Melkire

To put it succinctly and without all the satiric vitroil of the above: Widargelt meets the Warrior of Light at Revenant's Toll and reveals that he has begun taking on new disciples, two Miqo'te sisters. Inspired by Warrior of Light's rapid progress, he aspires to restore the brotherhood of monks by training these new pupils of his. The Miqo'te apprentices eventually reveal themselves as monks in their own right when they turn on Widargelt and the Warrior of Light. Widargelt is surprised to learn from them that the Fist of Rhalgr was once comprised of two sects, the sect of light and the sect of shadow, and that there are not seven chakra total but fourteen chakra in all, seven for light and seven for shadow. As it turns out, the only means by which one can open chakra of the opposite sect is through fighting a monk of the opposite sect. The clash between light and dark serves as a catalyst that opens chakra of the opposite aspect (as opposed to opening chakra of your native aspect, which as seen in the 30-50 Job Quests requires tapping into a land that once saw violent battle). The women are both of the sect of shadow, and on a number of occassions appear to confront Widargelt and the Warrior. As the four monks grow together, it becomes readily apparent that the women are being pressured into this bloody conflict by their master, a monk of the old order who survived the massacre of the Fist of Rhalgr and took advantage of the slaughter so many years ago to open the fourteenth chakra. For the fourteenth, like the seventh, requires traumatic violence to open; the fourteenth requires you to murder a monk of the opposite sect. This Nunh attempts to coerce Widargelt into kneeling before him and serving him as the head of the new order, and eventually resorts to kidnapping and threatening one of the women to further pressure Widargelt into surrendering himself. The three remaining monks despair, for despite many attempts not a one of them is able to open the fourteenth chakra without resorting to murder. Taking hope and faith that the three of them together might manage to overcome the Nunh despite their deficiencies, they confront him just south of Little Ala Mhigo. In the battle that ensues, Widargelt and the free Miqo'te woman hold off the Nunh's disciples while the Warrior of Light confronts the old monk of shadow himself. Fueled apparently by the direct conflict and the desire to protect his/her friends, the Warrior of Light is surprised to find the fourteenth chakra opening to him/her. Now on an even footing, the Warrior of Light defeats the Nunh, and the four monks return to Revenant's Toll to begin building a new order, one that does not resort to needless violence and murder to obtain power.

As soon as the door to his home fell shut, the last drop he'd drained from his reservoir dried up, and the pain came rushing back. Osric staggered into the wall and slid down to the floor onto his knees. His right hand slapped down to support his weight as he retched and puked over the lobby floorboards. Shite.... He'd been a fool, to call out Berrod like that. He'd been so desperate to measure up to his master, to test himself and prove to himself that he could be the sort of man that could safeguard his loved ones even without the resources of the Immortal Flames, that he'd lost sight of himself. He'd driven himself into a frenzy. He'd taken all of his fear and anger with him to the Ruins of Sil'Dih... to throw every erg of aether he could draw from his chakra at the monk he aspired to surpass. Berrod Armstrong, who'd been at this for far longer than he had. Berrod Armstrong, whom he still could not match. Would like as not never match. The broken bones of his left arm shifted, sending a jolt of crackling agony tearing through his already-flaring nerves. He curled up into a little ball and shrieked, his voice ringing in his ears as it carried through the house. The pain was just one more reminder of his folly. Forget the idiocy in trying to match Armstrong for power; why in the seven hells had he tried to stand his ground against a killing blow? He ought to have never tried. Three times, he'd seen Berrod draw forth his signature, those blue tendrils that surged and sparked up and down the man's arm... but he'd never borne the brunt before. Not like this. Once, the highlander had pulled his punch; that and Osric's first lesson from Endemerrin, that display of hardened skin and flesh and bone, had been all that had saved the midlander. Later, he'd taken Berrod by surprise, dropped the big man before that power was brought to bear. This time, though... this time.... "You can't catch lightnin', hoss." Here, now, he lifted his head and laughed, a wretched sound wracked by coughs. Blood shone on his teeth and dribbled down his chin as he grinned. Just watch me, bastard. Just you ruttin' WATCH me. "The thirds," he muttered aloud. "I need... the thirds...." For now, though, he needed help. Berrod had thrown Osric over his shoulders and carried the small man home when it became evident that no one was on call, that their respective healers weren't coming for them anytime soon. Healing. He needed healing. Die tryin', eh? Idiot. No one was home. They'd have surely heard him by now and come to the rescue, as it were. No one was home. Bed. I need t'get t'bed. Kanaria... she'll find me. She always finds me. He should've trusted Mikh'a. He should've believed in himself. Berrod had told him as much, just now. "Yer a monk, Osric. You don't answer ta anybody but God. An' if they try, destroy 'em. S'that simple." That recognition, from a man he admired... that faith, that he'd forgotten these past few nights... when he heard those words, he'd known. He'd known that he'd erred, that he'd allowed this latest blow to morale to dishevel and unhinge him. He was better than that. But first, there was the small matter of reaching his room with just one good arm when he lacked the strength to stand. He forced himself upright, crawled as best he could by dragging himself along the floorboards, and slammed his hand down against the lip of the lobby desk, caught the edge and hauled himself towards the hall that led to the private chambers of the Dauntless. Each moment spent in movement was a moment spent in gut-wrenching pain... but the pain was worth it. The pain was a reminder of what he wanted. What he finally knew he wanted. What he'd known from the moment he'd left Swift's office. I'm done with leashes.

