Melkire

Tentatively signing up w/ Osric Melkire for Crowd Day 1. Also considering a Prepare action, I think? EDIT: Rumors say I might be getting pulled into the Trial. If so, I yield my Crowd slot.

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Arrzaneth Ossuary had, in his experience, always been a dreary place. That it was “dull” was not something he could claim. The seat of power for both the Order of Nald’thal and the thaumaturges’ guild was anything but dull. The trouble, he’d found, was not his lack of interest in the texts, the studies, the techniques, sometimes even the laws… but rather in the atmosphere of the place. Walking into the Ossuary always felt like leading your own funeral procession. Fittingly so, aye, but it was discomforting all the same, even for one so intimate with death such as himself. This sun was no different. Mages scurried this way and that across the floor, and a line of supplicants eager to devote their souls -- and their gil -- to Nald could be seen standing before his effigy. The guards at the doors looked him and his companion over; there were a few raised eyebrows and some shifting of feet, but they allowed Osric Melkire to pass, and the Lominsan led Aya Foxheart inside. At least they were no longer out in the open; dark clouds had blanketed the sky all sun long, and they promised an inevitable deluge of rain. “Hisa,” he said to her as they moved further in. “Was all the man gave me. No description… but it sounds ‘fellin.” Hisa had, in fact, been the name he’d been given when he’d approached the captain helming the Golden Fleet vessel. He’d been shocked to recognize a galleon of Ul’dah in La Noscean waters, and given the circumstances he’d felt obliged to inquire after their business there. Alas, he’d been turned away and told that he’d have more luck speaking to an official if he wanted to know anything about their orders. “That or Doman….” That drew him up short; he’d been about to retort, but on second thought she had a valid point. “Hadn’t thought o’ that, I must admit.” He chuckled. “See? Knew bringin’ you was a good idea.” She nodded at him. He grinned at her, so she beamed back. “Of course it was!” They ended up spending the better part of a tenth-bell asking around; Lalafell were the most populous race in Ul’dah, rivaled only by the Hyur; that distribution was even more apparent here in the microcosm that was the Ossuary. At last, though, they found themselves in one of the far back corners of the main chamber, looking down at…. Her lalafellin ears perked up as they approached, and she turned towards them. Her dress was not at all modest compared to the adepts that bustled about; the garments were decidedly Near Eastern in appearance, and the turban that covered her head and veiled her face looked thick and expensive. “Ah.” Osric pulled up short again. “Excuse me, s--” He paused as he noted the dress. Dress. Not a robe, not a vest with slops or breeches, not leathers… a dress. A revealing one, in fact. "And who might you be?" "...'pologies, miss, but I was pointed 'ere t'ask after a Madam or Miss Hisa? We've come a long way, m'friend 'n' I...." He bowed to her, even as the Lalafell turned to regard him. Aya cocked her hips as she settled into a resting pose. The blonde winked playfully to the little woman with a knowing grin. "I am Miss Hisa. What does a ill-dressed man needs with me? And you must be Miss Aya Foxheart. Far from the Quicksand, are you?" "--ahh,” Osric glanced over his shoulder at Aya. “Shite, you been back that long? Thought mayhap y'came straight from Limsa, same as I did...." Aya glanced back at him. "Ah! I've been back and forth so much lately! But Madame Momodi doesn't let me miss every shift!" The Lominsan rolled his eyes and turned back to Miss Hisa. "We were hopin' t'inquire after the Golden Fleet's interest in current on-goin's on Vylbrand." Miss Hisa stared at them in silence for a moment or two. "What do you need? We're only protecting our interests in the region. As you may know, Ul'dah does not share a peaceful history with the dirty pirates of Limsa." Osric's lips twitched. "No... no, they don't." "Then it would be reasonable for Ul'dah to protect her own coin and countrymen, as well as her fellow member of the Eorzean Alliance." The woman sneered up at him. It was barely visible, given the veil, but it was there. It showed in her tone, as well, which made it impossible to miss… but he let it pass without comment, and only nodded. Aya, however, seemed to be fighting to hold onto a warm smile as she asked-- "Protect from what, Madame?" Hisa looked over at the woman, "From renegade pirates and scum. The admiral can barely control her own hounds, much less the wild wolves that prowl the Sea of Jade. Suns ago, a few pirates decided to lay themselves down in front of Syndicate investments in Costa." She frowned deeply, and then that frown twisted into another sneer. "Of course, that problem was apparently dealt with." "Yeah...?" Aya’s eyes opened a little wider. "What happened?" "Heard about this,” said Osric. “Some ghost ship settled matters, aye?" "Yes,” said Hisa. “A most intrepid 'pirate', typical of the lot. Saw his chance to make a name and blew the other pirate to the Traders’ Realm." "That sounds so familiar...!” Aya seemed genuinely interested. “But that wasn't a Golden Fleet ghost ship was it...?" "I've heard this is a common means of 'succession' among the pirate folk,” said Hisa. “And no, it was not." "Nahhh,” said Osric, “some folks've been claimin' it was the Revenge. But that's hogwash. Damned thing doesn't exist." Hisa stared up at Aya for a moment. "The captain was named Simb'a Fuckintia, if I recall." It took all of Osric’s not-so-inconsiderable willpower to keep a straight face as he turned back to Hisa and bowed again. "Puttin' aside the matter o' Seeker scum, miss, we were actually lookin' t'help, in a manner o' speakin'." "In what way?" The Lalafellin woman looked agitated. Aya blinked, and looked a little as if she'd missed something entirely, "So pirates dealt with the pirate problem.. and the Golden Fleet is... dealing.. with.. the pirates...?" "The Golden Fleet deals with Ul'dahn investments,” Hisa explained. “We cannot allow shipments… we cannot allow our trade to be jeopardized." Aya looked a little satisfied with that for the moment, if not entirely so, so Osric grunted and barged onward. "Have it on good authority.. 