Melkire

First Sun of the Fourth Umbral Moon, We are well situated now, I believe. Having fetched Seitsuda from Dragonhead not two nights past, our complement here in Ishgard now numbers a mere four individuals. Five, if we can rely upon Althea Mourelz. No one in their right mind would count the child, and so I exclude her, though I feel a mention necessary for the record. I have gotten ahead of myself. One should always start at the beginning unless one is spinning tales of fancy. To be honest, at times our lives are so hectic that they may as well have been penned by a mad goddess. In short: Nymeia, you heartless bitch. From the beginning, then. Althyk would deem that wise. We set out from Thanalan a fortnight ago. As this record attests, we were offered lodgings in Camp Dragonhead. There we abided, awkward though our situation was. We had come north in search of friends and in search of challenge, to seek allies and to hone our skills. To earn coin and to recruit those of like minds. To grow, both on individual scales and as a company. Apparently, I failed to make clear the extent of our purpose here to our gracious hosts, and so we found ourselves sequestered, humbled by generosity and yet rankling with resentment at having been barred from our destination. Several suns ago, we took matters into our own hands. With the exception of Master Gladepetal, with whom we came to a consensus to leave behind, we set out for the Gates of Judgment. That damnable blizzard had not yet let up, and so it was slow going, though the distance was not nearly as great as those we had already traversed and we had the advantage of familiarity with the terrain, given our recent contributions to the defense of Whitebrim. Anyroad, we saw ourselves to the Gates soon enough, and a few quick words with the knights on duty made the matter clear. Though passage is permitted to those capable of lending aid to Ishgard, either in her defense or in her succor, the city is filled to the brim, nearly to capacity. The stores may not hold out, and the Temple Knights are having a logistical nightmare in keeping things organized. For this reason, apparently, are those such as ourselves not offered lodgings within the city itself. There are simply none to spare, and what there is to be had can only be had at great expense. I came north prepared for such expenses. We are quartered at the Cloud Nine inn as I write; it is a small, humble affair within the Forgotten Knight. The rooms here are not as luxurious as those of the Hourglass, nor as comfortable as those of the Mizzenmast, yet they will serve. Pretty coin for not so pretty accommodations is a minor matter until such time as my purse lightens. We were pleasantly surprised to encounter Althea on our first night here. Though we were disheartened to learn that she has had neither word nor news of our friends, her account of the local attitude towards Seitsuda's people raises hopes that a demon will not readily be mistaken for a dragon, and that even if such confusion comes to pass, it might readily be resolved so long as he takes care to walk with friendly company about him at all times. Miss Mourelz herself is somewhat of a mystery. We first met her during the hunt for Hound; since then, she has proven a willing friend and ally, though the extent of her skills and prowess are not truly known to us. Her garb of several nights past made me wonder whether she'd laid her staff aside for more martial pursuits. As mentioned at the outset of this entry, we have recently fetched Seitsuda from the camp. He and Painted Moon should prove sufficient to look after the others while I am gone. Painted Moon in particular has shown a soft spot for our little girl; having witnessed that, my apprehension has eased somewhat where the ruffian is concerned, though the thought of our coming trials has me feeling somewhat nauseous. Kanaria intends to seek out the dragoons in order to build upon the scant training she once had under the tutelage of an old friend. I have found mercenary work for the company to pursue in the meantime, a job that might earn us some coin and recognition. Truth be told, to catch the attention of one of the Great Houses would be ideal. As for myself... there was an altercation some suns past, down in the Brume. I find myself caught between a rock and a hard place, forced to comply and tasked to aid an old acquaintance in his efforts to stomp out a mutual threat before it festers and poisons us all. I shall be gone for a few suns, twice every fortnight until such time as I am released from obligation and the threats to myself and mine have passed. Here, now, at my desk, writing by candlelight, I find that my shivers have little to do with the cold that is associated with these frigid lands. Chief Flame Sergeant Osric Melkire of the Dauntless

Reminder that today is the last day to update! Tomorrow is THE PURGE.

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

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

Commuting home from work can be a right b****. Current DPS set-up is NIN MCH SMN, for anyone who's curious as to what jobs are in the composition already.

Oh, good to know! That means they must sell machinist weapons somewhere too <_<. The vendor in Skysteel. I'm also pretty sure there's a i115 weapons vendor in Camp Cloudtop.

