Melkire

A flaming arrow shot through the air and down the tunnel towards them, only to ricochet off the highlander’s shield and go sailing further into the darkness. The man in the red shirt and the black vest broke formation; he’d been right behind Castille, keeping pace, crabbing along in the Ala Mhigan’s wake, his eyes scanning the shadows for potential ambush. That alone was why he noticed the sellsword they’d just passed, in the brief moments of illumination before the flaming arrow fell and was doused in the water that covered most of the tunnel floor. He threw the knife in his right hand at the hired blade, mere distraction, as more flaming arrows flew overhead. Not all of them landed in the water - one, in fact, skidded off the swordsman’s gauntlet, along with the knife - and so the midlander had plenty of light to work with when he drew back his right fist with a sadistic grin and struck the other man in the gut. “You bitch,” the sellsword grunted... and then the man in red and black drew the knife held reverse-grip in his left hand across the sellsword’s throat, before immediately dropping to his right, the mercenary’s last desperate swing barely missing him. The midlander pushed himself back up and onto his feet as the corpse-to-be let out a death rattle and collapsed behind him with a splash. At a glance… there, Castille, rooted as firmly to the center of the passageway as an Arbiter to his Rock. To his right, another swordsman. More beyond… but there was room for clearance. A breach. “HUNTRESS,” he bellowed, “LET’S GET GOING!” Her ears were twitching this way and that; she and the other hadn’t advanced yet. He took the lead, staying low, their footsteps echoing faintly as the clash of steel rang out loud and clear amidst blood curling screams, punctuated every so often by the occasional twinge and whistle of an arrow being let loose. His heart hammered in his chest. “Passing left!” The swordsman facing Warren pressed against him, desperate to drive the large man back and block the breach… but the highlander hunkered down and braced himself, his mass and weight holding her at bay. The man in red and black was the first to slip behind and past him, his eyes scanning the assembled as he drew another knife from inside his vest. Pointless. He grimaced. Archer, armor, armor, more behind. The armor on the left, gilded. Left and right both with battle axe in hand. The thief cowered in fear. The assassin knew better than to try. The soldier assessed the odds and came up short. Through the chaotic din came a hiss that shattered that instant like a sledgehammer to glass. “There. Lazarov.” The monk chuckled as he dropped his knives, left his steel behind as the armored sentinels surged forward, the one on the left thrusting with precision, the one on the right with axe held high. He drew his right fist back as his stance shifted, his elbow drawn up past his shoulder… Earth is the element within which it is steeped, and from it, one may attain its strength, resilience and endurance. …and he struck down through the water and drove his fist into the stone. A sudden eruption of scalding water, hissing steam, and shards of rock greeted his assailants, and he slipped away to his right just as one axe head tore at his left sleeve and the other descended. Sparks flew as steel assaulted stone. A mere moment sooner and he’d have been pinned and crowned. No time for idle thought. He tapped at the linkpearl held in his ear, the one that belonged to Kiht, and whispered, “go.” He turned and his eyes widened as his exit from the spray brought him up alongside the swordsman from earlier… the swordsman with long flaming hair. Crofte. He turned again and found himself facing