Melkire

A nice miq'abob dinner with rice and tea. And for desert? Pumpkin pie. With lockpicks hidden away inside. ...what?

To those not aware, we actually do have weekly and monthly events on Balmung. The big weekly event is the Grindstone, a martial fighting tournament that takes place every Saturday evening. There are also the monthly Pilgrimmage events run by Jancis, in which large crowds of people journey to distinct landmarks to praise and worship the Twelve. There are also other regular events, such as the Bacchus Drinking Competition, though I'm not familiar with their schedules or frequency. It's entirely possible that these events might not be someone's cup of tea, in which case there is clearly a want or need to be filled... but these events do exist, and I want to call attention to them for those not familiar with organized Balmung roleplay.

Anyone who has started FFXIV recently and is currently playing through 2.0 content will be able to access and participate in this event, provided they are the appropriate level to participate in the FATEs. Players who have purchased and played through 3.0 content (Heavensward) are also able to access and participate in this event. Consequently, references to time cannot include any deviation from "The Calamity was five years ago" that might arise, what with the end of 3.0 taking place a significant period of time after the start of 2.0. If an event is inclusive of 2.0 players (by which I mean 2.0 as in 2.0, ARR content pre-2.1 patch, etc.) then for the sake of avoiding chronological incongruity, all references to dates must either be omitted or remain in keeping with the "Five Years Have Passed" fact that is repeatedly referenced in ARR. Easily solved by flags, I'd assume... and yet there aren't any.

Do note that this was probably done because this event is accessible even by 2.0 players. This does NOT mean that people caught up with current in-universe events are still stuck in time perpetually at "five years post-Calamity" even though people will read it that way.

Tengri Moks for 4. A Stone’s Thrown Away, please.