'n' not the Admiralty's kind--" He sneered at the mere thought of Merlwyb. "--that a shipment o' ceruleum was delivered t'Limsa not too long ago. The independents who claimed 'n' paid for the lot... well... records 'n' logs have 'em as Gridanians." "And?" Hisa sneered at him again. She seemed overly fond of sneering. He was tempted to warn her that her face would freeze that way. He didn’t. "You still haven't told me exactly what you are asking for, Mister... Red Shirt?" Osric waved his hands, idly musing for a moment on how many folk seemed inclined to identify him by his clothes rather than his features. "Now hold on, let me explain, aye? Might've been born a son o' Limsa, but I grew t'love the Jewel. I don't want trouble brewin' between the two of 'em, but someone's seen fit t'smuggle ceruleum from some new field somewhere onto Vylbrand 'n' then off to the Twelveswood. Is it truly in the best interests o' Ul'dah for Gridania t'come to the fore? Think of it: another field out there somewhere, t'rival the rivers 'n' deposits o' Northern Thanalan...." Miss Hisa, thank the gods, finally looked a little interested. He sighed with relief. "Ain't good. Ain't good at all. No profit. Missed opportunities, 'n' swellin' rivals." "And what do you propose, Mister Red Shirt…?" He smiled. "Tracked down the name o' the family what owns the venture. Figure I'd point the Golden Fleet towards 'em 'n' let a proper family sort matters out." "And the name?" Osric looked up and over his shoulder at Aya. "Eglantine." Miss Foxheart was listening intently, of course, though an expression halfway between a friendly smile and slight confusion marred her features. She met Osric’s glance with her own at the mention of the Eglantines. Miss Hisa, however, looked very confused, so he went on. "...prominent family with long lineage, settled on Vylbrand ages ago. They're some o' the few who could be considered merchant-nobles, if they were Ul'dahn." "Never heard of them." She stared up at him with a straight and almost unmoving face. He grunted. "Was worried about that. What would it take t'convince you t'look into the matter 'fore Ul'dahn interests begin t'lose their footholds in Limsa?" "Who said we have footholds? Ul'dah is a member of the Eorzean Alliance. We respect national boundaries. At the moment, there is but a single ship in Limsa. It is there to protect our interests, but jurisdiction still falls to the Maelstrom." He didn’t buy her denial, not even for a single moment. That she wasn’t in deep with criminal elements? Passing up profit was not Ul’dahn. That said, he allowed his face to fall even further, as though he were genuinely dismayed. "Boundaries... o' course you do. Apologies for insinuatin' otherwise. I've... tried to take this to the Maelstrom. They won't hear me out. Too much coin, too much pressure from the thalassocracy." "And what do you have to say? What proof do you have of your allegations?" Aya’s seeming confusion manifested again as she asked, "What's the ship doing there, anyway..?" "It is there to protect my and other Ul'dahn investments, since the Maelstrom is... preoccupied. Something about a mutiny and a hanging." "From what... unnamed pirates?" "From renegade pirates, from Sahagin and their Serpent Reavers, and others." "Rioters, too,” interjected Osric. “The whole o' Limsa is up in arms about this, each 'n' every deck." He shrugged. "Things were... unpleasant, when I left." "Those Lominsans should hurry up and hang whomever it is, so that everyone can get back to business,” Hisa mused. “A few of my associates were displeased when they learned that the hanging had been delayed." "Sounds like a normal day in Ul'dah," Aya all but groused. Osric chuckled. "You asked for proof. I've the pages from the ledger what logged the Gridanian merchantman. Follow the names 'n' the coin long enough, 'n' you'll come to the same conclusions I did. I can't prove that the ceruleum was there... but you'll note that she docked for all of a sun, 'n' for nothin' noteworthy. Not even shore leave; they had plenty o' that huggin' the coast the whole way there." Miss Hisa held her hand out, and Osric reached into his shirt and pulled forth several loose pages of parchment that looked like they’d been gently ripped from whatever bindings had once held them. He passed them over to her, and then stood in silence as her large eyes scanned the contents. The pages were, in fact, torn from actual Maelstrom ledgers. The Gridanian vessel was easy to pick out, as the name did not fit the usual conventions for sloops and brigs of Limsa Lominsa. There were accompanying pages that linked the vessel to prominent merchants, fences, servicemen, nobles... to those in high society, it was telling that many of those individuals shared a single association in common. Eglantine. The information seemed legitimate, and matched the Hyur's claims. There was, as he said, no proof of ceruleum, but the rest was there. Hisa’s faced remained emotionless as she perused the pages. At last, she looked up. "I see. This is, in fact, authentic. However, there is no mention of ceruleum. Most ceruleum is processed and moved by rail or airship. It would also seem strange that Gridania has a ship registry at all, considering how much wood it would take to build a ship." "Does, don't it." "They won't let us poke one of their trees, much less allow others to carve a galleon out of them." Osric crossed his arms. "There's a field out there somewhere, on the seas. Hells, put aside the ceruleum for a moment. They were clearly there for somethin' o' worth." . She gazed up at him and seemed to reflect on that. "And you want my… you want our ship to help you secure it?" He shook his head "...I'd like your help in seein' to it that Gridania leaves Limsa t'clean up its own mess, free o' interference. Ain't right that the Twelveswood should profit off the turmoil when it's causin' business woes for Ul'dah." "So you want us to open up discussions with the Twin Adders? Regarding a ceruleum field?" "Regardin' a field, aye. M'friends seem to think it's out on the east coast somewhere, 'long the Sea o' Jade. The field... 