*reads log and grumbles* Suppose a name change is in order ASAP. I've never once dropped the Moks name in character. Always introduces himself as Tengri Geneq. It's in his search info and on his wiki. Doesn't seem to do any good, though. Only went with Moks on the nameplate for the sake of making it easier to connect with other Xaela. Seems I should have gone the other route. In any case, I edited the log to reflect the right name, and would like to ask that anyone whose character remembers please reflect that in future RP as well, until such time as I can afford the name change. Thank you. :love:

Transfer times vary. They can take as little as a day or less. They can sometimes take up to three days. My experience has been on the quick-and-easy end: transferred a character from Gilgamesh to Balmung and had access to them within mere hours. There are some prerequisites your character needs to meet, however, for them to be eligible for transfer. If I recall correctly, they are as follows: 1. The character you intend to transfer needs to have progressed far enough in the starter quests via the Adventurer's Guild proprietor so as to see and be able to interact with other Player Characters. 2. The character needs to have existed for three days.

The two folders sat next to each other, thin and ominous, on the large solitary desk that dominated the room. The two men sat across from each other, sergeant and commander, neither meeting the other's eyes. Swift's office was as well-kept and sparsely decorated as ever, and the man in the uniform resembled his chambers: not a speck of dirt on his overcoat, not a splatting of ink on his gloves. Melkire, on the other hand, was not well-kept. He'd worn his old leathers to this debriefing, not the browns of his problem-solving youth but the red and black of his time spent in Thanalan, and they were thoroughly worn and torn. They still sported the long-since crusted grime from all the scuffles and tussles, brawls and battles, that had muddied them. He'd thought it appropriate, to don these rags as a gesture to the commander, a gesture that served as a reminder that he was now as he'd been back then: a soldier. Someone who served. Dirty work needed dirty men. "So," he muttered. "This ain't about the company, is it." "No," the commander answered as he leaned back in his chair and waved a hand out over the folders. "This is about you. I take it you've spoken with Korofi." "Told me you had him decommissioned. That Kahn'a's been reassigned or somethin'. That the Dauntless are bein' let go." Swift scowled as he pushed himself upright and out of his chair. He sauntered over to one of his bookcases and drew from it a single large binder. He opened it and began flipping through the contents as he circled the room. "To be honest with you, Sergeant, though the unit's service record is more or less exemplary, especially with our fellow Grand Companies, the degree and frequency of... irregularities... have raised concerns. Allegations have been levied, inquiries made, and though you've won the respect of many here in the Hall, we have not been able to field them all adequately enough to alleviate those concerns." Melkire lifted his head and glanced over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. "You're jokin'. We're too irregular for the irregulars?" "Two counts of misallocation of funds," read off the commander as he paced his office. "Three counts of absence without leave, and far too many requests for temporary leave to count. The issue is not your performance. The Dauntless always deliver. The issue is that you're never here, and that many within the ranks and without, the Syndicate included, believe you to be a waste of Grand Company funds. Your presence within Ul'dah has always been sporadic at best, and given the recent incident - congratulations on finding them, Sergeant, I am glad to know they are safe and sound - you've not been in Thanalan at all as of late." Swift slammed the binder shut and dropped it on the corner of his desk. He sat down again, this time with the weight and weariness of the man in charge of the most insane and reckless men and women of the age. Osric's fellow midlander sighed. "I understand your reasons for the sojourn north, and I applaud your support of the causes you so sordidly listed as justification for taking the Dauntless to Ishgard. Closer relations with the Holy See would serve us well. An alliance with any of the Great Houses would be a boon. Eyes and ears in the region, with the Empire so close... also an advantage. And yet the harsh reality is that you and yours are far too free-spirited for those in command to feel... comfortable... owning your leash." Swift waved a hand. "Officially, your unit is dissolved. Unofficially, the Dauntless will continue. You would anyroad. The difference is that yours will not be Foreign Brigade, yours will be a free company. Our servicemen may continue to serve with the Dauntless, should they so choose, though there remains the need for a liason. Which, ultimately brings us back to--" "Me," Osric growled. "You. I