He barked in surprise; only by dint of an arm thrown hastily over the taut chain did he avoid falling altogether. His fingers scrambled for purchase on the icy steel as the great beast above him beat its wings and screeched. Tittering laughter echoed down throughout the cavern from above, and a small face peeked out over the edge. "My, my, Os, how'd yous ever get up there, Os?" The Keeper's eyes traversed the frozen corpse of the great wyrm even as Osric scrambled down the chain to avoid the raking talons of the griffin. "Oh ho ho! I see, I see! Up hup hup to the tail, aye aye, and from there up hup hup to the top top top! Clever lad, yous!" The midlander managed to spare Khuja'ya a brief glance. The kneeling Crow shifted his grip on the spear he'd planted buttfirst into the snow and leered down at the sergeant, even as the beast screeched again and with one concerted effort surged up and over to the other side of the chain, beak and talons now perilously close. The turbulence from its passing buffeted against the Hyur, who took a moment to consider how preferable a two dozen fulm drop to the stone below might be to a proper mauling. "Ansfrid," barked Ortolf's voice, and the griffin screeched for a third time and paused as it turned about in midair to throw a glance down at the approaching highlander. Khuja'ya groaned and scratched at an ear, his manner suddenly surly. "Spoiling him, Forgie, old soft git, soft git! Old too. Lad was makin' a break and breakin' a make for it, sure and sure, he was! Thinking we was alls guarding just the tunnel. Idiot. Showed him, Ans and I did, showed him good." "Nevertheless, he is needed. Don't test me on this, Zhwan." Ortolf came to a halt and crossed his arms as he squinted up at the griffin. "Ansfrid," he called again, more warning in his tone this time. The griffin eyed him again as it beat its wings, then thrummed and called out, a keening that proved far more gentle than the harsh cries of moments past. The beast's head swiveled and its beak closed upon the back of Osric's collar. One swift tug tore the midlander from his tenuous, slippery grip on his lifeline. He cried out in surprise.. and then the beating and buffeting ceased. Beast and man plummeted as the griffin's wings folded only to unfurl a moment later to slow them both as their weight impacted the stone below. The beak opened and dropped Osric to the stone in time for Ortolf to walk up and scratch at the ruff of the beast's neck. The griffin thrummed and keened again. The highlander whispered a few words, all foreign to the midlander's ears, and suddenly the living symbol of Ala Mhigo took off again and flew up and out past Khuja'ya Zhwan, who looked on wistfully. Forgehand sighed, then reached down and dragged Osric back onto his feet. "You are supposed to be resting, not making daring attempts at escape. Your wounds will not heal if you strain yourself." The sergeant shrugged off the man's grip as best he could manage, then slowly made his way to the nearest wall. Weak. Tired. Aching. Muscles I'd forgotten I have. Piss, this hurts. "Easier... if... you all hadn't... ssssss." "I thought I made it clear," Forgehands replied as Osric put his back to the ice and slid down to the ground, "we are not here to coddle you. You are here to be prepared, and we are here to prepare you. The abomination you must face will offer no quarter when the time comes, bairn. So we must press you and threaten you and run you through if need be. Only then will your reflexes anticipate the worst." "Still leaves us... with me injured... and our 'schedule'... delayed." "We've administered what medicines we have. What remains is up to you." "Chakras," muttered the midlander. "Chakras," echoed the Ala Mhigan as he hunched down before the other man. "Been drawin' on the Sacral all night. Shite, I been doin' little else! Ain't like this'll heal overnight, not with wounds this deep--" "--you understand so little." Forgehands seemed unphased by Melkire's sudden glare. "Whose disciple were you, that your training is so flawed, your knowledge so incomplete?" "As if I'd give y'names, Crow." The highlander snorted. "Not of the Order, then. Not of the Fist." Osric bristled. "They're the finest o'--" "Not. Fist." The highlander's denunciation was absolute, and his tone brooked no argument. "I should know. I was there for the massacre. I stood with the last of them, when our Order died." The undead man shrugged. "Young lads, then. Bairns, looking to live up to the legacy of their fathers. What they remember, they pass on. Not a one of them would know the truth." The midlander squinted. "What truth?" "That not all men are the same. That not all men walk the same path. That for some, certain emotions are a liability. That for others, those same emotions are power." Ortolf Forgehands sighed again. The gesture was clearly for Melkire's benefit. Abominations like 'im don't need t'breathe, after all. "Rotunda would not have me teach you this lesson. To do so is to hand you too potent a tool that you might turn it on us, once we've parted. But I see no other way. You must recover. To withhold this from you is to delay. Therefore, I will say only this." Ortolf drew his arms up from where the rested on his knees and held his thighs. "One man walks by moonlight. The moon shows him the forest trail, leads him to water, grows him berries. When pressed with violence, this man will delve deep and from the radiance of his soul, he will draw forth what is required to prevail." The Ala Mhigan struck, right hand sliding off his leg before powering into the rock below. Osric jolted, startled, then watched in fascination as the ancient monk withdrew his fist and began gathering shards of stone in his other hand "One man walks by sunlight. The sun shows him the valley road, leads him to water, grows him wheat. When pressed with violence, this man will delve deep and from the darkness of his soul, he will draw forth what is required to prevail." Ortolf laid one hand over the other, encapsulating the bits of rock he held within... and then clamped down, ground his hands together, squeezed, twisted, pressured. When he at least ceased, he lifted the hand on top to reveal a small, round sphere of stone, perfectly smooth, an orb with no cracks or imperfections to be seen. "You are one of the night, yet you have taken instruction from one of the day. You have been taught to steel yourself, to bask in your own confidence, to shut away fear and revel in the knowledge that you will survive." The highlander passed the marble over to the midlander, who took it with awe and rolled it around in his hands, examining it closely from all angles. "This is wrong?" "This is wrong," intoned Forgehands as he stood. "For one such as you, bairn, fear is a tool. Fear is a tool that draws your eyes, that heightens your awareness, that calls to the most primal instincts in you. To move, to flee, to strike out, to fell your foe before they fell you in turn." The Crow turned to go, only to pause halfway down the tunnel that led outside. He looked back over his shoulder at Melkire. "Welcome fear."