'n' regardin' the Vylbrandi family what forwarded the capital for the venture." "Under the Eorzean Alliance, if said field exists and disputes arise, it would be treated as a collective resource. At worse, they'll float a platform out there and have each of the Grand Companies maul each other for resources, as they have been doing." She laughed at the insanity of it all, and Osric smiled. "That's all we want. Fair shares 'mongst Eorzeans." "And so.... what do you want me to do?" "...pull strings? You were the lady we were pointed at, when we approached the Fleet regardin'... y'know." "I have a lot of strings. Some I can only pull once. Others take a little more force. You need to be more precise, Red Shirt Man." "A letter of complaint!” Aya looked rather enthused and adamant as she spoke up. “That seems the Ul'dahn way!" The Lominsan couldn’t help but bark a laugh at that. "Suffice t'say that we'd like you t'look after your own interests. Just so happens that ours coincide, 'n' so I wanted it brought to your attention. What you do with it is up t'you, in the end." "I suppose so,” said Hisa. “On the other hand, what do you know about a mysterious metal beast that's been prowling around the area?" Osric's eyes widened a little and he grunted. Aya’s eyes widened a little, too. "Sounds mysterious!" "...Garlean-make, 'swhat I hear. Folks shouldn't sail 'long the shorelines o’ Rothlyt Sound. It's why enlistin' the Adder's help would be better, in the end." "Some drunken sailors from the 'ghost ship' have been spreading rumors,” said Hisa, “and there are whispers from up north about a recent encounter." Osric smirked again. "Aye. I was there for that." Aya did not seem convinced. That she didn’t roll her eyes was, in Osric’s opinion, a minor miracle. "Oh yes, ghost sailors and their rumors!" Hisa looked a little skeptical, but not too skeptical. "... I said it was a beast. You means to tell me... it was a Garlean contraption?" He shrugged. "What else? Leviathan's been stilled again 'n' again. Damned thing is keen on wreckin' Limsa, not some coastline malms to the north. 'n' besides Llymlaen's Serpent, I can't think o' any other beasts what'd match. Ain't no kraken, that's for certain." "Is it another of their autonomous machina? A sea serpent-like mammet?" "It could be some ancient monster..." Osric shook his head at Aya. "Leanne got a good look at it, 'n' so did I. I trust her eyes, 'n' mine are rarely fooled." "Would an Allagan monstrosity look any different?” "Mayhap it would." "Who is Leanne?" asked Hisa in the most innocent tone imaginable. He glanced at the Lalafell. "A friend. Apologies, Miss, 'n' thank you for your precious time. We've other business t'see to, 'n' our own time grows short. If you'll pardon us...?" She nodded to him, even as she stepped forward and held something up for him to take. She laughed a little as he took it from her and looked it over. A smile lit up his face, and he too nodded. "You have a very interesting story, Red Shirt Man. I'll be sure to pass it along." “M'thanks. Nald favor you, Thal look elsewhere, 'n' may your Scales always find their Balance, Miss Hisa." Miss Hisa motioned to dismiss the two, like a proper pompous rich girl was wont to do. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Madame!" Hisa nodded to Aya even as the part-time waitress bowed her head politely and offered a partial curtsey. Osric Melkire led Aya Foxheart back out of Arrazeneth Ossuary and onto the streets. His eyes scanned the shadows as they walked. Soon enough, the clouds overhead proved good on their promise, and their walk turned into a jog as they sought out shelter. The overhand they found wasn’t the most private of spaces, but it would have to serve. He had one final word to share with Aya, with regards to this business, and it was important. The man who’d once been Dirk Problemsolver was fairly certain that, at some point or another during his youth, he’d taken on at least one job -- one mark -- at least one contract that had either been drafted for or else requested by Eamon Eglantine. He’d never been able to prove it, but it seemed far too coincidental that, every so often, he’d hear rumors that the reclusive family had somehow benefited from the mysterious disappearance or the untimely passing of so-and-so, wasn’t it a shame, too bad so sad. So he was familiar, to an extent, with how careful and how shrewd the head of household could be. If the Eglantines truly were involved, then they needed to be taken off the board before they could make matters any worse than they already had. He had no confidence in his ability to persuade, threaten, bribe, blackmail, or otherwise influence Eamon. It would have to be Edda, his daughter, that they appealed to, and they would have to hold fast to hope that she’d be able to convince her father to change course. Osric showing up on the family’s doorstep himself was sure to cause a scandal… so he’d send Aya, if she was willing. It turned out that she was.

