate, scanning amongst the wreckage for signs of cargo. Crates were to be found, certainly, sacks as well, but empty and broken as often as not. One, in particular, was missing. A Quiverman halfway through the process of identifying which of a number of arrows had landed the killing blow against one of Corwin’s drivers found himself abruptly grabbed by the shoulder. “Where is it?” Corwin’s eyes had a glassy, manic look. “Small crate, size of a chair, stamped with a one-winged imp. Did they take it? Have you seen it?” A quick shove to the man’s chest pushed Corwin away. “Ser, please, calm yourself! We only arrived, drove them off. They seemed mostly through with the lot.” He gestured to the western treeline, where two or three Duskwights lay, arrows protruding to mark where they feel. “If you’re missing something, they’ve taken it. Assume that - “ Corwin stormed past and stomped on the ground. “Fucking Twelve, fucking Duskwights, fucking brat - just - fuck!” He kicked dirt in the air with a broad movement, lost his balance, and fell backwards into the road. There he lay for a moment, staring up at the sun with squinted eyes, obscured by trees save for glimmers of light. “Brat,” he muttered, before sitting upright. “Shit, that’s right. My brother. Anybody seen him?” This he called out to the group. Their confused looks demanded he clarify. “You know? The brat?” The confusion remained, so he clarified the clarification. “Liaison? Fellow you were sent for? Verad?” More confusion. A fresh look of horror crossed his face. “He’s not - “ “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m here.” A few planks from one of the caravan’s hulls fell away, and the brat staggered out from beneath them, shaking his head, trying to wipe away blood from the side of his head before it dried. “Just - relax, I’m here.” Exhaling, Corwin stifled a relieved grin as Verad rose to his feet. The two were far from of a pair; over a decade Verad’s senior, Corwin was stout and weathered, bronzed from life in the desert, a stark contrast to his brother’s youthful features and slim build. Only their hair, the same shade of sandy blond, told the relation, and even given that, commenters frequently mistook the elder for the younger’s uncle. Pushing aside the few Quivermen coming to check him, the brat held his arms open as if to embrace Corwin, the distance between them closing. “I’m glad you’re all right - I hope the attack went - “ He was interrupted by Corwin beating him about the shoulder with the back of his hand, each blow punctuated by a word. “You. Said. This. Would. Work!” Verad flinched under the assault, and Corwin could see, from the corner of his eye, some of the Gridanian soldiers coming to intervene. He broke away, chest heaving from deep, aggravated breaths. “You did. Said it was the chance the Wailers needed. What happened?” “I don’t know.” Corwin raised his hand, and the brat danced back a step. “I don’t! Maybe they scouted us splitting up once you were in the Twelveswood. Maybe they spied me approaching from the north, I can’t say. What do you expect me to say?” He searched for his bow as he spoke, picking amongst the caravan wreckage until he had its grip in hand. “I’m sorry, I am. You weren’t gone more than a bell, maybe half that. It was fast.” “Does me no good,” he said, snorting and waving away the soldiers. “Look at all this! That’s benefits to the families, damages to the chocobokeep, that’s lost cargo, that’s new caravans to buy - I just -” Corwin held up his hands. “This is going to take years. Years.” “You say that with every loss.” The brat shouldered his quiver, giving a salute to the soldiers. “Every loss, every time.” “It’s true every time!” He thought of his ledger back home. He had very much enjoyed using black ink when he wrote a number into his accounts. It was a rare occasion. “We’ll talk it over, all right? Mayhap the Quiver and the Wailers can cover some of the loss when we speak to them. They did agree to it.” This seemed to mollify Corwin, who harrumphed and folded his arms together. “Just - ride back with the main force, and we’ll meet you in Gridania, get this sorted - “ Verad paused. “Well?” said Corwin, frowning. “You could at least validate me a little more.” Taking a few steps forward, he saw his gaze was not quite fixed on Corwin, staring off into the treeline. “You! Come on, you’re not seeing an elemental, are you? Focus here! This is a serious lo-” The brat wasn’t as strong as Corwin by half, but the latter didn’t expect him to shove him away and to the right by the waist. An arrow scattered dirt in the ground a moment after the merchant had been pushed away, and Corwin heard the rapid creak of a drawn bowstring and hiss of a loosed arrow from his brother shortly after. “What - damnation, warn me when you’re out to save my life, would you?” said Corwin, picking himself up from the dirt and glaring over his shoulder. In the treeline, he could see a Duskwight, clad in the heavy garments of his clan, slumping to the ground, an arrow in his side. It wasn’t the only one; a shaft seemed to stick out from his leg as well, most likely acquired when the soldiers of the Quiver had arrived. A distracting shot may have been the only way to escape, he supposed. “Sorry,” said the brat, grinning in spite of himself. “I’ll be sure to give you proper notice next time. Now can we please get out of here?” He looked as if he wanted to say more, but a long, high wail arose from the treeline. The brat frowned. “That’s - is he still alive? It doesn’t sound - “ Corwin’s only response was to grimace. He was familiar enough with that sound from his brother, years ago, when he’d been hungry, or frightened. “Wait right here.” “What do you mean? Saved your life. Without notice, I admit,” said Verad as he shouldered his bow. His thin eyebrows knit together in confusion. “I thought it was a clean enough hit, but - Corwin, please!” Verad tried to reach out to pull him back, but the elder brother had already stepped out of reach, making his way towards the treeline at a cautious pace. The walk wasn’t far, and the body easy to spot even if the keening noise hadn’t provided signal enough. Corwin knelt down in the grass and dirt near the fallen Duskwight, the body heavily garbed. Too thick for the kind of movements bandits and poachers in the Shroud would require, he thought, unwrapping a few stray pieces of cloth torn from the impact of Verad’s arrow. Pulling aside a few more stray scraps, Corwin guarded his expression, kept his face neutral. The crunch of footsteps in grass and leaves signalled Verad’s approach. “Well? What is - “ He began. His face, too, went blank. An infant wailed, swaddled against the Duskwight’s torso, too tightly bound to do anything but squirm and scream. The arrow had been a clean in hit in the bandit’s side; shock, coupled with the previous injury, had likely proven fatal. Clean, but close; an ilm to the right, and the child’s head would have been split open. “Verad,” said Corwin, giving an aggrieved sigh. “You missed.”