For a real world reference, Eads Bridge took seven years to complete. Considering it spans the Mississippi River, though, it's of significantly greater length than Highbridge as depicted in FFXIV. Furthermore, design, planning, and construction of Eads Bridge was plagued with political and financial difficulties that stalled its construction for a time. Highbridge likely took a couple of cycles (years) to complete. Maybe more, maybe less. I doubt it took the full five years post-Calamity, though, considering the local population that sprouted up around it. Those people seem to have been there some time as of the start of 2.0 (see: nearby buildings of Ul'dahn construction, etc.).

[Admin Hardhat] Thread restored per member's request. [/Admin Hardhat]

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

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

Took a while to get to, but dormant FC/LS listings have been archived and will no longer be found in Linkshell Hall. The Directory of Contacts for New Players has likewise been purged of outdated listings. As always, if there has been a mistake, please PM a staff member. :tonberry:

Updated!

[Admin Hardhat] Closing thread per OP's request. NOT revoking mod actions. As always, if anyone would like to carry on a particular aspect of discussion, or start a tangential discussion, feel free to open a new thread. [/Admin Hardhat]

[Admin Hardhat] Users Flashhelix and Mamushi have been placed on post moderation status for the next 24 hours. This action has been taken in response to a combination of low effort posting, excessive passive-aggressive responses bordering on hostility, attempts to derail, feeding into each other, etc. Warnings will be left to moderators to issue, should they deem such appropriate. I understand that this topic is apparently a controversial one by dint of the nature of the questions put forth. That doesn't mean we should stop being civil and devolve into derogatory derision. Thank You. [/Admin Hardhat]

You can still discuss setups beforehand! Just poke someone in a personal message via /tell and chat with them out-of-character about the possibility of a scene.

"Paragraph RP" is a practice in real-time roleplay, but it's not something I would recommend to anyone trying to transition from forum RP to real-time RP. For one thing, differing typing speeds means that someone is inevitably going to be speaking or emoting faster than you are, so that precious five or six sentences' worth of emoting is suddenly outdated, which either necessitates a rewrite or for folks to handwave the sudden chronological discontinuity (which happens all the time with "para RPers" in XIV and elsewhere). I'd recommend mimicking speech in real life as best you can. Rarely do we go on long tirades or spiels unless others have given us their full attention and a silent indication that they'll keep their own mouths shut until we're done talking. Instead, one-on-one and group interactions tend to be far more chaotic, with each person taking their turn to utter as short a sentence as possible. "Hey, Albert, did you see that guy walking down the street?" "I sure did, Beth. Wonder why he had a chicken on his head." "Maybe the chicken is his pet and he didn't want to leave it at home?" "Maybe." Short sentences, never more than two or three at most, with pauses thrown in to allow one's partner to respond. Treat emotes the same way. Albert sighed as he reached for his glass of water. This was going to be a long day. Beth fidgeted in her seat and glared at Albert who had yet to offer her a drink. Albert's eyes met Beth's as he took a sip. His eyes widened as he realized what he'd forgotten to do. Beth blew a raspberry at her "friend". Served him right.

I've never seen a single FFXIV reference in any NPC or quest dialogue to menstruation, subtle or otherwise. If I have, I'm failing to recall it. I'm curious to learn where and when such a reference occurs if at all. That said, when a work of fiction fails to supply information on a particular topic or subject, the go-to approach is to assume that the fictional setting aligns more or less with our own on the matter, i.e. if FFXIV features children and babies and natural reproduction in a manner mirroring the real world, then it is only fair to assume that reproduction in FFXIV works in a similar fashion to reproduction in real life which is to say that menstruation is a thing and periods happen. ...and I, for one, don't particularly see how menstruation would affect women in Eorzea any more or less so than in the real world. There've been plenty of blood-crazed warrior women in our own histories. They dealt with their cycles, presumably, in a manner similar to how modern-day working women deal with theirs. I don't think that the inner beast and personal darkness outlined in the WAR and DRK are really impacted by such. Even if they are, how is that going to enhance or improve the quality of one's RP? If anything, it'll just boil down to a passing mention by other roleplayers, e.g. "oh, it's that time of month for her again, she gets particularly ferocious at these times." ... is... is that really something worth discussing? A throwaway line in a roleplay scene?