won't lie to you, Sergeant. Your past has caught up with you, deeds and misdeeds both, while you've been away. An investigation into your conduct was launched by the Brass Blades shortly after you took your leave." The commander shrugged. "Private Kokojo has been rather tenacious in chasing down any and all leads." The sergeant's head snapped up and his eyes finally snapped onto Swift's. "Kokojo...? She...?" "Resigned and took up with the Blades, yes. You ought to hear her speak of you these suns. Furious, disappointed... but faithful. For all she's discovered that condemns you, she's insisted on going farther than duty calls for. To find out why you've done as you have, I imagine." The younger man eyed Swift warily. "Which is... what?" "You stand charged with the murder of four Ul'dahn merchant-nobles, Monetarists all. Mumuqaru, Rezhenne, Quillburn... and one Jameson Taeros, with whom you are known to have associated with on Grand Company business." Osric couldn't help but stare. "Court-martial. I'm bein' court-martialed... then why haven't I been detained?" The commander gave him a small smile. "Because Lieutenant Peak pled your case on your behalf. Took it through the Hall, took it to the Syndicate. You were contracted, you see, not commissioned, and the terms of your contract were very clear. The General made sure of that, back when you were granted sanctuary and we took you in. I should know; I was there, and he came to me for assistance in that regard. Peak was a witness to those terms, and he remembers them as well as I do. The sultana's exact words were these: that you were to serve a sun for each sun that you'd stolen, a moon for each moon that your victim's families went without their loves ones, one cycle in service of life for each cycle in service of death. The Maelstrom had you on record as active for six cycles. We're coming up on that number now. Six cycles you've spent with the Immortal Flames, safeguarding the peoples of this city through dealing death. Peak remembered. Peak fought for you." "...ought to thank him, then. So... what'd that...?" "Get you? A choice." Swift straightened and laid his hands atop his desk. "These folders represent that choice." The man reached out and pushed the folder on Osric's right closer to him. "Inside, you'll find a single sheet. A confession, officially stating that you, the signatory, were responsible for these murders, that you believe to have possessed just cause, and that you will make reparations, not only to the bereaved families but to the wealth and welfare of Ul'dah. You will be enlisted for life. You will be assigned as liason to the Dauntless, for so long as they are active or until such time as they disband and you are reassigned. Your pay will go towards the aforementioned families, and you will live on rations. You will never leave Thanalan again, so long as you live." The sergeant swallowed as he glared at the folder. His vision swam with tears. "This... this is a sentence. A death sentence. This ain't servitude, this is slavery. Why would Peak...?" "This is the best the lieutenant could get you, Sergeant. I'm sorry." He stared for a moment longer... and then he glanced over to the other folder. The folder on his left. "You said I had a choice." "It is... not a good choice, Osric." "What choice, ser?" The commander shifted uncomfortably, then pushed the other folder closer. "Inside, you'll find a single sheet. A confession, in which you disavow any and all guilt for the deaths of the aforementioned nobles. You will be detained, and the court-martial will proceed pending further investigation, so that the prosecution might have time sufficient to build their case. You will be tried under a full military tribunal. At best, you will be dishonorably discharged. At worst, you will be hung... as a traitor." In. Out. In. Out. Each breath seemed a lifetime... but the pressure that had threatened to constrict his lungs was lifting. "Discharged." "Yes." "But... I'll be free." Swift raised an eyebrow. "Free. A free man, as I once was, aye?" "Sergeant... in all likelihood, you will be found guilty. Even if you are not, Lord Lolorito is... not pleased with you, to put it diplomatically. I won't be able to shield you any longer. Not I, not the General, not the sultana herself. You'll be alone, without aegis." Osric Melkire's eyes danced back and forth between the two folders. He thought. He weighed his future. When he came to, Swift was patting him on one shoulder. "Take your time. Show yourself out. You can take the folders with you. You've a sennight to come to a decision. In the meantime, don't try to leave Thanalan. You're under supervision." The commander turned and made for the door, to give his soldier some much-needed time and space to himself, alone in a quiet, peaceful room. The Hyur paused in the doorway, and looked back at his sergeant, slumped as his subordinate was. "Good luck, Osric. I am sorry that we could not do more for you." "...all Scales find their Balance, ser. Thank you." A long moment passed before the sergeant heard the door swing shut behind him.