As an outsider looking in, and as someone who's been in these sort of groups before (be they themed FC's or themed LS's), I can tell you that "I don't know who these other characters are and what they could do for my character" is one of the most significant potential hurdles that members can have in reaching out to each other for RP. Say you have a thief and a fence. If the thief doesn't advertise over open channels that they've stolen some rare gems and are now looking to get rid of them for a tidy sum of gil (advertising is a risky proposition to begin with, could get stung) and the fence doesn't advertise that they're a point of contact within the black market who could easily manage such a transaction (again, risky proposition), then that face-to-face and that business deal are not likely to happen. This goes for OoC as much as it does for IC. As the player of a thief character, I might not think to turn to [insert Name Here] Linkshell as somewhere to trade goods for coin if I'm not OoCly aware that [insert Name Here] has a number of fences among its pearl-holders. tl;dr: seconding this question from ExAtomos.

I'd offer to help out, but my shadow sect character's still an adept in many ways. Putting aside that he's no master, I'm pulled in enough directions as is to make any further long-term commitments. Feel free to hit me up in-game, though, for the occasional scene. Osric and Worren have met over other matters, it wouldn't be a stretch to take it further. Quick detour because I want to address something I've been seeing both here and on other sites. The bolded is fundamentally in error given that it glosses over the following lore cited in the posted links: It's that tidbit, coupled with the in-game existence of fourteen chakras which mirror the real world's seven major and seven minor chakra, that's led some roleplayers to regard shadow-aspected chakras in a certain light. But no, neither sect is good or evil, and being of the shadow wouldn't make anyone behave differently or do evil things. Pretty sure that'd be misconstruing and misreading both others' roleplay and the concepts on which said roleplay scenes are biased... but then again, I can only speak for myself.