[Admin Hardhat] Welp. This was a huge necro and the only place left for this thread to go is back into the same circular arguments. I'm going to take the liberty of locking this. Any tangential discussioj should be had in a new thread. This one is played out. [/Admin Hardhat]

[Admin Hardhat] Thread revived per original poster's request. [/Admin Hardhat]

Recruitment is slowing down! We might close it soon, actually. We're still here; RP is on a slow burn. Many of our members are dealing with real life situations at the moment (moves, lifestyle changes, etc.) so we've been chugging along at the content that Heavensward offers. More details to follow soon!

If I had an Allagan platinum for every time someone "found" my "inspiration," I'd be able to buy the Gold Saucer out from under Godbert. Fun fact, I plucked "Osric" from behindthename.com. Baderon face and beard are coincidental. Twin-tongued Addison is closer in appearance anyway.

Welcome to RPC! Seen your character in screenshots that Shoshopu posts, was wondering when we'd be seeing you here! Excellent looking Roegadyn, if I might say so. :thumbsup:

[Admin Hardhat] Slapped a spoiler tag on the thread title, since people are getting into the DRK job quests and that content is still somewhat fresh. Staff should probably get around to discussing when we can stop spoiler-tagging things. Yarr. And now, back to your regularly scheduled entertaining discussion. [/Admin Hardhat]

I've got a Brass Blade alt in the LS that Natalie mentioned. We'll keep an eye on Player Search and see if we can't catch you on J'rashien!