The possibilities were endless. Move after move could be met with counter after counter, and there were too many pieces waiting in the wings, unknowns all, shrouded by a fog of war too thick and dense to cut through. Such was always the trouble when playing against more than one opponent. That said, the board promised potential... deadly potential. There were no safe plays, only daring ones. Yet at the very least, he supposed, he could count on some measure of civil behavior. "I'd like to stand." Rotunda Crow released his grasp on Osric's hair and stood back as he nodded. "Gnasher." The mountain below the midlander shifted, and his legs were suddenly free as he was lifted by the arms and dumped unceremoniously onto his feet before the demon. The Hyur glanced back over his shoulder in time to catch the Roegadyn's furious glare as the beast took up position opposite the highlander, flanking Rotunda's left even as Forgehands flanked his right. Osric took a deep breath and met Rotunda's eyes. Tall. The bastard was so tall now... and young. "I don't understand how I can help." "You don't have to. Suffice to say that your cooperation is all that is required." The sergeant swallowed and his gaze wandered. Even if he could reasonably expect to outmaneuver these... "men"... in such a confined space, there was the one named Pierre to consider. The Elezen with the sword stood very near to the only exit, and even as Osric's eyes swept over him, there came the sound of shuffling sand, and from beneath the door rolled in a pile of ash covered by a thin layer of smoke. The ghastly stuff gathered and rose, expanded, and resolved into the Keeper of the Moon from earlier. The git winked at him and leaned back against the door. The sergeant gaped. "Do not mind Khuja'ya. He is always late," chortled Rotunda, and the other Crows followed suit. Their laughter was disturbing, to say the least. Ortolf chuckled, Khuja'ya tittered, Gnasher guffawed, and Pierre remained silent and vigilant. "But... Filiangeri's reports... once... once dispatched... not corporeal for at least a bell...." "Practice makes perfect, Sergeant, and we've had much time with which to practice, to exceed our limits. There remains only the matter of your limits. They must needs be overcome, if I am to have my way." "I... what?" "Ortolf will meet you here, in this chamber, once a fortnight. The first meeting... shall we say seven suns hence?" Osric frowned down at the scattered grains that covered the floor. This must have been storage, once. "Friends and family," he muttered as he glanced back up. Rotunda merely raised an eyebrow. "What of them?" "As y'said, we had an understanding once. You betrayed the spirit 'n' letter of our agreement." "As did you. I ask again, what of it?" "How do I know you won't do so again?" The demon rolled his eyes, and that serpentine tail swished back and forth in obvious amusement. "You don't, Sergeant. But is that truly the price at which you may be bought?" "For Jin'li?" He hesitated for a moment. "...aye, aye, it is." Rotunda looked pensive. "I will not lie to you by claiming that I am not prone to the occasional fit of vengeance, Melkire. That said, consider that you and I are rational men who value life, and that our adversary values no such thing. Whereas my brush with death has strengthened my resolve, for Epinoch the experience served merely as the final push that pitched him over the brink of madness and past insanity into the chaos that is irrational thought." "Moreso than y'know," interjected Osric. "He came to Kanaria last moon, spoutin' dark prophecy, ill omens, bad portents...." "Truly?!" The demon surged forward, and his hands came down hard upon the midlander's shoulders. "Ha! The gambit has paid off, after all!" The Hyur jumped, startled. "What are you about, Adin? Eh?" The Au Ra coughed into a fist as he withdrew. "Sergeant. Consider that I have nothing to gain from visiting pain, suffering, and death upon you and yours, and that I might have everything to gain by directing you towards a mutual foe and aiding you in the vanquishing thereof. Now. Do we have an accord?" There was no help for it. He was, quite literally, cornered with his back up against the wall. "Aye." "Excellent! Seven suns hence it is, then." The demon's eyes gleamed, and he abruptly spun on one heel and made for the door. "Gentlemen." Khuja'ya stepped aside to allow Rotunda out the door, and with one last flick of the tail, the Auri abomination disappeared into the light. The Crows held Osric pinned in place by their stares, and then they, too, vanished. A sudden howling gale swept noxious fumes out of the chamber, and the air pressure slammed the door shut behind them. Osric Melkire collapsed onto his hands and knees. Gods help me. Deep down inside, he knew better. The gods could have had no hand nor part in this madness.