The windows were open, and the cool breeze made for a refreshing change. The tropical climate here on Vylbrand had always been near and dear to his heart: consistent warmth tempered by the near-constant presence of coastline. Nowhere else in the realm, he’d found, was quite like here. Nowhere else was quite like Limsa Lominsa. The room he’d rented in the Mizzenmast was, more or less, in complete and utter disarray. Shreds of parchment and shards of glass littered the floor; the broken segments of a wooden chair had been scattered across the chamber; the lock on the door had been broken, the frame compromised, and the padlock which now secured it from the inside was ridiculously large. The windows were open because there was little point in shutting them, given the broken panes. Had anyone from Aldenard born witness to this chaos, they would have described it as the aftermath of a hurricane and blamed it on the brutish and belligerent nature of pirates. Said “pirates,” on the other hand, would have recognized it for what it was: an ongoing intervention. There was not one bottle in the room. Not one mug or tumbler or flask. The reek was that of sweat… natural perspiration… as opposed to alcoholic. On the sole remaining chair, a few mere fulms from the lone bed, sat a single midlander dressed in brown leathers. His arms rested on the back of the chair and his chin on his arms. The drumming of his fingers against the wood accompanied the occasional gust of wind and the rare shifting of sheets from the cot. Beneath those sheets, back turned to the chair, was another Hyuran man… little more than a lad who’d but recently come of age. The man in the bed was dressed in Edelweiss greens, and he resembled the man on the chair. Younger, to be certain… rounder in the fence, gentler… leaner, less bulk… but that was where the differences ended and the similarities began. Same skin tone. Same dark brown hair, bordering on black. Same curve to the ears. Same dark green eyes. From out the window could be heard many, many voices. Agitated… loud… hostile. There came the noise rioting on the decks of Limsa, and that did not bode well. Not at all. “Thom,” murmured the man on the chair, “what in the ruttin’ hells happened t’you?” “...you did.” “We’re goin’ back now, Thom. The both of us.” The rake’s teeth caught in the dirt as it came back down. The lad… no, not a lad, a grown man now, Osric could see that despite the rags and the grime… the man went still, both hands firm on the haft of the implement. Thom’s gaze swept back and forth across the scene before them both, but the reason for such caution eluded his older brother. They were alone, as they both knew all too well. The eldest Melkire had made certain of that when he’d first approached this plot of land. “My brother and I need some time,” he’d said, and the low rumble in his voice had served to drive the others off towards the ramshackle housing. Towards Garlean steel. He spared those accommodations a single glance as he waited on Thom… and, in turning back, was barely in time to catch a glimpse of the rake flying through the air towards him, clods of dirt still clinging to the tines. Osric dropped on instinct, allowing his legs to give out from under him, but Thomys must have anticipated that because this particular steel caught him across the temple and drew blood. The man collapsed as his brother advanced on him. “Arse. Ruttin’ self-righteous git. Who in the seven hells asked you, eh? WHO IN THE GODS’ NAMES ASKED YOU?!” Osric drew a wrist across his forehead and pushed himself up and onto one knee. He could smell his brother even from here; the younger man reeked of ale and rum and whiskey and Twelve knew what else. Now that he knew to look, he could make out the red in the lad’s eyes, the bloodshot look that spoke to exhaustion, intoxication, and more. “Thom, y’--” “Don’t you call me that. Don’t you dare call me that.” “How’s about idiot, then?!” Bellowing felt good. Looking up at Thomys didn’t, so he hauled his arse upright and back onto his feet. “Reckless little shite?! Grandstandin’ fool! The hells are you even doin’ here?!” “Makin’ m’own way, Ossy.” More a matter of ilms between them, then, rather than fulms. “Fendin’ for m’self. Choosin’ my own path.” “With Slaeglac.” It was a statement, not a question. “The man’s committed to this lunacy o’ dealin’ with the Empire, ‘n’ gougin’ Limsa--” “--ain’t about that--” “--then what the hells is this about, Thom, ‘cause I’ll be damned if I can tell--” Hands against his chest, shoving hard. Once, twice, three times, in cadence with a voice that barked, “YOU!” Osric staggered back a few steps, caught off guard… not so much by the physicality as by the accusation. To have it out in the open like this, the talk they’d never had, the conversation that was only now-- “Always you,” growled Thomys, and the younger brother did not stop. Again, he shoved Osric. “Never me.” Again. “It’s always... been… about… YOU--” Thomys never stood a chance. Larger, stronger hands clamped down upon his wrists and pulled, dashing him to the dirt. A foot caught him in the side as he fell and sent him rolling only to end up sprawled face-down. “I fed you,” seethed the eldest Melkire. “Clothed you. Sheltered you--!” “And who bloody well asked you to, eh?!” Hands and knees, that one. Looked a little disoriented. “Who--” Osric seized his little brother by the shirt and hoisted him upright, held him aloft…. “DA DID! DA, WHEN THE RUTTIN’ ARSE DECIDED T’UP ‘N’ HANG HIMSELF, HE LEFT MA ‘N’ I T’CARE FOR ALL O’ YOU!” Thom stared at him in shock… and then something struck Osric just below the arm, something round and hard -- pommel -- just as the lad’s other hand shot up, fistful of steel, and slashed his own shirt open. Thom kicked as he fell, and his foot struck Osric’s leg, knocking the both of them to the ground. Youth had surprise on its side, and so it was that Dirk Problemsolver found himself on his back with the edge of a knife at his throat. “Forgave Ma,” came a harsh whisper as Thomys straddled him. “She took sufferin’ onto herself t’care for us, t’put bread ‘n’ lox on the table. Who in the seven hells would fault her for resortin’ to the oldest profession? But you.” Blood began trickling down the blade, and Thom leaned down, leaned in close to look into his brother’s eyes. “Murderer. Don’t you ever judge me again, Dirk. You fed me blood. Moon after moon. For ages.” A grin. “You ain’t half the man Da was. In your own eyes… that’d make you worse’n scum, wouldn’t it?” Osric spat in Thom’s face. Thom blinked. A fist caught him in the side. Fueled as it was by Vitala, the second chakra of shadow, the aether-driven strike drove Thomys off him and back onto the dirt some half-dozen fulms or so to one side. The pressure on Osric’s throat disappeared, and he gasped for breath as he rolled onto his knees and panted. He snuck a look at his brother. Groaning… but not moving. That was good. The grizzled veteran wasted no time; he rose to his feet, shambled over, and dropped to the earth, elbow first. He caught Thomys across one temple… and the groaning stopped. “Amateur,” Osric muttered. Here, now, the Mizzenmast. Thomys in bed, recovering from addiction. Osric on the chair, recovering from guilt. The window, open, as the crowds below clamored for the Admiral to mend the Wound. Here, now… a different wound that needed mending. “You blame Dirk.” Thomys didn’t so much as move, but something in the atmosphere communicated his acknowledgement of the point. The lad still refused to look at the man on the chair. He spoke anyroad, after a few moments. “Dirk didn’t jus’ steal m’childhood the way Da did yours. Dirk stole my past, present, ‘n’ future.” “...go on.” More silence, at first. The lad shifted somewhat beneath the sheets before continuing. “Dirk broke the code. Over ‘n’ over. No hero, him. He took contract after contract. Wasn’t jus’ thievery, either. Muscling. Wetwork. Grew up in his shadow, I did. Still livin’ in it.” “You could’ve left for Gridania with the others, Thom--” “To live with them bigoted bastards? Suffer that pile o’ shite? I’ve heard the stories. I’ve read Dani’s letters. So no. ‘sides. I wasn’t takin’ any more o’ your blood money. Not after I found out.” Silence again, this time from the older of the two. This seemed to embolden Thomys, and he went on. “I know that y’blame Da for leavin’ us, after… Tabitha?” “Tabitha.” “Not one o’ you ever talk about her…. I couldn’t anymore, y’know? I couldn’t take it. Everywhere I went. ‘Little Dirk’. ‘Melkire’s brother’. So I set out t’prove ‘em all wrong. T’make up for what you did. To them… and t’me.” “So Slaeglac….” “Didn’t care. Not a one of ‘em care. I was finally m’own person, free t’live m’own life… ‘til y’cocked that up, too. Because it’s always about you, Ossy.” There was far too much venom in that familiar nickname for him to be altogether comfortable with, so Osric stood up “Stay here. Baderon has men on the door, ‘n’ you’re too far up ‘n’ on the wrong side t’climb out the window in your condition. Sober up. Don’t touch so much as a drop. I’ve spread the word. The pubs ‘n’ taverns are goin’ to turn you away. All of ‘em. So will the captains… and the ferrymen… and any other ride off Vylbrand. From the drydocks to the coast o’ the sun, they’ll know.” “...go drown in the Deep.” Osric paused, halfway out the window as he was. He glanced back towards the bed. “I’ll come back for you when this is over.” The figure curled up even more, resembling a fetus now more than ever. The sight of it struck the eldest Melkire to the heart. But... there was no response, and so Osric left.

Osric for Arcanimalfeasance, please.