Nothing had prepared him for the gut-wrenching terror of hurtling through the skies before plummeting hundreds of fulms through the air, down towards the merciless white expanse of snow and ice where the stone upon which he would inevitably dash his life’s blood awaited him. Cold pricked at his skin, wind bit at his eyes and ears, and the smoke which coiled vigorously about him and held him as he struggled and kicked and screamed surged onward, dragging him along in its wake. The few glimpses he was afforded of the ground in those last few precious moments showed him only a dark patch amidst the snow which steadily grew larger and larger. Something twisted, and his stomach fell away as the attitude of their flight changed. Before he knew what was happening, he tumbled free into a large snow drift. His impact was magnificently painful; when he came to, he found himself embedded at least several fulms deep. He gasped for breath, but before he could so much as set about righting himself, a meaty fist seized him by the jackcoat and pulled. Osric Melkire found himself hurtling through the air again, though this flight was thankfully brief and painlessly as he skidded across the powder-coated ice to an uneventful halt. He gulped down several deep breaths of air, rolled onto his back, and screamed at the dragon that seemed intent upon devouring him whole. Though his initial cry echoed throughout the chamber, he quieted soon enough as his mind finally registered what his eyes were seeing. The majestic wyrm had long since frozen over, and the manner by which the beast had been chained to the walls of this cavern was awe-inspiring for more than one reason. Praiseworthy though such a feat must have been, he couldn’t help but wonder why he felt… revolted. Cruel, that’s what this is. Ain’t ever heard it said, dragoons bein’ sick bastards, but…. His gaze snapped away from the spectacle above him as his ears picked up on the heavy footfalls to his left. Ortolf Forgehands, undead highlander, loomed over him, a scowl on the ancient monk’s face. Though the man must have counted himself Ala Mhigan in life, there were an astonishing number of differences, to Osric’s eyes, between this giant of a man and those he’d known down south in Thanalan. The hard set to this one’s face, for one, was the starkest difference from those of Armstrong and Castille. There was no kindness in it, no sympathy nor empathy, and no sign of interest in anything other than whatever grim task the hulk set his mind to at any given moment. Which, now, it seemed, was-- “Doan fecht, bairn. Trachle ‘nough fir me to ca ye here.” “Seven hells, then warn me next time! Ruttin’ jumpin’ me in that pissin’ alley ‘n’ haulin’ me off without so much as a gods-damned word!” Forgehands only scowled deeper as he leaned down and wrenched Melkire’s pack from him and tossed it aside onto the drift. He motioned for Osric to follow, then made for the far end of the cavern, where the light that peeked inside seemed to do so from farther down a small tunnel, rather than from up above through the gaping hole that opened to the cloud-covered sky. The midlander sighed and pushed himself wearily to his feet, then went after the highlander. What he found waiting outside was not quite what he’d expected. First and foremost to be noticed were the four silhouettes against the blinding white. Forgehands was a given, but the other three demanded his attention by their poise alone. Large, tall, short; axe, sword, spear; Hellsguard, Wildwood, Keeper. These, then, were Rotunda’s Crows. He cast back through his memories and came up with the names that went with the faces: Gnasher, Pierre, and Khuja’ya. They stood on a precipice, arranged before him, Forgehands joining Gnasher to his left, Pierre and Khuja’ya to his right. By their body language, it was obvious that they’d left the space in the middle open for him, an invitation to stand with them… for whatever reason. He swallowed, eyes roaming over the four assembled, and strolled forward. That was when the scene before him at last resolved into a sight that left him breathless. An enormous cauldron lay before him, vast and tiered. From what he could gather, they stood near to the edge - the lip - of the bowl, but a single level down from whatever plateau the cauldron was set in. Far below, he could make out the movements of wild beasts. Many were small and common, but the largest blended with the snow, white and muscular and furred, with tusks and… and.... he chuckled nervously as he turned to Forgehands. “What… what am I doin’ here, and what’s this got t’do with Jin’li?” The old highlander frowned as he looked up and across Gnasher towards Pierre. A grunt bought him the Elezen’s attention as the large Hyur crossed his arms. “Spik.” Pierre smiled as he rested on hand on a hip and the other on the pommel of his rapier. He glanced over and down at Osric, and there was a notable gleam in his rotting eyes. “We are here for your instruction. Three suns a fortnight. Ortolf will fetch you, regardless of where you might be or what