The bolded is where the problem lies. I sincerely doubt that most people on board with such an effort would actually move on a lasting, permanent basis. So the question is: who is this thread for? Are a bunch of us willing and wanting to pick up and transfer to a less populated server? If the answer is no, then... who is the onus on for a such a thing?

The flip side of this is that the rise of a tertiary RP server has the potential to fragment other large populations such as Balmung and Gilgamesh. I don't particularly see a problem with this happening to the former (we're large and we could take the hit to pop without losing too much roleplay presence/availability) but Gilgamesh is smaller in comparison. I wouldn't want to detract from their growth, but that's just me. I'm hoping others won't want to, either.

"Let's talk about organizing a tertiary RP server." Short answer: no. Long answer: [Admin Hardhat] I feel a need to both expound upon some RPC history and make some sort of pseudo-official comment on this matter. Once upon a time, the first wave of members on this site had to decide on a server to collectively jump on, for the sake of creating a large enough community of roleplayers that they could depend upon when it came to reaching out and engaging in cooperative writing. That server turned out to be, for whatever reason, Balmung. Some time later, a few users started tossing around the idea of a secondary or alternate or "sister" unofficial RP server. The name that happened to get tossed out, again for whatever reason, was Gilgamesh. The suggestion was taken seriously and a secondary community began to grow. What quickly became evident, however, was that there had grown a schism and a degree of bad blood between the userbases of Balmung and Gilgamesh. Accusations of "elitism," "second class citizenry," "bias," and the like got thrown around, and there was fault to be found on both sides of the line. The long and short of it is that it got ugly. Even as recently as this year, the legacy of that divide still occasionally erupts in short bursts of drama and bad feelings. That said... after two years, we've finally reached a place where both communities are on relatively good terms, we have sister sites serving different populations, the boards here on RPC are now geared more towards inclusion of all servers rather than a focus on Balmung and Gilgamesh, and despite a staggering disparity in populations here on RPC that favors a much larger Balmung community, folks are growing more and more open to working with new roleplayers and their desires to start or get into smaller RP communities on smaller servers, rather than defaulting immediately to "oh well most RP is on Balmung so you should transfer here" (which, as it happens, only goes to fuel that bad blood between server communities). It seems to me both unwise and self-righteous in the extreme to suggest that we need to organize a third unofficial RP server when the better course of action is to support smaller RP communities on other servers by not only encouraging their growth but providing a place for them to come together and organize themselves. There's a wonderful Jenova RP Community thread that Ember linked, for example. It cropped up a while back here on RPC, and it's more or less roleplayers using this site to reach out and connect with one another, which I see as an ideal. There's a burgeoning population there, and they're taking care of themselves. They are more than welcome to continue using this site and its boards and resources (we want them here! they're brothers and sisters with the same interests!) . An organized effort at designating a tertiary server, in my opinion, constitutes little more than rocking-the-boat. I apologize if that seems offensive, but consider: RP communities are already growing on other servers, energy is better spent supporting those communities as they grow, splitting existing communities onto a different sever will inevitably result in grief, it is not the fault or the responsibility of any roleplay community to answer for the difficulties of getting on Balmung and/or Gilgamesh, the onus is on Square-Enix to deal with impacted servers, and the "difficulties" of getting on Bal/Gilg have more to do with creating alts than new roleplayers who can either try for the fabled few-minutes-long post-maint window or else pay for a guaranteed transfer. Artificial stimulation of the communities on Coeurl, Faerie, Jenova, Lamia, Sargantas, etc. might seem prudent... but the best thing we can do is go, "hey, there's this site known as the RPC, they've got lots of tools and space for folks to get organized or at least get a start on doing so!" [/Admin Hardhat] I'll leave this discussion open, because there's some value in going over the particulars... but the moment it starts getting nasty, it's getting closed.

Omni and the droids in Fractal Continuum are fairly humanoid for Allagan robots, and Allagans were known to dabble extensively in cloning technology. I would say that the techniques required to build an "android," so to speak, with realistic skin and hair and so on, were probably well within the reach of Allagan technology. So I don't think this is "out there". It's probably completely lore-compliant from a "could Allagans have made such a thing" point of view. That said, some people will like as not consider such a character a "Mary Sue" as previously mentioned. Just food for thought.

The demon sat in the darkness, tail swishing back and forth. The appendage occasionally paused to coil about one leg or another of the stool upon which the Au Ra sat. Across the male's knuckles danced a small gem that now and again caught the dim moonlight that peeked through the thin curtains drawn across the window panes. The door frame creaked. The tail ceased all movement, and the former Crow raised his head by a hair's breadth as he palmed his prize. He sat still for a handful of moments, listening to the restored silence, then snorted. "Well?" "He'll do," rumbled the voice of the undead highlander leaning against the door to the private chambers of the Geneq. There was a hint of smug satisfaction in the Ala Mhigan's tone. "Took one life this sun. In time, he'll kill them all." "Good." The tail resumed its to-and-fro. "Then he is returned to his family?" "Aye." "And the schedule? He is aware of the sanctions that will be imposed, the measures that will be taken if he fails to show at the appointed hour, stone in hand?" "He is. He knows the schedule, down to the very bell. I... gifted him Ansfrid. The griffin will follow him at a distance, will answer his calls, will bear him where he needs to go. I thought it best. Less risk for us. Less travel to and from Ishgard." "A wise decision. Excellent initiative. You are to be commended." The rumble grew into a growl. Heavy footsteps sounded on the floorboards. "Mind yourself, Adonis. I care not for praise. You owe me, and you will--" "--deliver, as per our arrangement. I have not forgotten, my friend, though I ask that you take your own advice. The sergeant must mature. I cannot, will not pluck fruit that has yet to ripen. You promised me patience and dedication. Do you flag? Are you tiring? Is the task that wearisome?" The footsteps ceased. "...no, captain. Apologies. Please... forgive me. My temper... please." Those broad Auri shoulders quaked with mirth as a low chuckle danced around the room. "But of course, Ortolf. Apologies accepted. You and the others, you will have that which was promised to you. After all, we wage war, and yet you, my faithful soldiers, are not paid in coin. I owe each and every one of you a debt, and I pay my debts. Have I not done so for those of us who have already fallen? Lucien, Everett, Swynsald, Roroni, Otgonbayar...?" "...you have." "Your vengeance is nigh, Forgehands. Simply stay the course." "Aye, captain. Thank you, captain." "No," chirped the demon, "thank you, for sparing me that dreadful accent of yours." "Naturally." The Eorzean who'd once been Garlean half-turned on his seat and rolled his eyes for the undead man's benefit. Darkness mattered little to Crows. "Now you are stealing my affectations." "Naturally." Rotunda snorted again as he turned back to the window. "Occupy yourself for the night. At dawn, you are to accompany and safeguard Aviarium as she goes about our business." The frown was evident in the highlander's reply. "But the girls--" "--I do not trust the women, not as I trust you. She chose them, not I. Besides, it comforts her, to know that an extension of my will shadows her every movement, ready at a moment's notice to come to her aid. Particularly after that degrading incident with Grimsong. I will not have a reoccurance, nor will I take undue risks with either of our lives. Do I make myself clear?" "Aye, Rotunda." The gem began its dance once more across the Au Ra's knuckles. "Dismissed." He heard the sound of falling ash and felt the ghost of a slight breeze. Rotunda Crow was alone again, save for the Auri female fast asleep on the nearby bed. He brought the dance to a stop, turned his hand face-up. Upon the palm sat a soulstone, dark as midnight, and the gem glowed, pulsed with a malevolent shade of violet light. "I know just the witch for you, bauble," he whispered. "But first, you will yield to me one secret. The worst secret." He closed his fingers over the stone and clenched his fist; the light flared, shone through the gaps between his fingers, white and black and teeming with memory. Adin Adonis bared his fangs as his eyes swam in visions of an age long past. "Show me how to rend the curtain. Show me the Void."