Attn: Maelstrom Command, I can deliver you Slaeglac and the Tumult. His plans are known to me. You are as well aware as I, if not moreso, of the devastating impact that a widespread series of defections from Limsa's most successful privateers will have on the city-state's security, both from an economic and a military standpoint. The subsequent birth of a competing maritime power, a rival if you will, would prove the death knell. They have long since tired of the code. They have grown sick of the Galadion Accord. They have come to despise the Trident. They wish to be rid of the Admiralty. They were born pirates. They desire freedom. They can still be stopped. I hold the means to do so, but I require a meager measure of assistance. In exchange for information, I will lead you straight to the man you consider a mutinous bastard, and you can quell another uprising before it's even begun. For reward, I ask the following: that I be granted amnesty and a full pardon for all the wrongdoings of my youth, and that my brother Thomys be returned to me, safe and in good health. The assistance which I require is as follows: 1. A committal to non-interference from all branches of Lominsan authority, so that I may move unhindered... barring any deceit necessary to maintain the facade that I, too, am a disgruntled pirate making my way to the Tumult in search of a new League of Lost Bastards, 2. The last known port of sail and the last known heading of the Wail, helmed by one Captain Aerstbhar, to be posted surreptitiously on the board at the Wench and addressed to "Rings". I know that my word is worth scum to you and yours. I ask only that you inquire as to my sealed records with the Immortal Flames as a measure of my competency, if not my trustworthiness. And know this: I love every stone and plank of my childhood home. I would not see her fall to ruin, were it in my power to save her... even if I were never permitted to return. 'tis in my power. Sincerely, Rings Dirk Problemsolver Merlwyb's Ghost Osric Melkire

Osric has developed, over the course of nearly three years' worth of roleplay, from an agnostic to a non-practicing believer in some of the Twelve. Putting aside whether they ever actually existed, his mental image of them is that of the Archons associated with each... which we know for a certainty to be wrong. Many of his beliefs or suspicions are unorthodox (Nymeia is a cruel-hearted bitch, Llymlaen is a NOT a fickle mistress, Halone is an Ishgardian invention that borrows from Rhalgr and Byregot)... and he doesn't recognize the mother crystal. Any mention of Hydaelyn is met with open disbelief and mockery; the Echo he attributes to a rare naturally-occuring phenomenon rather than a gift from a specific deity. Tengri, on the other hand, is a full-fledged atheist who refutes the existence of any and all divinities, though he makes a public showing of belief in Azim and Nharma. His background, coupled with first-hand experiences of both the Lifestream and the aetherial sea, forms the basis for his atheism. He chooses instead to believe in such constructs as Fate and Fortune... which is to say coincidence and circumstance. I treat any and all in-character objections to these beliefs as appropriate: I react in character, as my characters would react. If those objections transition out of character, they are met with sarcasm and more mockery. "My characters can be wrong, you know, and it's my right to play them to whatever degree of ignorance I so wish." Sometimes I get innocent OoC questions from concerned individuals checking to make sure that I'm aware of my own characters' ignorance. Those, I humor.

Ran floors 21-30 of PotD the other day. There was a SCH in the group. After two floors I inspected him and yep, this was definitely a job he had at 60. Why did I think to check? Because all he did. The entire run. Was cast Ruin. Ruin 1. Didn't use Cleric Stance. Didn't use any dots. Didn't throw out a Leeches when people got hit by debuffs. Didn't even cast a single heal or buff. Just. Ruin 1. The whole time. Also he died to basilisk circle aoe. Three times. Explain this. Child being allowed to play on their parent's account. Not even adolescent, I mean a literal child.

Naveen's face blanked for a moment before his brow furrowed and a frown pulled at the corners of his mouth. "A moment, please," he murmured as he shifted to stand with feet at shoulder-width, hands clasped behind his back again, his head bowed and his eyes closed. He always hated this next bit. With any luck, the captain would spare him the disturbing feeling of serving as a sock puppet. Malms distant, off the coast of Vylbrand, Tengri's eyes snapped open and he sat up, rather precariously so, in his hammock. Circumstances had driven him to take the scenic route to the Mist, so to speak, and so here he was... cramped below decks, desperate for sleep. He would have rather remained behind in Ul'dah, to await word of Sarangerel, but this meeting he was en route to attend was a critical one for both his business and his plans. Captain. He is requesting specifics. Shall I furnish him with the details? Tengri pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. You ask foolish questions. Yes, of course. Was there aught else? His reluctance stems, apparently, from some manner of obligation involving alchemy. Were I to attend to the matter in his place, he might sooner depart for Thanalan-- Tengri barked a laugh. Across the deck, another hammock shifted as its occupant rolled over in their sleep. A white tail flicked briefly into view, then disappeared again. Done. Now... silence, if you'd please. I need my rest. Of course, captain. The trouble now, of course, that there was no rest to be had. Naveen had reminded him of the stakes... and though he knew her to be safe for the moment, Tengri trusted no one with Sarangerel. No one... save, perhaps, for Renatus. The Crow opened his bombardier eyes and looked up. "Details could not have been entrusted to writing, and there were no Crows to spare. I myself delivered the missive while en route to another assignment, else you'd not have heard from my master until this evening." His words came faster and faster as the tempo and pace of his speech picked up... though whether Naveen's intent was to convey urgency, or to divulge this information so that he might be off all the sooner... that was rather unclear. "Sarangerel Geneq has been taken by one Delial Grimsong, alias Kinslayer, and an associate of hers, probable identification one Gharen Wolfsong given the man's build and vocal mannerisms. She was taken not far from Scorpion Crossing. Her current location is known to us, but the captain has determined that such information is best kept from you, so that you might better ingratiate yourself with her kidnappers. If questioned, your response will be honest and your instinctual reaction to the question will be honest also: you've no idea where Sarangerel is, and therefore there cannot possibly be any rescue attempt in the making. You are to make contact with Grimsong through what avenues you possess. You are to reassure them of our willingness to play this out, you are to assess Sarangerel's health to the best of your ability, you are to hear out their demands, and you are to relay them in writing to the staff at the Breath... whereupon my master will contact you as soon as he is able. Ahh--- and no violence, please, where Grimsong and her accomplice are concerned." Naveen paused for a moment, to allow the man to process all of that. "The price of her ransom will, more likely than not, prove to be information on the whereabouts and inclinations of one Raelisanne Banurein. You are to promise them such, but you are to avoid specifics. Be vague; I hear you excel at that sort of thing." He shrugged. "To put you at ease, my master has released me into your service for a fortnight; standard procedure, when exchanging favors. I was once an adept with poisons and other various concoctions; I can maintain the pace in your absence, if you so wish, or I can merely make deliveries, if that is all that is required." The Crow smiled, pivoted, and pointed towards the front doors. "Oh... one last thing. I left you a small plush doll, hidden in the bushes at the end of the path. Sarangerel's. She asked for it specifically. As a comfort."