Work, finish my LS advertisement.

You are not alone. Music doesn't do much for me, either in general or during the act of character creation. Most of the music I have for my character as themes are songs that seem to fit the concept after the fact. Even then, it's more a product of something relevant in the lyrics than in the song's melody or composition.

Come up with plans that require other people getting hurt. Find people who want to get hurt. RP that to further your plans. It doesn't really have to be justifiable in some form; RPers are eager to justify your bad behavior for you. Even a very flimsy excuse will be sufficient to get RPers defending your right to eat puppies as a necessary evil being done for the greater good.

There were tears in her eyes. If someone asked Verad to find a pattern to the nature of his meetings with Miss Deneith, then he would have been able to point it out with ease: he would find her at a low point, and he would raise her up again. It had happened in Limsa, during their very first meeting and in the conversations after; in Ul’dah, when he had come into the Sultansworn gaols during her imprisonment; and in Limsa again, when, during a heavy rain, she told him of the death of a man in custody, one that had shaken her ideals to the core. Knowing her expression in those moments pained him. He had seen her broken and blank, muted as if she were a mannequin, unable to say what troubled her in anything but dull words and empty expressions. For a man accustomed to easy smiles and bemused looks, such things had proven unconscionable from the start, and when Verad saw her like that he did what he could to draw her from them. He never expected much; things weighed on Roen heavily, and he considered it a success to see even a small smile that could reach her eyes by the end of the conversation. But this time, there were tears, and he had never seen those before, edging around the corners of her eyes and threatening to spill over. And try as he might, he was unable to fight them. When he was their cause, fighting them was a hard thing to do. --- Verad shook himself of the memory. He never liked remembering things; things remembered were never half so interesting as things in the moment. This was why he often sold multiple times to the same people who denied him; it wasn’t that he didn’t have a head for faces. He just cared not to remember the unpleasantries. He placed his hands on the stone railing and looked out over the masses in the Quicksand. It was as it always was, a solid, permanent form of mutability. Always a crowd, always a clamor, always an Aya (he noted with a smile and a wave) serving the customers. And always, always, some poor soul by themselves, looking lonely and benighted and, to Verad’s eyes, in desperate need of dubious goods. It was time to get back to basics. The robberies were no longer necessary; he’d gotten evidence enough, and what he couldn’t get himself, he had passed along as leads to Sergeant Melkire. The incident their smiles reached their eyes, that was the worst of it, the real pleasure they took from it had passed, and Verad had healed fully. It had been a trying half-moon, that was for certain. The heist going awry, the visitation, retreating to Gridania and to friends in the Morbolvine for convalescence, not to mention the problem of Quarrymill and everything that had come up there; all of it it had taken his time, and taken him away from his proper calling. That required scanning the crowd, looking for his usual criteria - someone who was more likely to be amused than annoyed by his approach and doubly so by his pitch. There were a few false starts. He would spy someone, move his arm as if to push away from the railing, and then they would be joined by someone else. Groups were tricky. Pairs, two of them, one to lock his warehouse door and guard it from the inside, the other to get to business doubly so. Pairs often wanted to be left alone. Groups often asked too many questions all at once. Not insurmountable, but if he wanted to be sure to walk away with at least a handful of gil, he tried to catch out someone alone. At last he spied an interested party, or at least someone bored enough to be interested as a form of distraction, a Midlander woman absently pushing a utensil along the rim of her drink, dark hair and dark clothing, keeping her eyes out of his or anybody else’s sight. Terribly mysterious business, thought Verad. He’d need to move quick or somebody might approach first in order to cheer her up, ask her do you know who you’ve upset they asked, and he knew, and they said that made it easier but only for them what made her so forlorn? It was something Verad did but rarely, and only then as an angle to sell his wares. Often, talking about himself was easier, more effective, than talking about other people. His push away from the railing was a final one, and he approached the interior of the