I'm also in! Checked everything but the time. Derp. Oh well. Im out. o/

He’d wanted to spend some time familiarizing himself with the city. That’s what he’d told his companions earlier that very morning, when he’d left Kanaria and the little one back at Cloud Nine and set Painted Moon to watch over them. He’d not missed the looks that the large Roegadyn woman had thrown Spriggan’s way. He wasn’t sure whether he cared for anything to come out of that – ruffians were forever ruffians, after all - but for now, this far from home in a strange new place, he thought it best that his wife and child were looked after. Osric shivered and clutched at his arms as he walked the worst of the streets. The Brume wasn’t, truth be told, all that different from Pearl Lane back in Ul’dah. The squabble was arguably worse in some regards, but what came as a shock was that such poverty even existed here at all. For as long as he could remember, Ishgard had always been discussed in hushed tones and reverential whispers that spoke to a standard of living such as would color any noble of the thalassocracy red with envy. Those rumors, it seemed to him now, were exaggerated. Quality, he was beginning to learn, was not by any means the norm here. The Brume was far removed from the Four Great Houses from which all wealth in Ishgard was said to flow. All things considered, at least here he could appreciate how the well-off could ignore the plight of the commoners. Within Ul’dah, it had made no sense at all, what with Pearl jutting up right against the very palace itself. Just’ one more reason t’ascribe madness to the Jewel. The downtrodden were everywhere, here. Cold, starving, and miserable, they slept on the stones, took shelter beneath the scaffoldings… one rotten lad even chucked a snowball at him. He spent a good few moments trading insults with the little pissant, then scowled as he dusted off his shoulder. Clearly, the “rags” he’d borrowed from the goodly establishment known as the Forgotten Knight were not, in fact, sufficient enough to allow him to blend in. He made a mental note to rip some new tears into the fabric upon his return to their rooms, then turned a corner. At first, he thought he must still have been asleep in his bed. Man-shaped clouds of black smoke don’t make a habit of lingering at ground level just around the corner, particularly not in the absence of a smithy. He was slow to process, to respond, to react, and for that he blamed the time of sun. Too early. Too early to be up and about after last night’s long journey. He ought to have known better… but that didn’t change the fact that he was caught completely unprepared for the sight, and so when the cloud shifted and changed and resolved into the dirtiest, mangiest, ugliest Keeper he’d ever seen, he was caught completely unprepared for the boot that took him hard and fast in the gut. His breath left him as he staggered back into the waiting arms of two brutes. They seized him by the wrists and the shoulders and took him barreling into an alcove that must have once housed market stalls and through a large iron-studded door before he could so much as cry out. The door slammed as they passed into a large chamber and slammed him up against the far wall. He grunted, and there was a struggle, and soon enough he had his right arm free. He pulled it back and bellowed as he struck out with his elbow and put his shoulder, his full weight, and his fear into it; the first of his assailants went skidding back across the cobblestones, thrown by the force of the blow. The midlander sucked in a deep breath - he could hear the rasp of drawn steel from a far corner and a deep voice commanding ”No steel! - and reached deep for the first chakra, the seat of his strength, as he turned and threw a vicious hook at the other brute… …only for the hulking highlander that awaited him to catch his fist in one large, meaty glove of a hand and clamp down hard. Oh, shite. When he came to - headbutt, must have thrown a headbutt - someone had wrapped their arms over and around his before locking their grip behind his back. His feet were off the floor and similarly pinned by some bastard’s legs… his captor must’ve been seated, then, and by the size likely Sea Wolf, Hellsguard perhaps… and the highlander thug was looming over him. Past the Ala Mhigan and off to the right stood a blond Elezen dressed in a templar’s uniform, with one hand on the pommel of the man’s sword. The Wildwood’s eyes scanned the ceiling, and from one of those organs billowed wisps of smoke. “Best not tarry, captain,” spoke the Elezen. “Too many of these blasted adventurers here. At least a handful of conjurers, to be sure.” “Thank you, Pierre,” came that deep voice. Rich, melodic, with an indisputable air of authority… and utterly foreign to Osric’s ears. From off to his left. He frowned and tried to look, only for his head to be seized by the hair and wrenched painfully backward. What he saw was a demon. Horned, dark skin, darker hair with a touch of color… black, his old man had said… had said black meant Xaela… not like Seitsuda at all, more like the other one… the eyes were mismatched, one green and one white, both far too small. Unsettling, that’s what it was. The beast favored him with a wicked grin full of teeth, and then spoke once more. “Sergeant, sergeant, sergeant. Tsk, tsk, tsk. How dreadful of you, to give such a poor showing. I expected better of the man who once bested me… but then, I had the advantage of foresight and planning. Forgehands here is one of my best. I recruited him specifically to handle you. Ortolf? How does he fare?” “Nocht but a bairn, ser, a nickum playin’ with fire. Power he dinna ken.” The Auri male pouted, clearly disappointed. “Unfortunate, truly. You must improve, Sergeant. We cannot make use of you in such a state.” Osric squinted. “Who in the seven hells are…?” And then it clicked. The dark cloud that had resolved into a foe, the exceptional resilience of the men who’d taken him by surprise, the wisps that had drifted from the Elezen’s eye, this demon’s familiarity with him… “Crows,” he muttered, and he slipped every onze of loathing he could into that one word. “Ah! At least your perceptions and your reason are in good, working order. Excellent. That shall make a wonderful foundation on which to build, will it not, Pierre?” The Xaela glanced over his shoulder, and the Elezen nodded. “Wonderful, captain.” “Which one are you,” hissed their captive. “Carrion? Oubliette?” “You are not this stupid!” barked the demon, and that was when he knew. “Adonis. Adin piss-in-m’soup-‘n’-shite-in-m’stew Adonis.” The demon turned his white eye on him, and Osric could feel the heat of the soul that had once looked at him through a baleful red orb. The hatred had not faded; if anything, it had intensified with time. “Sergeant Melkire. Once, I tasked you to settle a debt, and you turned in my hand, a most treacherous tool. I know better now than to threaten and coerce without proper incentive. We must share a common foe if I am ever to expect results from you, and Fortune has delivered us one.” Up came the knave’s free hand. Grasped between two fingers were strands of white and blond hair. Long. Effeminate. Osric’s breath hitched and caught. “Jin’li Epinoch yet walks the earth,” hissed the demon, eyes wide and intent, “and I mean to wield you as the instrument of his demise.”