If it's dark arts in general that you're after, I've got an alt for that what deals in certain forms of necromancy. Lore-bending to a degree, but also lore-compliant in some ways. If it's black magic specifically that you need, I'm afraid I can't help, and hope that you find someone who can amongst the many posters above me who've offered.

[align=center][video=youtube] [/align] His left thumb slid over the glossed wood, around and back over the soft gentle curve of the haft. He tightened his grip and pressed his skin against the grains, felt the stiff maple refuse to yield. His right fist closed over a red gem. No inlaid dagger pattern, this time. "Strength. Weight. Pressure. Wield them. Wield them!" He hefted the axe, felt the heavy metal blade wanting to fall. The man grunted and winced as the motion tugged at old wounds; his right hand crossed over his chest and slipped the gem into a pocket before clamping down on his left side. "One! Two, two two, yes, ha ha, and here's... three! Failure, failure, must do better, Os, must do bet-ter." He grit his teeth and set his jaw as he shifted, boots pushing through the snow as he took up the stance that Gnasher had drilled into him bell after bell after bell. He reached inward... for the fear, and for the fury. "Terror has a home in the heart of man. So too does wrath. Do not dispense with anger, embrace it. Firewood to the flames, bairn!" Pulse quickened. Blood rushed. Heat rose. Muscles went taut. The First Below opened and, as if in answer, so too did the First Above. The world around him snapped into a sharp focus. Snowflakes across his cheeks. The cold biting at his ears, his nose, his lips. The crunch of powder as life trekked across these wastes. The distinct tell of leather against wood as his thumb slid against the haft. In the distance, approaching him out from the whirling white wasteland... a silhouette. Large. Tusked. Fiercesome. He grinned his defiance at it as he seized the gates below and above and threw them open. The chill left him. The tension. The weakness. What coursed through his veins now was something more than mortal, and he believed in it. Welcomed it. Embraced it. Strength and weight and pressure were his to wield. The Abomination of the Coerthan Highlands roared as it charged him, and he roared back. A plume of snow erupted a dozen fulms into the air as there came a flash of luminescent green, and suddenly the midlander was there, right there, within the beast's arms. This time, he was ready for the speeds that followed the internal burst; his heels dug into the ground as he skid forward, his left hand dropped to serve as a fulcrum, and he let momentum and inertia and every ponze of force he could drive through his right arm carry the blade of his axe forward to sink into the monster's chest. There came a loud, high-pitched shriek of pain. He ducked to the left and down, let his grip shift and slide down the haft, and he tugged. There came a sickening squelch as the blade tore through and free of the beast's torso. He powered back upward, straightened even as he wrenched the axe into a spin over his head and back around. He felt the blade slice through more fur and flesh; foiled in its attempt to grapple with him and crush him into a pulp, the yeti roared again in pain and stumbled back, bleeding arms wide open. The midlander released the axe with his left hand as it spun, and caught it again further up the haft; he turned that motion into a jab, a thrust that drove the spike atop the axe into the chest wound. He pushed with his right even as he released with his left again and retreated: one, two, four, half a dozen steps back through the snow he went. That right arm came for him again; skin and flesh and bone hardened as he sped aether along his own left arm and into his left fist. He drew it back and lashed out, a backhand blow with the concussive force of a small explosive that threw the beast's claws out wide once more. He withdrew his axe as he crouched and spun, transferring new momentum and inertia into his hips. The axe head dipped low, came back around and flew into an uppercut that tore into the monster's left hand and severed fingers and claws alike from the appendage. That red mist was threatening to cloud his visage again, even as he ground his teeth in the midst of a macabre smile against the outraged cries of a wounded animal. He adjusted his grip once more, pommel leading the way, left hand presenting the base of his fist as it held the end of the haft, right hand trailing behind him and just ahead of the axe's blade. Scythe. For culling. He dashed again, darted right to avoid another lumbering blow, then curved back to the left. The axe caught against the yeti's calf, just above the foot, and just as Gnasher had once tripped him, now he tripped a monster. The beast fell to its left knee as Osric pulled its right leg out from under it; he reversed his momentum, spun the axe back around, behind, and over. Down it fell as he ran back at the beast, and over and into its shoulder sank the blade. His own right shoulder flared in sympathy, pangs of long-forgotten pain threatening to drive him to his own knees. Two points of amber light bore into him with all the hatred and scorn of the seven hells. He screamed, he leaned and with all his strength, weight, and pressure severed the yeti's arm from its body. The effort was long and arduous; steel sliced through flesh, carved through bone, tore through sinew and muscle... but at last, his blade fell free, and the arm fell free as well as he stumbled several paces back. The abominable snowman threw back its head, threw open its maw, and the thundering bellow that echoed across the cauldron as it turned and came for him chiiled him to his marrow. ...or would have, had his blood not been running hot, his thoughts fevered and his intent murderous. The axe rose and fell once more. The beast's roar faded, then grew into a high-pitched whine of shock and suffering. "I''ll build my future on a mountain o' corpses," hissed Melkire, "and yours'll be but the first. Kith 'n' kin will meet y'soon, swear on Rhaglr's name, for I'm sendin' you all to Thal." He twisted, and the yeti yelped. He pulled the blade free and struck one last time, clove the skull asunder, sank the steel into the boiling brains beneath. His first kill crumpled and collapsed onto the stone. The Hyur eyed the severed arm that lay several fulms off to the side, blood staining the snow upon which it had fallen. He spat on the trophy. "Death and damnation will follow."