tavern with his usual easy confidence; nothing quite like a swagger, but direct and clear enough to attract attention. He cleared his throat and offered a smile, his voice loud enough to be heard at a short distance, deep enough to attract attention. “Pardon me, madam,” he began, “But would you be interested in any fine dubious shards of his wares falling down over his body, ribs folding in on themselves from the impact of plated boots goods this afternoon?” He followed up the question with a tilted head and a broad grin, as always. She’d ask what he meant. They always asked, or always assumed, but asked anyway. It took a moment for the woman to recognize she was being spoken to, and that the speech did not involve asking if somebody could sit at the conspicuously empty table nearby. She parted her hair and looked up at Verad with a puzzled expression. “I’m sorry? Dubious what?” His mouth was halfway to open, to respond, when a flash of metal, caught his eye at the corner of his field of vision. Copper or brass, under a shock of something red, nearly faded to pink. forced him to his knees and one took the red wig from his head (her hair it was her hair) and struck and struck and laughed Verad made a small, panicked cry, taking a few steps back and shielding himself with a hand thrown up near his head. In his retreat, he stumbled over the back of some adventurer’s propped-up lance, and fell without grace onto his rump. Even then, he skittered back a few steps, fear in his eyes, hunted expression on his face. He was fortunate, in some respects, that the Quicksand was as busy as it was. The staff was no stranger to such outbursts, and apart from a puzzled look, most of the onlookers paid him little attention. Just the odd duskwight with another routine. Looking behind his prospective customer again, he saw a Seeker man with a shock of pinkish red hair walk out the bar’s front entrance, lugging a bronze hoplon over his shoulder. Even so, he did not rise to his feet, risking smashed fingers and toes as he waited for his breath to return and his heart to stop pounding. A hand, small and pale, appeared in front of him, attached to the woman he’d sought as a buyer. “Are you all right?” she asked, her lips a polite smile, her eyes all puzzled concern. Verad shook his head and rose to his feet. “Ah, yes, thank you, I’m just - “ He swallowed, scanning the crowd with a suddenly wary expression. “I’m fine. Another time, miss. My apologies for the interruption.” He knew the Quicksand crowd well enough to know she might start asking questions about the source of the problem, but she seemed satisfied. “Of course,” she said, returning to her seat. He waited until she was preoccupied again before turning to reach the bar, signalling for Aya’s attention. She would know something strong enough to help forget, and he was never much for remembering unpleasantries.

Tinkering with my All Saints' costume for HoD's masquerade ball. In case you ever wondered what Verad looked like ??? number of years ago.

To say Verad participated as an "archer" is somewhat disingenuous, but yes, people have shown up and used bows and arrows.

Retconning is fine. Do it freely and as necessary. In an effort to avoid doing so, I tend to avoid making characters that interact very heavily with the metaphysics of the setting. I rarely play magic-users until I know very well what the rules for magic are in any RP environment, especially MMOs, because I know I will get something wrong that will have to be fixed later. But the notion of "deleting/changing" the character when there's some critical lore error - who says this? Is there anybody who actually advocates this? "Sorry, you got some unanswered area wrong, reroll?"

He tried very hard to keep the twitch in his eye out of his face when Vaughn mentioned good quality. "I can almost certainly assure you that I do not," he replied with no hint of a strain in his voice. "And, even if you did happen to quite accidentally find something of quality within my stock, I maintain a policy of refunds and exchanges for any unfortunately non-dubious items with proof of purchase." What that might be, precisely, he didn't say. This was normal. Gil-on-a-chain was never a top seller for some reason. Something about defacing perfectly good currency, especially in Ul'dah, made people take offense. Strange, he thought, it was just a coin. One he relentlessly pursued, but even then, a coin all the same. "As for what else," he said, turning brilliant green eyes back in Jaques' direction, "My stock is unfortunately limited after certain recent, ah, liquidations." He verbally hustled past that point. "But I can offer you my list of stock where it comes to scrap materials for artisans. Excellent for prototyping new designs as long as you don't mind those designs being flammable. Or perhaps you'd be interested in accepting some inferior art? Help a starving bad artist become adequate?"