Updated!

Per this thread, both Linkshell Hall and the Directory of Contacts for New Players will be purged cleaned out on 8-1-2015. Any and all Linkshell, Free Company, and/or Personal Listings that do not have a recent post for the month of July will be archived. You have until the first of the month to update! Thank you. Sickness must be purged.

You wanna vent about horrifically bad drop rates? I'll vent about horrifically bad drop rates. I've run the Vault more times than I can count by now. First time through as MNK from level 57 to 59. I never saw a single piece of MNK gear drop. It was always tank gear and other job scraps, and the tank would always need on the damned things. Now I've been running through the Vault as WAR. I'm nearly 59 which means I'll be ditching Vault for Library soon. And you know what? Not a single gods-damned left-side Inquisitor drop that I can use for glamour. Not since the axe dropped on my first run. Not ONE. It's been, what... twenty, thirty runs? I saw a belt, an earring, and a bracelet. That's been it. Cannot wait to one day undersize this place and push their holy f***ing faces in. Ugh.

I didn't have any issues with how gearing up worked back in 2.x (other than the painful RNG of clearing Coil turns and never seeing your loot for your job drop) so I'm quite content with the carrots provided. That might be because I'm somewhat liberated from a driving need for AF2 gear where glamour is concerned: the only aesthetic I'm interested in is the BRD AF2 and I don't even play BRD. All of my MNK glamour will be coming from crafted gear or older pieces from ARR. ...which basically means that I don't have to worry about the slow tomestone grind to outfit multiple classes. At most, I'll be gearing MNK in Esoterics while gearing WAR in Law, and then I'll be moving on to WAR in Esoterics once my MNK is done. Alexander Normal loot is just something to try for in the meantime while waiting. I'd love to have full sets of the stuff even if it's purely for OoC aesthetic and won't ever be used IC for RP. If there's a carrot in this patch for me, it's the damned White Griffin set. I finally have a reason to level WHM to 60 and a reason to grind PvP like a madman.