We're still here! There's quite a few people who've expressed interest over the past month that we've simply not had enough time to sit down with yet. That's owed largely to the aforementioned moves (some of which are done, some of which are yet to come, etc.) and other IRL circumstances that have kept us low on time to seriously invest in folks. We don't want to do a half-assed job with anyone's RP; if and when we take people onboard, we'd rather do so with our full attention and best effort. We had a few hiccups the past couple of months due to HW release and such; not something we want to repeat. We'll be getting to everyone ASAP. Currently pending an officer discussion re: state of the FC/LS and where to go from where we're at. :love::love::love:

[align=center]He roller coaster He got early warning He got muddy water He one Mojo filter He say "One and one and one is three" Got to be good looking 'cause he's so hard to see "Come together, right now, over me." [/align]

Wouldn't mind getting peripherally involved. Far too busy to dedicate regular time to something like this, but WOOT MONKS!

[Admin Hardhat] Thread restored upon original poster's request. [/Admin Hardhat]

It's official. Backstreet's Back.

Because it needs to be said (and because the thread title is more or less a giveaway)... Nowhere in FFXIV lore is it stated that the opening and usage of chakra is inherently dangerous (save for the seventh and fourteenth which more or less require you to kill a monk of the opposing sect to open). Something I've run into, though, is that some people have a tendency to borrow lore from other settings, so let me make this clear: FFXIV chakra have nothing to do with the Eight Gates that exist within the Naruto setting and are used by Gai and Rock Lee. You can roleplay it that way, if you'd like, for added flavor. But there is no taxation of the body or risk of death with Chakra in FFXIV lore as there are with certain Gates in Naruto.