armor. Plain. Not gilded. He didn’t think; he didn’t have time for it. He drew the brass knuckledusters from the tassles riding on his belt and struck out once, twice, three times. The sentinel deftly caught one blow on the haft of the axe, but the second and third struck steel plate and drove the combatant back a step. The axe went high again… "I am a servant who knows the difference between revenge… and JUSTICE!” Crofte to his right and somewhat behind. The sentinel in front. So he smirked and broke left, trusting in the man he’d brought with him to have his back, to fulfill the purpose for which he’d been brought. He pushed off with his right foot, then planted his left and fell into a runner’s crouch… there. The man in the gilded plate. A burst. It’s a burst. From everywhere, all at once. He pushed off, low to the ground and impossibly fast as he crashed into the armored man’s legs. He rebounded, left shoulder sore as he rolled away, prepared for the suit to come crashing down on him, but the other man grunted and fell to one knee as part of his armor gave way. Their eyes met, emerald and amber. The amber blinked. “Melkire…?!” The armored man snarled, and his next few words echoed throughout the tunnel. “This is NOT Lazarov!” Splashing from his right. Osric spat at Jameson’s faceplate as he dropped his knuckles, fell back into a crouch, his hands falling to his boots and drawing the pair of misericordes he’d commissioned from Lon’qu Jin not a moon past. He turned to face the oncoming mass and rolled to his right, the blades clashing against the sentinel’s left greave. He winced as the impact sprained his left wrist and knocked him bodily aside as he tumbled, his grip on the blade’s hilt lost, scattering it from his hand. He moved to push himself upright, but someone or something tripped over him. He went sprawling, a dull ache tearing at his left side. ”Endure.” He sucked in a breath and reached deep for that reservoir of light, the well of aetheric energy known to a few as the Sacral. Shot by shot, glass by glass, tumbler by tumbler, bucket by bucket, he fed that sweetness to his wounded side. “MELKIRE! WHERE is LAZAROV?!” He laughed. He couldn’t help it. He needed to laugh. Needed to live, even in these final moments. The ruse had clearly succeeded. He’d grown his hair out, like Nero’s. Dyed it, like Nero’s. Shaved his face clean, like Nero. Found himself a red shirt and black vest, along with some leather boots and gloves… like Nero’s. Osric Melkire pushed himself wearily to his feet and drew his last two knives from their scabbards. In front of him stood the man in gilded plate, his own weapon held at the ready. Stout. Resolute. Fiercely determined to survive, just as the sergeant himself was. He smirked. “That you, Jameson? Or are you the double?” No response, other than another swing of the axe, the motion abrupt, as if fueled by anger. Instinct took over; Osric stepped in, as close as he could, his knives rising in a cross-guard to catch the haft of the axe. Their eyes met again, their faces close, the Royalist’s breath fogging the Monetarist's faceplate. “You have been a thorn in my side for far too long,” whispered Taeros… and then he pressed down on the man with all of his not-inconsiderable weight. Osric’s knees buckled for moment. He dropped the left knife and caught the haft in his fist as that weight bore him down to one knee. Mistake. Same as with Armstrong. Dead. Don’t ever get in this close. Mistake. Dead. Dead. Those were the panicked thoughts that went scurrying across the surface of his mind… below that, however… below that…. Perfect. His lips quivered. “Jameson, I’ve a question for you--“ The man reversed his axe and sent the haft straight down