Self-immolation was not pleasant. The whole of him burned, though there was no pain. Had he been counted among the living, he surely would have filled the catacombs with unholy screams as the flames licked at his skin and the fire burned through his flesh. His death, it seemed, had at least spared him that agony... but there was yet something dark and deep that tugged at the very core of him, as though draining him of a sun's rest to leave him a mewling, pitiable husk of a man who thirsts even as he starves. The sensation was not pleasant. Self-immolation was not pleasant. There was no fear on his part. He knew what to expect; after all, he'd devoted ample time to researching, testing, and refining this process. For what other reason would he have cast about in the void for a former comrade, only to chain her once found and drag her back, in spite of her shrieking protests, to the harsh reality that was unlife? He had bound Igluvijaq once more to a small corpse, as the Voice had once done, and from that experiment came the fruit of his efforts, proof that what he dared hope to bring to pass might, in fact, be possible. The irony, that once he had sought immortality and now he allowed himself to be consumed, was not lost on him. Still, even as the last of the black ooze ignited, wrenching at him yet again, he could not help but meet the eyes of the two women who had made this possible. Highlanders both, one taller than the other. Green eyes and raven hair shared between them... and yet the first held a knife to the throat of the second. The shorter of the two was in tears, her lips moving as she recited an incantation that he could not hear save in his own thought, a leather-bound grimoire held open in her arms. That was the last impression he had before the weight of the world left him once more and he felt the peaceful bliss of oblivion calling to him. That call, he would have answered... but immediately, he felt the world pulling him back, as if someone had wrapped arms and legs in chains and sought to lift him from the ocean in which he'd been submerged. There was another weight that settled onto his shoulders... but this was one tingled and surged and shivered and blazed. "Adin," came a soft voice, and he couldn't help but wonder how he'd come to this. So far from the man he once was, he'd lost himself to the witchcraft and savagery he had once denounced. "Adin..." "Tengri." The Auri male groaned as he reached up and pressed a hand the color of mocha against his temples. Eyes fluttered open, one green, one shockingly white. The Hourglass. He was back at the Hourglass, in their old room. The one that had been reserved for them while they'd sojourned to Vylbrand and back. His gaze shifted from the ceiling over to one side. Standing attentively beside the bed was a small Auri female of the same color and complexion, her eyes a match for his, her hair just as dark as his with the same tinge of green licking at the ends. She was fully dressed, and sunlight was intruding on his skin. Had he slept in late? That was unlike him. "Forgehands is waiting for you, as requested," reported the woman. In her arms she held a bundle of clothes clearly meant for him, given the size. Behind her, his platemail awaited on its armor stand. "Our marks have yet to move, though the latest from the north suggests that they might make for the city soon." He grunted as he pushed himself upright and swung his legs out over the side of the bed. "I will need you to keep an eye on our charge for me while I am gone, Sarangerel; I fear she may plead her case to Renatus in my absence." His sister frowned at him as he stood and took the proffered garments from her. "Is this necessary? They are no match for the runt as they are. They weren't a match for us back when--" "Immaterial," he snapped, only to meet her glare as she sat down on the bed in his place. He took a few short, deep breaths to calm his nerves as he pulled on his slops and shirt. "We should not dismiss a history of victories as flukes. If I can use them, I will." Her small tail swished to and fro for a few moments. "And you are sure you do not wish me to accompany you?" "I will not be away for long," he answered as he turned to the stand. "You have made your preferences clear. If this is where you find yourself best serving our cause, then it would be foolish of me to take you away again." "Perhaps I shall attend the Grindstone in your place, then." He frowned thoughtfully. "If you do so, I would have you speak with a few men in particular." "Oh? Their names, brother dear?" He smirked as he reached out and touched his armor before beginning the tedious process of preparing himself to bear its weight. "Turner. The champion of the tourney, as I recall, who bested your man. Him and one other." "The Judge? The Arbiter?" He shook his head. "You've seen him, same as I. He never did do away with that filthy disgusting habit of his." He turned to her in time to catch a telling gleam in her eye and a grin full of teeth on her face. Tengri couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at that. "They call him Ki now, or so I hear," she informed him. "And his standards have not improved." He chuckled and shook his head as he turned back to his preparations. Ortolf Forgehands had never been a patient man. "I think you had better arrange a meeting, sister dear. For old times' sake."

Time to save the day with Five Minutes in MS Paint! * For those who don't quite get what the hells Fernehalwes is on about with his bubble analogy: When 2.0 came out, the "bubble" of time was small and spanned only from release (1.0) to current content (2.0). With each subsequent release of patch content, the MSQ grew in size and the time spent in-universe progressed. In other words, the bubble "got bigger" and then spanned from 1.0 to 2.55. With the release of HW, we now have a timeline that spans from 1.0 to 3.0. What's important to note is that anyone new to the game these days is always entering at the same place and time in the bubble. It just so happens that with the re-release of FFXIV (a.k.a. ARR) that 1.0 content is no longer accessible. New players join up and hop into the bubble at 2.0, and they gradually progress and catch up with the rest of us, whether we be at 2.55 or 3.0 or whenever. Essentially, the situation is elastic. * Bubbles are not to scale, and the scale depicted should not be taken to be indicative of the relative length of passages of time.