Naveen stood with arms clasped behind his back as he waited out the man's indignation. There was the faintest trace of boredom in the Crow's expression as he watched Renatus stopper and seal the vial. "I have all the time in the world," he drawled as soon as he found sufficient pause in the flow of the thus-far one-sided conversation. "My master, however, does not. Majestically wroth, he was, once balked by the lack of any prompt response. Not even so much as a refusal, eh? More's the pity." The Crow approached the desk and stooped, dropping down onto his haunches to peer at the package. "Adin would have used you without so much as a thought. Rotunda would have seen you maneuvered into precisely the position he needed you, regardless of your obstinance. But Tengri... though he has pressed for decision and for action, he's demanded bugger-all from you. Paid you respect. Paid your choices respect. That's how it's known, eh? That when Tengri Geneq calls for aid, and notes his urgency... he means it." Naveen reached out and poked the package with a single finger. "A pity, then, that the one man he trusts in all the realm won't take him at his word. A pity that Sarangerel has been taken. A pity that the woman who bears his child must languish in captivity for want of an intermediary to negotiate her release. A pity that her best friend isn't available. More's the pity." The midlander's hands clamped down on the edge of the desk and he pushed himself upright with a sneer. "I'll go and tell my boss that you were too busy brewing potions, eh? Ought to put him in a better mood, knowing you had important business to tend to that could not wait."

To quote the Continental... Wow! Wowie-wow-wow-wow! I should take more shots from this angle... hmmm....

The midlander stared at the secluded little cottage with a look of utter disgust upon his face. Truth be told, it was not the estate itself - if it could even be called that - which had earned his contempt, but the myriad geometries which sought to keep out all and sundry who were not welcome. The geometries were of mortal design, however, and were therefore flawed by mortal thinking. Yes, they were exquisite. Yes, they were worth a fortune. Yes, they constituted a masterpiece of arcanima. ...but no one had thought to add a layer of protection against the wildlife. That was why the captain valued him, after all. He was used to thinking like an insect. “Bug,” the captain would affectionately call him every so often. Bug, indeed. There, standing on what might have generously been called a dirt path leading up to the cottage, the diminutive Hyuran figure looked left and right, pivoted in place to ascertain whether he was being watched… and then, once satisfied, he fell apart. The enchantment which held him to this… life… was robust and yet somehow tenuous at the same, and so it was that with a mere thought he scattered his corporeal form to ash and sent the motes scurrying to the bole of a nearby oak, down along its roots into the earth, and through a winding series of cracks, fissures, and tunnels left behind by all manner of ants and worms and… bugs. Down he went, further and further, and only once he was a good twenty fulms or so deep did he begin to slowly and arduously creep his way beneath the geometries and towards the estate. He had worked so long and hard for this assignment, for a chance at promotion beyond Fifth. He’d studied extensively under Khuja’ya, suffering the vermin’s filthy habits in silence so as to learn what he could of shifting from the natural. He’d been outspoken and forward in Pierre’s absence, ever since the Elezen had been assigned to Summerfield’s shadow. And now… now, with Gnasher on his way out, he had his chance. The captain, their master… he’d been prepared to send Ortolf on this assignment, and Naveen had advised against it. First, there was the matter of relaying this route to Forgehands. Difficult enough to find such a small path to circumvent the wards, more difficult still to convey its whereabouts with any confidence. He, Naveen himself, has already found the way in when he’d delivered the missive the sun before… and so it should be Naveen himself to follow up. Second… the individual in question had been predisposed by recent events to distrust and despise Ala Mhigans. Sending Ortolf Forgehands would constitute too much aggression, too soon. Rotunda had conceded both points. Rather than emerge on the front steps, as he had the last time, Naveen pushed his way through the foundation stones… between was more honest, erosion had long since seen to the seams… and then up through the cracks between the floorboards. As the Crow coalesced within the house, he could not help but wonder at the veritable beacon of aether further in. He glows… no, he burns like a star. Little wonder that the captain keeps him close. He stood there, draped in a black cloak beneath which he wore black leathers and black cloth to complement his wild black hair. No one would ever dare accuse Naveen of not playing the part to his utmost ability. All that marred this ensemble were a pair of piercing blue eyes - one lighter than the other, so light it was almost white - set in a long, gaunt face. Aloud, he said, “Caw, caw. I’d have knocked but… bugger me for a fool, someone’s thrown up a sign outside what says, ‘No Solicitors,’ and I wasn’t sure whether I count.”