into Osric’s upright knee. Blinding white agony. He cried out. He collapsed, his leg giving way. Down on both knees. Sharp. Sudden flame. Up his leg, side, and back. Aching. The knee. How had he known about the knee? He had…. Wrong knee. Melkire’s vision came swimming back to him. Jameson, standing over him, axe rising for a follow-through. Standing entirely too close, no longer bearing down. Osric dropped his remaining knife, and his right hand climbed up over his back to his shoulder blades. He grasped, gripped, and pulled at something there… and his shirt tore open, all the way down his spine, as he snapped his wrist out and brought his arm down and around, a bright gleam of silver in his hand, a sword of light… No. A gunblade. Jin’li’s gunblade. With an inward twist of the wrist, he punched up and out and drove the weapon into the waist joint of Jameson’s armor. The blade caught there, pinned by pressure, unable to pierce through whatever quality plate Taeros was wearing… but that didn’t matter. What mattered was what came next, and what came next warmed Melkire’s murderous little heart. He smiled that shite-eating grin for which he was so well known. “What do we do with a drunken sailor?” The axe came down. He pulled the trigger. BLAM. Red. White hot. Red again. He screamed. He cried. He couldn’t see. He could smell blood. Shoulder. Axe head in his right shoulder. The bastard was trying to take his arm. As if I’ll let you. Osric’s left fist clenched tighter, clenched down on the haft as he twisted his grip, pushed upward, pulled in, screamed again. He couldn’t. Hurt. It hurt. Dying. He was dying. He was going to die. ”Come home to me.” A small rumble. A chuckle. Cackling. Full blown laughter. Absurd. This was absurd. Why not? All this effort, wasted, and why? Why was he still suffering, when it was so easy to end it all? All I have t’do is pull a trigger, eh? So he did. BLAM. Clattering and clinking of mail. The pressure on the haft was suddenly gone, and several moon’s worth of training under Worthy Jetsam took over as he bellowed and pushed and wrenched the blade from his shoulder. The axe fell to the floor and his left hand clutched at cobblestones as he dragged himself back, farther down the tunnel, away from… from…. He looked up, and through the tears and the blood he could see Taeros stumbling back, one hand held at his midsection, something blue trickling down his leg. Jameson was staring at him in fear. The words dripped from his lips, then danced together, one eerily melodic tune cutting through the sudden silence. “Weigh, heigh, and up she rises~…” “No…” “Weigh, heigh, and up she rises~…” “James!” The pirate in him smiled. "Weigh, heigh, and up she rises, early in the mornin'~." “Gideon--“ Taeros choked, blood… odd blood… seeping from his wounds. Osric’s head was swimming. Odd. Why was everything so odd? He was wounded, yes, but… numb? Why was he…? No. Not now. He still had something… something left to… to say. “This,” he hissed, “this snake… ruttin’ hells!” He cried out. Shoulder. His shoulder. Ignore it. Endure. Drank. He drank from the reservoir. “…deserves no gods-damned LOYALTY!” Something else was leaking from the bullet holes hidden beneath Jameson’s fingers. Something blue, and glowing like the sea beneath the moon. The fop glanced down. “No.” The sergeant squinted. Was that…? Ceruleum, had to be. Why…? Swimming again. Vision blurring. Why did Jameson sound…? “Don’t… worry,” Osric forced out. “Grimsong’ll… send you… Lazarov soo--“ Acidic. The taste in his mouth… Ah, shite, I’ve been poisoned. The cobblestones rushed upward, Thal descended from on high, and someone draped the night sky over his eyes. There were no stars to greet him. Oblivion.