Twenty-first Sun of the Fourth Astral Moon, There is not much to record for posterity's sake where goings-on are concerned. Eight suns have passed since we reached the Observatorium. Two nights hence found us on the last leg of our journey to our lodgings here in Dragonhead. That we spent half a fortnight recovering was a given, considering the distances involved in reaching Coerthas from Thanalan by natural means. The usual method as employed by adventurers was not an option; several of us had yet to attune, and so we took to our steeds. Anyroad, we are here now. There is a room set aside for the family, and bunks aplenty upstairs for the rest of the company. There is food and drink to be had, and warmth by the hearth, and many a soul with which to converse. Though the camp itself is sparsely populated, this keep houses most who are stationed at Dragonhead. The Ishgardians seem amicable on the whole, if not overtly friendly. We've had little trouble with Master Gladepetal's... unusual circumstances... but we expect this to change upon arrival in the city proper. To ignore the inevitable would be unwise. He and I have discussed the matter at some length. Measures will be taken for his protection. Painted Moon for one, perchance. That the Hall sends new "recruits" after us is somewhat of a surprise; that they send us the dregs of society, somewhat less so. We seem to have earned ourselves a reputation. The Dauntless began as dissenters, and said dissenters have had a history of rehabilitation, whether themselves or those whom they are close with. Moon seems a rough sort: muscle, enforcer, the kind of individual that Ki might appreciate, the sort who is in for the coin and not for the glory or the honor or the duty. I do not anticipate difficulties at this time. She is of a sort familiar to me, and though the cycles grow long, I am not so far removed from my past as to have forgotten how to converse with such folk. Matters might take a turn for the worse once she is introduced to Primrose or Grimsong, and I am certain that Korofi will have his troubles, but for now the chain of command should prove sufficient. She will prove an efficient guardian, I am sure. I cannot abide waiting much longer. If there is no word soon from Evangeline or her knight in shining armor, then I shall take with me those who wish to experience the Holy See and make for Isghard itself. At the least, I should like to station someone therein before returning to Dragonhead. If I have my way, our company entire will be housed there within the next few suns. The weather yet weighs on us. "Pissing cold," as I am wont to say. Chief Flame Sergeant Osric Melkire of the Dauntless

I love buttcapes, especially in fantasy settings. That said, I can understand and appreciate those who aren't into them. BUT COMFY BADASS CLOTH HNNNGH.

He'd barely had time to shrug his way into the overcoat and dip a hand into one of his pockets for the eyepatch that went over his head and fit snugly over his face before he heard their footsteps pounding up the stairs behind him. He turned a corner through a nearby doorframe and nearly barreled into someone who was... much, much larger than he was, wearing much the same cloth and colors he was. His sole exposed eye rose up and up until he was staring at the most ravaged-looking Sea Wolf he'd seen in years. An officer, by her insignia, the woman's most telling features were the scars that spoke to the flesh that had been gouged out of her face over the cycles. She took but a single step back, rocked by the impact, then both her hands descended and clamped onto his shoulders. Bluff. "Cap'n," he all but squeaked in as high and girly a pitch as he could manage, "didja see 'er? Lil Keeper scrag must o' just been through heres, 'n' I reckon the bitch is causin' all sorts o'--" A feminine voice shrieked from further down the length of the Braveheart, and the Roegadyn released his right shoulder to pivot in that direction. She snarled, then scoffed. "Adventurers. Go, go!" Her grip vanished and she patted him on the back just as the men from earlier came running up behind. He didn't need any further prompting; he took the cue for what it was and dashed down the hall, and the others followed him at a distance as the officer barked orders. The midlander grinned, satisfied, then ducked out of sight to the side as he passed through another doorframe, gaze intent on the stairs he'd spotted. He didn't bother with the steps, opting instead to vault from one set to another until, at last, he found himself on the orlop deck. Time t'double back up 'n' out t'watch the moorin' lines. He'd somehow inadvertently gotten the Maelstrom involved in the chase. All he had to do now was wait outside for them to flush Kink out, and he knew the perfect perch for it. He tore his way back out of the overcoat, ditched the eyepatch, and wrapped a long scrap of red felt around the lower half of his face as a makeshift scarf. That done, he spun in place and considered his options. He'd need new clothes.

((Posting this at Jancis' request.)) Raining. The eldest son of Cenric Melkire took the steps slowly, one at a time, as the wind howled around him. He paused near the top and reached up to pull the hood of his cowl back, then looked up through the downpour at the magnificent edifice that was the Wanderer’s Palace. They were long gone. The signs of their passing were everywhere: blades of grass crushed, puddles the shape of feet in the mud, small articles of this and that sparsely littering the stones. He sighed and turned to seat himself on the top step. From a pocket he drew a folded parchment. He had the vellum open before him soon enough, and his hands shook as his voice read the words aloud, even as rainwater ruined his own handwriting. “Most folks go their whole lives thinkin’ the Wanderer stands for change. Constant change. That wanderin’ means never settlin’, always strivin’ for somethin’ and somewhere new. That wanderlust means castin’ aside comfort ‘n’ safety for risk and hardship. …but it can mean so much more. And at the same time… it can mean so much less. Life is movement. We wake each morning and we rise. We eat. We go about seein’ to our lives. We visit family. Friends. We struggle, each 'n’ every one of us, in our own ways. Sunrise 'til sundown. Then we sleep… or not, dependin’. The road ahead is a path. So is the road behind. So is a circle. A worn trail through the woods is a path many have traveled. The absence o’ such is just a path waitin’ to be traveled. We have no bounds nor binds save those we allow 'n’ set ourselves. Blaze a trail, but let it be yours. Those who walked before us are our guides, not our rulers. Should a man or woman choose t'spend their suns and moons chasin’ after a wisp of a dream that floats on the breeze, that is their decision and their right, and that is good. Should a man or woman choose to toil away their lives in service to others, shackled to a greater cause or purpose, even if that be as simple as the raisin’ of a home and family… that is their decision and their right, and that is also good. Oschon is a god of vagrants, and I say to you now that we are all vagrants, each in our own way. We carry our homes with us, for no mere heap o’ wood or stone is such, and we spend our lives beggin’ for the chance to matter. May the gods watch over you. And may Oschon guide your steps, 'n’ help you find that which you’re lookin’ for. That place you want to go. That person you want to be.” He snorted and shook his head, the scowl on his face belying his disgust and self-loathing. “The only promises we regret are those we fail t'keep,” he muttered. “Obligations are chains.” And with that he stood, tore the parchment to pieces, and cast the ruins of his speech into the wind.