activities you might find yourself engaged in, and bring you here, where you will be taught.” “Taught what?” Pierre’s smile grew even wider. “We are here to teach you the reality.” “The reality of what?” “Futility,” chimed in Khuja’ya. “Power,” intoned Gnasher. “Rax,” barked Forgehands. Pierre pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. His tone took on the air of a long-suffering housewife. “He means ‘reach’ by that last, I warrant. Though I wish,” he needled as he glared across the men to meet Ortolf’s gaze, “that he’d drop that archaic mode. He favors it, but it grows tiresome.” Forgehands gave Pierre a tooth-filled grin worthy of the most feral of wolves. The midlander, though, was deep in thought. Moments passed before he at last surfaced. “So I’m t’receive instruction. Aight, but what’s the point? The runt ain’t normal, he ain’t even aetherial. He’s… somethin’ else.” Gnasher snorted. “Cannot even fell beasts,” he rumbled, “yet the fool aspires to slay monsters.” Pierre turned to fully face the midlander, and his left hand fell to his scabbard, and the right crossed his torso to seize the hilt. “We will not be through with you until you can descend below and drive the yeti from this place, send him scurrying back to his caves. You will fight them, you will slay them, you will terrorize them and they shall fear you even as you take an arm from each as trophy and proof of prowess. When at last you stand before us, bloodied and triumphant, then perhaps our captain will deem you ready.” Osric blinked. He took a slow breath. As slowly and quietly as he could, given the damnable snow, he shifted his feet and eased his shoulders, relaxed his joints. “Ready for what? I don’t understand.” Six long cycles of wetwork and a further six cycles of soldiering had long since sharpened his awareness of his surroundings to the point where few could take him by surprise; his training under Rosethorne and Armstrong had further served to widen that divide. Not that it mattered; though he fully expected and was fully prepared for the assault from behind, the speed at which Gnasher drew his axe from over his shoulder - the weapon a sizable affair of stone which had been smelted and chained to a massive haft - and the force with which the brute swung it at him trumped his readiness. He spun on his feet and even got his arms up in a cross block, daggers suddenly in hand, only for the flat of the axe head to slam into him, knocking his arms up and driving into his torso to send him sprawling and rolling across the stone. He coughed and wheezed as he struggled to get his hands and feet under him. Shite, ribs… hopin’ one didn’t give. Piss. Fuck. “We are all but immortal, Melkire,” came Forgehand’s now strangely unaccented voice, each word clipped short, as though the man was overcompensating in his efforts to speak with precision. “In the absence of our natural weakness, we may be cut, injured, wounded, maimed, even run through without fatal consequence. As such, you need not hold back. Unleash your power and your fury. Strike hard and strike well, survive.” Osric at last managed a knee, and looking up was dismayed to find that Pierre, Khuja’ya, and Gnasher had taken up guard around and about him. They stood at equal distances from each other, a triangle with the midlander as the central point. with Gnasher off to his left, Pierre off to his right, and Khuja’ya behind. Forgehands circled them all as he walked, watching and looking on from outside the formation. The Wildwood drew his sword; the Keeper reached for his lance. “Escape or triumph, bairn--” Cheat, run, or die. “--but do not fall, for neither shall we withhold our strength. We will cut, we will injure, we will wound and maim and mayhap run you through. This is trial by fire, for the old ways are the best ways. You will learn futility, and you will learn what we mean when we speak of reach.” The sergeant lumbered upright, then set himself again. Left foot forward, right foot back, he stood with his left hand forward and low, ready to catch or redirect oncoming blows, and his right hand back and up high, ready to descend in a single fluid motion to strike out. His breathing slowed, and he could feel that pulse again as he reached deep for his chakra. Covet the blood, will to live, desire my survival. Endure. Ortolf Forgehands squinted at him, then nodded, satisfied, and barked. “BEGIN!” Osric spun on one heel, fell into a runner’s crouch, and pushed off, hurtling across the intervening distance between him and the Keeper. One parried thrust and he would be through, past the lancer. He brought his blades up, prepared for the strike… and faltered as the spearhead came slashing through the air at him from the side as Khuja’ya swing the pole at him. One dagger caught against the wood as the other clashed against steel; with his advance brought to a sudden halt, he abandoned his grip on the former and reached out to seize the haft only for the wily bastard to withdraw; the slide of the spearhead against his hand stung as the retreating steel sliced through