I have to write up the next post of this today, in between getting work done at the office. Coincidentally the same scene in which my character "nope'd" at two armored individuals. Fight choreography.... /cry

The ONLY fantastical thing? They're shown going from 0 to 60 from a standing position without a crouch into the air, crashing into something many times their own size without the impact killing them outright, balancing on one foot on a spire that could not possibly have been climbed up or even landed on without impaling yourself, halting their super-fast momentum and twisting into a fall (the twist they also halt into a perfect downward stab), and flipping through the air like it was walking and you think there's ONE fantastical thing about them? EVERYTHING about what they're doing is fantastical! EDIT: Oh, you mean fantastical in that exact moment, my mistake. Yeah, in that exact moment. I should've said "the only NEW fantastical thing," given that we've known about Jump and their aerial combat skills via lore and gameplay for a while now.

The cut from Dragoon 4:28 to Dragoon 4:30 implies that it's the same guy. I didn't catch the view of him actually on the dragon's back and assumed it was a different one jumping towards the camera from beyond the dragon. As I mentioned in the edit to my last post, the only fantastical thing about Dragoon 4:28 is the sudden halt in forward momentum. External application of aether as a force acting on the body might explain that, but I'm not going to assume that's a thing until we get actual lore/text on it.

The drop in those pics is barely a meter. Maybe two at most. The camera then cuts to a different dragoon altogether. It's a different dragoon that's getting caught in the mouth. The first dragoon is not "shooting down like a lightning bolt." Yes, there's a sudden change in momentum (speed, velocity, acceleration, jerk, the interesting thing we're seeing here is jerk). EDIT: Or maybe I'm wrong. EDIT 2: After multiple viewings, all I can say is that the only odd thing is how the sudden forward momentum is completely halted. It's a little jarring. The downward motion in and of itself is not that startling, given the supposed weight of drachen mail combined with gravity and a clear intent to drop. Neither is the leap off the dragon's back, assuming that it's the same dragoon. I refer yet again to slope-soaring gliders turning over into a nosedive. I'm just not sure how dragoons manage it (that it can be done without aether is plausible).

...how is what I posted "grimdark"?

That's the change in profile I was discussing. Each and every reaction has a reaction. You cannot simply turn about and hurl something that large like that while midair and not lose airspeed, not increase the effect of drag (which is a weird combination of gravity and airflow that can inadequately be described as "the opposite of the combination of lift and thrust"), and not suddenly drop. The action, you'll note, is downward. It's an arrest of forward momentum followed or coincided with a drop. This sort of thing happens all the time with slope-soaring gliders: if you suddenly change a glider's attitude and either nosedive or spin it into a nosedive, you're going to fall rather quickly. This is far different from a midair change in direction that, say, takes you from traveling northward to eastward on the horizontal plane. But enough about realism. Most folks seem to want the anime take. #bows out

I would advise re-watching the Heavensward opening cinematic. Nowhere in there does this happen. What you're likely seeing is the sudden cut from one airborn dragoon hurling his polearm to another dragoon leaping in a certain direction only to be taken midair by a dragon's maw (if what you're looking at instead is the sudden "jerking" motion of the first dragoon hurling said polearm, note that aerodynamically speaking, a sudden change in profile can result in increased drag that consequently results in a loss of airspeed and a sudden drop in altitude). Also the "instant liftoff" looks more like a leap to me. Yes, granted, more likely aetherically assisted than not, "anime-style" powered jumps, if you will. Interesting side-note: the first major "bolt" that hits the dragon in the opening cinematic is actually a dragoon impacting the dragon's back. Close inspection of its subsequent flailing reveals a dragoon with his polearm embedded in the beast's spine.

Disclaimer: I have no personal practical experience. Something important to note that I cannot stress enough: armor is a HUGE advantage. As a roleplayer writing for an in-fighter with extensive experience in knife-fighting, armor is hell. Yes, there are weaknesses that can be taken advantage of - joints, exposed points like the underarms, chainmail intended to cushion crushing blows from maces but not stop the piercing action of a rondel dagger - but by and large, in a one-on-one, the individual without armor is going to have a hell of a time because each opening that results in an exchange of strike and counterstrike is far more likely than not to leave the less-armored individual with more "damage" than his or her foe. The fantasy setting of XIV mitigates this disadvantage somewhat if your character is, say, a ninja or a monk, but there's still some serious difficulty in selling a victory and that difficulty lies in execution. My character recently came up against not one but two armored individuals. My character and I had to immediately adapt - it was a big "nope" moment - and even a shift in tactics to engage them separately instead of together still resulted in massive injury to my character, because armor is JUST. THAT. GOOD.

Updated. If I'm missing anyone, please poke me in a Private Message.

Constantly owe people RP. Constantly. At the moment, it's Raging Behemoth. Tomorrow it'll probably be some dozen folks or something including the FC I'm in. Blarghlefraggletazzle.