Ishgard will probably end up being a secondary RP hub. I highly doubt that it or any Heavensward areas will end up overtaking the current primary RP hub, though, if only because the content is gated by 2.55 MSQ completion.

I think you can pretty objectively say Ul'Dah is the least interesting. Thanalan not as much, but as far as actual different RP you can do Ul'Dah it doesn't offer a lot, and that's having been there for like 6 months. Gridania is up there as far as having nothing really to do but at least what they do have lore wise you can actually access. You literally can't even get to Ul'Dah's biggest attractions, they're literally walled off. They don't even give you the courtesy of like NPC's fighting below on some predetermined loop. Its just empty and walled off with some people standing above it scoffing at poor people. You... do know that the Coliseum isn't the only draw to that city, right? Lorewise or roleplay-wise. Most of the palace is open, there's the Quicksand, there's the Ossuary, seating at the airship lounge, some nice fountains up by the Alchemist's Guild, Pearl Lane and Sapphire Exchange, Gold Court... granted, the Sacrarium is also closed off, but there's still so much that we DO have access to. Same holds true for the other cities. Limsa has the Bismarck, the Astalicia, Mealvaan's Gate, Fisherman's Bottom, Anchor Yard, the Aftcastle, the Missing Member, and so on. Gridania has the Amphitheatre, too many small houses to count, some beautiful gardens, and more secluded corners that I can be bothered to remember off the top of my head. There are a lot of areas in each city that are walled off as of 2.0. If the issue at hand is that you feel restricted from roleplaying in such places, that's a problem we all share. That said, I've noticed that the developers improved on this point with regards to HW; Ishgard, in comparison, seems to boast a lot more accessible areas than its contemporaries.

There's plenty. The Zodiac Braves, for instance, are all mythical heroes, and what we have in lore on them comes from the legendary weapons they wielded. The various Relic Quests give quite a bit of insight. http://forum.square-enix.com/ffxiv/threads/212106-Relic-and-Zodiac-Braves-Weapons-Consolidated-lore-post A-Towa-Cant, Shatotto, Wiyu, Iron Eater, Sasuke, Ivon Coeurlfist, Mirza, Jhal Tristram and the Sultansworn wielders of Joyeuse and Durandal, Haldrath and Saint Reinette, Gilbert, Golbas Rombas... and so on.

Bold? Not me. Not until I have more time, anyway. *glances suggestively at loremeisters* I've had PMs asking if we can add the Ala Mhigo flag to the corresponding tag. I understand that we currently have Ala Mhigo set to display the Garlean flag, given that the territory is occupied by the Empire at this time. Is an Ala Mhigan flag something folks would want for their infobox? Perhaps for characters who remain loyal to Ala Mhigo. Resistance fighters, etc.