Not at all! (which is to say that attendance is a go)

I'm really confused about this Keeper of the Lake run you had... because it's very easily done with just one DPS, so long as the healer is on top of their game and tank can both hold aggro and mitigate. Were Zippy and Skippy just... bad at their own roles? You mention lack of Protect/Stoneskin and needing to pop potions as a DRG... I assume the tank wasn't holding aggro worth a damn.

The vindication he felt over the cost of soundproofing their room at the Breath was dwarfed and eclipsed by the indignant wrath and boiling fury which threatened to drown his wits. That malignant energy needed an outlet, lest it impair his reason and impede his good judgment, and he found that outlet in the disgraceful, barbaric, idiotic, incompetent Hellsguard beneath him. Tengri stood over a thick and roiling cloud of smoke that lapped at his feet in much the same fashion as an abused and beaten whelp begging its master for forgiveness. The Geneqs’ room was in a shambles: both the partitions had fallen, broken, against the walls; the bookshelf had collapsed, and now tomes of various weights, sizes, and subjects lay scattered across the floorboards; nearby, their kotatsu had been upended, and many a plate or bowl had shattered; papers were strewn throughout the room, records and letters and documentation…. I sent for him but a single bell past. Most of the room’s décor had been thoroughly trashed. Of all the valuables within, only three items remained intact: Their bed. A small plush doll of an ahriman. The oriental shrine which they’d hung from the eastern wall. Tengri and the roiling cloud, however, were the centerpiece that stood amidst this chaos. Most of the smoke writhed in an eight-fulm circle before him. Within that circle was the vague silhouette of a Roegadyn figure. It had no visible form on its own, but - outlined as it was by the smog - the features were recognizable enough. The entire cloud, from the silhouette to the outermost wisps licking at his heels, was fed by dark tendrils which fell from his grasp, drifting down between the coiled fingers of the Xaela’s claw of a hand. Within that iron fist, he clutched a single soul. Brilliant blue-white, dimmed only by a surrounding aura of gray film, it resembled a large marble… or perhaps a translucent globe of glass which gave off dark vapors. What it looked like mattered not. What mattered was each and every moment in which he tightened his grip and crushed that soul as though it were the solitary means by which to relieve his stress… which it quite likely was. Each and every such moment resulted in an ear-piercing shriek, like nails across a chalkboard, and the silhouette would squirm and convulse in time, as though tormented… which it most certainly was. Where is he?

PM sent! Apologies for not contacting you last year, real life kind of reared its ugly head and I had to wrestle it back into some semblance of normalcy. :lol:

The Rice Was All Between, with Osric Melkire, please. That'd be the ideal anyway. FC RP is usually on Thursday nights, so I might have to back out or opt or a different event. As a sidenote, I'll gladly offer up Tengri to fill out any parties/events that might need it.

My biggest contention with this theory is that there exists another couple to which Azim and Nharma can be equated: Zodiark and Hydaelyn.The light and dark theme matches too, though the genders are mismatched. The war between Light and Dark that Hydaelyn's and Zodiark's servants wage also fits the Auri myth, whereas (if I'm not mistaken) Bahamut and Tiamat never waged war against one another, not even after she was complicit in summoning a primal in his image.

I took "chosen few" to mean that the elementals passed over stewardship of white magic to the Padjal. Nothing more, nothing less. Because that's how the language reads: "chosen few [of the elementals]" flows into "the Padjal". The line that really carries weight is “The Padjal… oversee its careful instruction,” which implies that they are teaching non-Padjali, that they are selective, and that they have criteria.

While we're touching on that subject: Lore book confirms that the Padjal are open to teaching white magic. What their conditions are goes unmentioned, but the job is apparently seeing a revival beyond just the Warrior of Light, presumably. Therefore it stands to reason that WHM isn't (or won't be) as rare as we once thought it was.

All I've seen is the aforementioned Auri creation myth... but then, I don't have the lore book (I WISH I DID ; ; ). There is a pre-existing piece of lore that attributes the origins of the Twelve to twelve Archons, or so I was recently told/reminded. I'm unable to source that, though, and it's predominately Eorzean anyway.

One of the lore book's pages on Ala Mhigo goes into how, post-occupation, Ala Mhigans are "forced to work for a pittance in great smoke-belching factories" to manufacture magitek for the Garlean Empire. It therefore stands to reason that any Mhigans left behind have probably been closely exposed to at least some inner workings of magitek engineering... even if all they do is work a single station in an assembly line. (I would not be surprised if this turns out to be a key plot point in Stormblood.)

Re: the Navigator's Brand, The animosity between Llymlaen and Oschon shows up repeatedly, but I don't think we've had any indication until now that the Navigator fell in love with the Wanderer. The Brand tidbit is more Oschon being rejected... as well he should have been, playing the peeping Tom to Llymlaen's nymph/mermaid.