"You are not to escape." There was no escape. His attempt the sun before had proven as much. He lacked what was necessary to break through the line. So the task of the bell was.... "You are to stand your ground." Osric Melkire pivoted where he stood, head swiveling back and forth, eyes constantly in motion as he considered the triangle formation that had once more closed about him and sealed him inside. Pierre. Gnasher. Khuja'ya. Pierre. Gnasher. Khuja'ya. "You are to defend yourself." Forgehands' voice was a distraction. The sergeant already knew what was expected of him. The three spare weapons that the Crows had plunged blades first into the snow before him had made that rather clear. "You are to strike back." Sword. Axe. Spear. Pierre, Gnasher, Khuja'ya. This was the test for aptitude. This was how they would select his hellish mentor. "Should you satisfy us, training will begin in earnest." Satisfying Rotunda was the task at hand. That and only that would stave off what violence would be visited upon Osric's own friends and family. To satisfy Rotunda, he had to satisfy Ortolf Forgehands... which meant passing this test. "Should you fail to do so, I will kill you myself." He slowed his breathing, closed his eyes, and fell into the old rhythm. The shift felt natural, and that soothed his nerves, set him at ease. Which was... ...wrong? Which was wrong. He still wasn't sure when it had happened, when discretion and vigilance and caution had given way to confidence and impulsiveness and reckless abandon. The past cycle's worth of events was certainly a factor. That he had come so far under the tutelage of Rosethorne and Armstrong... yet that hadn't been the start. No, the first act of insanity he could recall committing was negotiating with a would-be terrorist who'd been hellsbent on leveling Ul'dah. "Prove your worth, Melkire." His foolishness, he thought, had started when the Hall had brought him home and, by order of the Syndicate, grounded him. Condemned his insubordination, barred him from promotion, assigned him to an insignificant post within the city' confines and left him to rot within arm's reach. There he had wasted away for moons, ever itching for one more chance to make amends. The fury with which he'd struck down the slavers hidden within the depths of Halatali and the wrath with which he'd cut into the assassins who had invaded a fellow serviceman's home had been the beginning. That was when he'd changed, when he had discarded fear as a tool. All so that he could cast his defiance into the Syndicate's teeth. He'd been wrong to do so. "BEGIN!" He opened his eyes, his footwork still maneuvering him in a small circle, and he reached down inside to the very core of himself. He seized the seat of his power and bade it open. Covet the blood. Something red and hot blazed within him, even as the Crows began to converge, closing the distance between them. He seized the fulcrum of his potential and bade it open. Will to live, desire my survival. Something yielded, a floodgate of sorts, and the red heat rose, brightened, cooled and expanded. The bastards were drawing close now, their pace slow and sure as they drew or otherwise unlimbered their weapons. He drew a deep breath, unsure what to expect, and... let go. Let it all go. Welcome the fear. Terror slammed into him with all the speed and force of a La Noscean gale. run flee shite behind me piss fuck insane goin' t'die goin' t'die Gnasher's worst oh hells why am i here why didn't i run Zhwan's reach i made a promise oh gods Pierre's second always second shite piss run just run do it now you can't win you can't He grappled with it, a twisting serpent intent on ensnaring him in its coils and paralyzing him with its venom. He struggled, he fought, and at last he acknowledged that he was losing. What time remained was all but spent. Soon, the shadows of death's wings would be upon him, and he would be lost forever. So he cast his thoughts as best he could back to a time when he'd been intimate with fear... and had learned to dominate it, to bend it to his will and to have his way with it. Rings. Dirk. I need you. "Ain't called on us for a while now. We were startin' to think mayhap you'd forgotten we'd ever existed." Dirk flashed Osric his teeth as he leaned languidly against the mast. This was the lad he'd been when he'd conquered fear. "Didja?" "Always the Sergeant you're callin' on," moped Rings as the child looked up from his seat at Dirk's feat. This was the boy he'd been when he first learned what true terror was. "As if he's more important. As if y'don't care for us." "He didn't, Rings. Fell in with a new crowd 'n' they all but pushed us out of his head. Ashamed, is what he is. Ashamed of us. Of who he was. But he's finally come 'round. Ain'tcha, Osric? Finally done denyin' your past? Goin' t'accept that we mattered?" "Gods damn me, you don't need to ask, so why do you?" "Perverse pleasure in bein' vindicated." Dirk shrugged. "So?" Osric sighed and offered both hands, palms up, arms at full extension. Rings frowned as he stood. "This is how you took him back, ain't it? Why he ain't been around as o' late." Rings squinted up at him. "That's somethin' you'll have t'live with forever, y'know. That you accepted bein' a soldier before you accepted bein'... us. Gutterborn. Problemsolver." "...I know." The two approached, but Dirk paused and Rings followed suit. The wetworker's eyes flickered down to the deck on which they stood. "There's another that deserves acceptance, y'know. Down below, in the brig." Dirk shrugged. "Just sayin'. You start takin' us back? You'd better get the job done. No half-assin' this shite." "When the time comes. Can't promise more than that." Dirk made a face. "Bah. It'll have t'do." They each took a hand. As swiftly as they'd formed when he'd first envisioned them, so long ago, they shattered. Motes of light scattered about, then drifted around him. He breathed them in, one long deep breath, and that was when he remembered. He tightened his grip on the snake the viper the boa the python the constrictor and twisted. The serpent writhed as he lifted it over his head, his eyes watching intently as it twisted this way and that. That was when, at last, he felt it: a third sphere of potential. The chakra dawned, as though it had been but hiding beneath the weight of the fear that he had buried deep, and suddenly he could feel the chill wind biting at the hairs on the nape of his neck, the smell of old leather all about him, the soft crunch of snowfall beneath the feet of the damned. New heat bubbled up within him, and he marveled at how he'd missed this all along. It was right there, just under the Root, another link in a chain that evidently ran both up and down through his core, and as he bubbled with laughter and considered the serpent, what he'd noticed earlier finally fell into place, into a form he could understand and comprehend. They were coming at him again in the same fashion: Khuja'ya first from behind, with the White Needle following up just before Gnasher bore down on him with all the Hellsguard had... and he was out of time. He'd never been