the inside of his glove. He recoiled with a hiss… only to catch the butt of the spear across the back of his head. He staggered, momentarily dazed, only now realizing that the Keeper must have shifted his grip up the length of the haft. He bit down on his tongue, which brought the world into blinding focus just in time for him to sweep the dagger in his left hand across his torso and deflect the thrust at his heart. The spear withdrew again, then flicked forward and thrust into his left shoulder. He cried out and fell back, the spearhead sliding back out as Khuja’ya drew back for another telling blow. Osric feinted right; the Keeper followed suit. The midlander feinted left, and the bastard kept with him, the male’s footwork flawless as he did so. No good. He fell back further, then turned and dashed at Pierre. He watched this time, left his assumptions behind him. He expected nothing, but anticipated the possibility of a sweeping strike. In the end, it didn’t matter; the Elezen dropped his blade from his guard and thrust out, drawing the Hyur in with a simple feint. Then the blade danced and twisted, serpentine, in a short flick that slashed at Osric’s left hand; the sharp sting was not as painful as it might have been, even given the shallowness of the cut. The midlander breathed in and out on a cadence as he held the Root tight, allowing the flow within him to strengthen his skin and the flesh beneath while dulling the pain of his wounds. Pierre sneered as he sidestepped to intercept him and kicked out; the blow nearly caught Osric in the chest, but he pivoted and wrapped one arm around the offending leg. His follow-up was cut short as the Wildwood’s next thrust took him in the right arm as his fist descended; he bellowed and released the Elezen’s leg as the blade withdrew… and dropped into a roll as a mountain descended on them and rent the stone beneath the snow asunder. Gnasher, it seemed, had grown impatient. His hold on his bloodlust had slipped, and now he twisted and used all his strength with the twist of his hips to wrench his axe free of the ground and into a slash; as Osric regained his feet, he ducked again, then spun away as the axe dropped on the vertical again, kicking up more snow and ice and stone. The sergeant slipped inside the bastard’s guard, drew everything he could from the Sacral and struck out at a point just below and behind the man’s sternum, driving his fist deep into the Hellsguard’s chest. The aetherically enhanced blow impacted with enough force to cave the Roegadyn’s chest in; the behemoth slid back and toppled over. Osric went with him; belatedly, he realized that the axe head had been position to trip him as Gnasher’s ferocious grip on the haft pulled the axe out from under the midlander, who now toppled and fell. He pushed himself off the ground as a kick caught him across the jaw and a long shaft of steel sliced into his back. He scrambled away and regained his feet only to catch the butt of the Keeper’s spear in the chest; the pole spun and the point pierced his foot and pinned him to the stone. His scream was cut off as a gigantic hand wrapped around his neck from behind and another descended onto his head; they both clamped down and squeezed for a moment, and he went still, silenced and mollified by the threat, save for his labored breathing. “A pity,” came Forgehand’s voice again as Khuja’ya carefully withdrew the spearhead. “You are strong, but you draw only from half your strength.” “Ortolf,” Pierre snapped with an air of warning. “That goes beyond our scope.” “The instruction might help speed his recovery. We have the means, true, but each moment he spends wounded is a moment wasted, lost. Gnasher, my friend.” The pressure receded, and Osric found himself held up by the Hellsguard’s steady hands upon his shoulders. Forgehands stepped close and looked the sergeant in the eyes. “Do you understand reach?” “...n-n...m-maybe… I….” “Idiot,” chided the Keeper. “A demonstration, perhaps, is in order,” suggested the Elezen. “Gnasher, set him by the wall,” grumbled Ortolf. “Then give him the first of the potions. I want him to see this.” Empty bottle in hand, warmth running through his chest and his limbs, Osric sat back against the cliffside and watched in awe. Ortolf Forgehands did not charge any one of the three Crows that surrounded him. Rather, he waited, turned about constantly, until such time as they stepped forth to meet him in the center. Each exchange was quick and brutal, savage almost, and the highlander’s focus was almost entirely on defense. No, that ain’t right. On… on…. Self-preservation, he realized. Forgehands took the blows and cuts that did not matter in exchange for deflecting, evading, or otherwise thwarting those that did. He eluded Pierre, out-thought Khuja’ya, and battered aside the heavy swings of Gnasher. Never once did Forgehands stray too far from the center. He faced them one at a time, then two at a time, and at last when all three converged upon him, he took advantage of the chaos and seized the opportunity to slip between them