Thirteenth Sun of the Fourth Astral Moon, I have decided to keep a journal. Time slips from me here in the frigid wastes; a fog or a blizzard can last for bells on end, and I am not accustomed as I once was to tracking Althyk’s passage in absence of Azeyma's Light. At the very least, by these entries I shall not lose the suns or moons. The bells themselves matter little up here, it seems. We have come north in search of much. Our friends, our comrades in arm, are yet missing. Korofi, Xinkei, Sazi, and Farchild have yet to respond to any hails over the company pearl. Our contacts reported no sightings, no word, from any of them in the south. Neither Vylbrand nor Thanalan have seen hide or hair, and the Shroud is far too wild and treacherous to ever know for sure. There is a chance we may yet find them here in Coerthas or the lands beyond. That said, they are not the only reason for this sojourn. Ishgard calls for aid, and I would have the Dauntless answer, given the state of affairs back at home. Ul’dah is quiet, and what word we have of the internal affairs of the Syndicate speak to stability. Yet we, the company, are not stable. We have lost a third or more of our men and women to disappearances, unaccounted absences. Those left to us are too young, fresh recruits for the most part, and I mean to see their steel hardened and tempered. There is no action to be had near the Jewel for some time yet, so where better than in the cold, facing the heat of Dravanian fire? At least by offering up our arms, we might help to stabilize the Holy See and, in doing so, keep the Empire at bay. There is also the matter of mutual profit to consider. Renewed hostilities have Ishgard throwing open their gates to outsiders, and so men and women of worth - artisans, craftsmen, merchants, and so on – will flock to the city in droves. Procurement of allies, partners, resources… these are vital for a fledgling company. Though we have built ourselves a small reputation, we’ve yet to prove ourselves to the Hall through any large-scale efforts. The good we might do here for ourselves and the Jewel might win us valuable considerations. Alas, Ishgard must needs wait. We rode long and hard, and circumstance saw us leaving some of our number to follow in our wake. Kahn’a, I am sure, will have no issue; he is familiar with the Shroud, and should timing prove fortunate, he might find himself accompanied by Anzio, who knows these cold lands better than either of us. The demon Nergahl was absent at the appointed hour, which I find myself thankful for. He is an imposing and intimidating figure, most unlike Seitsuda. Anyroad, we must take our rest at the Observatorium for now; though they are loathe to confess it, Gladepetal and I are both weary, and I would not push on when the little one clearly needs her rest. Thankfully, Evangeline Primrose proved herself graceful and practical tonight, and was awaiting our arrival, having arranged for a minor reception of sorts. This “Ser Mar” she introduced us to seems the very heart, soul, spirit, and spitting image of our northern allies. A courteous guest, he, though his offer of lodgings in Dragonhead, while appreciated, do not bode well. I had hoped we might be offered a place in the city itself, where we might do the most good and benefit well therefrom. Alas, no such offers from the state. We shall have to take Eva up on her suggestion; I am told there is at least one inn of note that might serve. Kanaria has seen to arranging our dinner; we shall feast and then likely collapse. The morrow will see us in Dragonhead and, pending the resolution of logistical and political obstacles, perhaps Ishgard itself. I have never been religious; spiritual at best, one might say. Nevertheless, I cannot help but be thankful that Oschon has guided us this far. I can only pray that Halone might shield us from what is to come. Chief Flame Sergeant Osric Melkire of the Dauntless

- What are the factors in learning magic? Depends on the discipline. Generally speaking, conjurers have to learn to commune with nature, thaumaturges have to learn how to manipulate and externalize their own aether, and arcanists give form to their spells through geometries. - Does it require study? Yes. Although one may be naturally inclined and/or talented, study is the means by which most disciplines of magic in FFXIV learn and improve upon their control and their capabilities. - Does it require a sort of "attunement" with the magic of the world? Conjury and White Magic do. Black Magic does to an extent, as they fuel their spells by ripping aether from the land. Arcanima and the ancient arts on which it was based do not, to my understanding, require any sort of "attunement", although the circumstances that make one capable of summoning faeries or egis do. - What kind of components are involved? IE, Vocal, Somatic, Material, Focus, etc. Given the nature of Silence through Final Fantasy, it's implied although never outright stated that some form of vocal incantation might be necessary. That said, this is more a game mechanic than narrative, and nothing in the lore definitively indicates that one has to vocalize to cast. There are, however, some materials required for specific disciplines. Thaumaturges typically construct their rods from bone, using gems for their foci. Conjurers often carry wands or staves, though it's never explicitly said to be required. Arcanists carry quill and parchment with which to ink and thereby depict their geometries. There are workarounds in most of these cases, but these are the standards by which most disciplines find it easiest to cast. - Does magic draw energy of some kind from the user? - Does it vary depending on the kind of magic? If yes, how so? Thaumaturgy and arcanima draw upon the user's own aether, which arguably doubles as their life energy. Conjury borrows the energy from the land, Black Magic steals the energy from the land, and White Magic draws upon an inexplicable source of energy known as Succor that very few have access to. EDIT: - What other obstacles would she have to deal with, and how long would it take for her to learn how to, say, heal a wound or toss a fireball? Depends on what sort of obstacles you'd like to weave into her story. As for length of time, that'd depend on two factors: 1. How naturally inclined or gifted or talented your character ends up being in a particular discipline. 2. Whether or not they have access to a soul stone. Soul stones are gems that are imprinted with the memories and life experiences of those they once belonged to. They serve as cheat sheets to learning new arts and disciplines, since you can peek into what they knew and/or attune with the soul stone and thereby speed your progress and improvement.