one for the sword, and despite how eager his beloved had been to share what she knew, the lance would never feel quite right in his hands. Passing interest would never triumph over nine moons of desperation, when he'd bid his life on mere practice and discovered righteous wrath instead. So he stepped forward, rolled his wrist, seized his weapon of choice, and kicked out at the haft of the spare axe that had been buried blade first in the ice. The vicious upswing drove back Gnasher, and the midlander swept his tool around and across at Pierre, who ducked the blade only to meet the Hyur's other foot with his own face. Osric pushed through, and the adrenaline and aether that backed thigh and calf sent the Elezen sprawling into a drift. His grip shifted and his other hand closed further up the haft in time to adjust the course of the swing as he pivoted, and that course correction brought the axe in line to bat away the Keeper's thrust. The soldier lunged forward, and a left jab driven out with a snap caught Zhwan square on the collarbone. The impact resulted in a sickening wet thud, to which the gutterborn couldn't help but smile. His shite-eating grin was stolen along with his axe. Bone Gnasher did something with his own polearm, and the giant slab of stone caught the haft of Osric's weapon. One tremendous tug caught the midlander off-guard before he could brace himself against the motion and bring his chakra to bear; his axe soared through the air and landed in the snow a dozen fulms away. There was no help for it: he fell back, hand and arm falling over the spare spear still jutting forth from the ice like a lever set into the ground. He drew it forth, set his grip, and recalled Kanaria's lessons; once, twice, thrice he thrust out at Gnasher, keeping his foe at a distance. As he withdrew the spearhead the third time, he spun and swung in the direction in which he turned. The flat of the blade nearly caught Khuja'ya over the head; only a timely cross block with a pair of knives saved the Keeper. That was when Pierre struck. There was no stopping the Crow from dealing him a pair of nasty cuts; forced to break away or suffer worse, the sergeant dropped his spear and reached for the hilt of the last tool remaining to him. No sooner had he drawn the sword, though, than he found himself not only completely outclassed but also completely at a loss for how to recover. The Wildwood would feint, then lure him into a parry and riposte, over and over. The midlander had lost control over his own blade; Pierre owned it now, Pierre of the White Needle, and the Elezen disarmed his foe at his leisure with a clash and roll of the swords. That was when the Roegadyn's giant fist caught Osric in the side; winded, the man fell to his knees, then pitched forward onto his hands. "A pity." Forgehands, in the distance. "If he cannot overcome the trial at hand, then he will prove insufficient to the task." Osric drew a rattling breath, but there was no point in speaking. There was no forestalling judgment. "Kill him." "Well, gods damn.... I. Uh. Hit the end o' the line sooner than I, uh, expected. Heh." That he was jesting belied how conflicted he was over what he was about to unleash... and how deeply he feared the consequences. Before him was the brig. Iron bars crossed back and forth to form a cage, and behind those bars and inside that cage stood his own shadow. Though they were of one size and one appearance, there was no mistaking one for the other; the shackles and ball-and-chain that secured the latter were tell enough. Malice was evident in his shadow's smile, belligerence in the set of the man's jaw, and there was no humanity to be found in those eyes. Osric gazed at Melkire. Melkire gazed back. The man swallowed and closed his eyes. When they opened again, the restraints were gone. Gone were the shackles, the chains, even the cage itself. Freed at last from its prison, the inner beast surged forward, and then the demon was upon him, bearing him down, a frenzy of snarls, teeth, muscles, roars. A hand closed around his throat. The depths of him flared, and the three spheres blazed in answer. He fed the white hot coals of his fury to the engines of creation and destruction, and the resulting inferno consumed him. A red film fell over his sight and sickly green wisps of aether licked their way up his legs. He pushed off the ground, hands slapping against the snow; he spun as he regained his feet, ducked, and then sprung into an uppercut that caught the flat of Gnasher’s axe head and sent the whole of the weapon flying from the Hellsguard’s grasp. Thousands of bells’ worth of practice took over, and a flurry of footwork served to slip him past the giant to recover the spare axe from where it had fallen. A series of deft parries flowed into a moment’s opening, and in that instant Melkire tore the spear from the lancer’s grasp, knocking the Keeper off-balance. That same swing then shattered the White Needle; a quick reversal took the Elezen’s hand from him, as well, before the beast turned and kicked out at the haft of his axe. Pierre fell back. Khuja’ya never saw it coming. The axe head traversed an arc above them, then swung down and sundered the Keeper’s head from his torso. Zhwan fell in two pieces, and those two pieces fell into ash that floated along on the wind even as Melkire turned and sank his axe into Gnasher’s shoulder. Take his arm. The midlander tightened his grip on the haft and pulled. “Bairn!” The beast lifted the axe from the crumbling ashes in time to catch Forgehand’s upswing with the haft; the greatsword sliced through the wood, shattered it with contempt, and just as swiftly as he’d closed the distance, Ortolf drove the pummel into Melkire’s jaw. The red film flashed black, and the demon staggered. The pommel lashed out again. Words drifted to him as he floated along beneath the surface of consciousness. “He shows promise!” “He lost himself. We need a warrior, not an animal. Ought to put him down.” “Ha! Give me a sun. Animal? We shall see, highlander.” “...then Rotunda must be informed. I want him alive, you understand? Unspoiled.” Low, ominous laughter accompanied him as he drifted off at last.

I could have sworn that female Au Ra sitting pose was slightly different from the above? I remember the hands being in front for some reason (between their knees?). I dont play one though so I could be wrong

The disconnect with real knife-fighting ultimately comes down to artistic liberties. That sounds like a major cop-out because it is a major cop-out. A key factor in this is also that mortal combat (snrrrrrk) in fiction tends to favor drama. You can't have drama sufficient to entertain most audiences in a five-to-ten second fight, which is what most conflicts come down to. Someone comes at you with a knife? If they get a good thrust in, you're probably dead. If you get a good thrust in, they're probably dead. If both combatants come to find themselves disarmed, the fight devolves into a brawl... but at that point, the fight is no longer about knife-fighting. Fiction takes extreme liberties. Video games just as much so, if not more.