and out of the formation. The Ala Mhigan snorted, then strode to the precipice and looked down into the cauldron. Pierre smiled and walked on over to where the sergeant sat astonished. “Thus he escapes, and thus he survives. Yet he has failed. Do you understand why?” The midlander frowned as he considered the results… and recalled the original challenge. “He could escape… or triumph, he said.” “Aye, aye, that he did, heh heh, true-true,” rambled Khuja’ya as he sauntered their way. “That’s the lesson of reach, Os, that’s the lesson of reach. Can’t win as he is. You couldn’t win as you are.” Osric raised an eyebrow. “Why not?” “He does not understand what he saw.” The midlander looked up to see that Forgehands had rejoined them. “You forget that we number among the dead. For one who was once of the Fist of Rhalgr, bairn…?” “Dead inside,” growled Gnasher as the giant simple fell onto his ass nearby. “Well done, Bone,” muttered Pierre as he rolled his eyes. “Give the game away.” “...aether.” The sergeant blinked. “You have no aether.” “None upon which to draw. What we have holds us together, we Crows. Little more. With chakra, I might have felled one foe. Two, with luck. Outnumbered, against foes of equal skill, surrounded, even I would fall should I have striven to strike down all three.” “I… still don’t understand.” Ortolf hunched before him. “While our Order lived, we of the Fist practiced our Art. Think, bairn. We practiced, we of Gyr Abania. Think.” Osric groaned and rested his head back against the stone, eyes falling shut… but he thought about it. Thought about Ala Mhigo, the city-state, a nation that had fallen when he’d been but a young lad in Limsa. He thought about mounted troops, and legends of griffins, and of the Fist of Rhalgr. He thought about monks, and their order, their teachings and their ways. “We’re weapons. Mind and body. I am a weapon.” “This is truth,” answered Forgehands as Melkire opened his eyes. “The danger, the real threat, is the man. Man is a weapon unto himself. There are times when man is not enough. There are times when man benefits from tools.” The highlander reached over into the snow beside the midlander. Osric gaped as Ortolf drew a hilt from beneath the white powder, and what followed could only have been rightly called a long slab of stone. Forgehands drew a claymore from the drift and held it aloft, hilt grasped firmly in both hands. “Think, bairn. Think of futility, and of reach. A tool is a benefit.” The undead warrior shifted, drew the blade horizontal, and thrust the steel forward into the stone above Osric’s head, drove it into the mountain by sheer force. “Think of armed men with our power behind them. Soldiers, warriors, men and women of battle, with cold hard steel driven with speed and strength and skill.” Gnasher rumbled with laughter. Khuja’ya sniffled. Pierre knelt beside the startled sergeant. “This is the lesson of reach. Tonight you will rest in the chamber, and recover. We shall start anew on the morrow. You will be tested for proficiencies, and when we have found the tool that best suits, we shall know which of us is to instruct you, and training will begin.” The Hellsguard rose and approached. One massive foot stomped down on Osric’s wounded leg, and he shrieked in pain. “I am Bone Gnasher. In life, I went to war against men and women and babes and beasts. I felled them all, clove their skulls asunder, ripped their guts and ate their entrails, feasted on their hearts. In death, I will gnaw you to the bone until you are raw and desperate and primal.” The Keeper leaned down and seized the midlander by the hair, yanked his head back and spat in his face. “I am Khuja’ya Zhwan. In life, I hunted that from which all others fled and fled and fled. Sneaked and snuck, rolled in mud and leaves, set my spear and wait wait I waited for chances. Took them, took them! In death, I’ll nip at your heels, yip, force you to run and hide and pounce, make predator out of prey.” The Elezen stepped to one side and laid the tip of his rapier against the Hyur’s throat. “I am Pierre of the White Needle, once of House Durendaire. In life, I schooled all who desired tutelage, duelled those who thought themselves my betters, won renown through skill and ascended to a pinnacle which few have known yet all acknowledge. In death, I shall whet you, test you, train you, and have you dance for my pleasure and for the sake of your appointment.” The highlander drew the claymore from the stone and this time drove it down between Melkire’s legs, mere ilms from his manhood. “Ortolf Forgehands, Fist of Rhalgr, sect o' shadow. In life, had me more'n one grand fecht wit fine chiels. Full geet, ye are, 'n' thon means trachle. In death, seein's how I’m the heid-bummer and this be an affa orra time we'll all thole…" The old man leaned down and snarled. "...do not forget that we are not friends nor allies, save by Rotunda’s sufferance. Should you not satisfy us, we shall gut you, carve you to pieces, and leave you riven atop the mountainside. On the morrow, prove your worth or perish."