"The Azure Dragoon" has only ever been the title for the best of the best, which is the greatest living dragoon at any given time, which is like saying the cream of the crop when the crop in question, Ishgard's dragoons, are the best of the best with regards to the more mundane "lancers" and "knights" of the Holy See. The dragoons are, after all, masters of aerial combat, and now that we have the Heavensward Opening Cinematic, we can actually appreciate what Square-Enix means by "aerial combat". This basically means Estinien is, at the moment, Dragonslayer Supreme. The Warrior-of-Light-Main-Character-Who-Trained-Under-Alberic, a.k.a. the stand-in for Derplander, is arguably the only individual to ever match Estinien in potential. "Potential" is a fundamentally different concept from "current competency," and I'd argue that battle-hardened veterans of the dragoon corps, such as they are, are likely not young, but they won't be too old, either. I expect many are hideously mangled in combat on a regular basis during extended conflicts with the Dravanians, and as such they are constantly training new recruits and replenishing their ranks in such times. I don't think mid-twenties at the youngest is too unreasonable for a fresh dragoon, with their best being in their mid-thirties at the oldest.

We didn't see Dark Knight or Astrologian either, to be fair. EDIT: !!!!!!!

Heavensward: When Derplander Ditches Best Job for Worst Job (loved the opening, nothing will ever rival Bahamut+Answers but they did well)

Think we've had a number of topics on 2.55 you could sift through for opinions, though we're open to another, I'm sure. Uhhhh... links... links... http://ffxiv-roleplayers.com/showthread.php?tid=10890 http://ffxiv-roleplayers.com/showthread.php?tid=10902 http://ffxiv-roleplayers.com/showthread.php?tid=10893 http://ffxiv-roleplayers.com/showthread.php?tid=10892

Seeing Gegenji post in here reminded me. FFT/FFTA outfits, please.

Vishap was an excellent Glaurung-sized start, but... I'd like to fight a dragon on the scale of Ancalagon the Black, please. Barring that, since we already have Bahamut (I feel cheated, Square-Enix), I want Aymeric or Haurchefant to give a LotR-esque speech of badassery to a line of Ishgardian knights. EDIT: Airship boarding! Let me fight on an airship while one member of the party stands at the wheel and navigates us through giant midair AoE voidzones!

For the record, he gets cookies instead. No animal abuse going on here. Move along.

I can't see SAM anymore, much as some folks want to. NIN owns the creative space, and there'll be major overlap with RDM / Rune Fencer if either of those become a thing (pretty sure they will, given Ilberd's scene in 2.55 with Raubahn). I can't see BLU coming out of Ala Mhigo, they don't seem the type according to what lore we have. I'd expect BLU to come out of Sharlayan or some such place instead. But yes, there is clearly some watch on the region's border, the Resistance is still a thing, and Immortal Flames involvement doesn't surprise me considering that the I.F. are essentially Ul'dah's military. cough Ala Mhigo is Poland cough

Yes, but don't you see, if we don't have someone show up from the Ala Mhigan front, we can't tease that area, and Garlemald, as the 4.0 and 5.0 expansions! #marketing

Because that stopped white mages. And domans. And people already RPing DRK. And Garlean spies. And voidsent. And Ascians. And dragons. Don't forget dragons. Love me some dragons.

Sounsyy's the person to PM if you'd like a private soundboard on the matter, one of if not the most well-versed-on-XIV-lore individuals on these boards. If you're looking for public discourse, why not let us know the ins and outs of the character / the character's backstory while we wait for the Resident Loremaster(s) to arrive?

An eternity. He spent an infinite eternity staring at the green linkpearl that Endemerrin Rosethorne was holding out to him. His own linkpearl, the master he’d had on him ever since he’d stolen the bag of originals during a long-ago gallivant down Hawker’s Alley, the one that had only left him for a time when he’d been collared. He had lent it out to one Sizha’to Chalahko for safe-keeping during the Epinoch Incident, to keep his linkshell, his network of contacts, uncompromised. It had been returned to him when that threat had passed. This threat would not pass. This threat needed to be dealt with. All those moons ago, he’d woken to the sight of a gentleman in white standing over him. A man he’d been assigned to assist… in an investigation that had ultimately led to the routing of key personnel from the Order, despite his own recommendations otherwise. It had been their demotion and subsequent “transfer” over to the Brass Blades that had opened the floodgates for subsequent suffering, and while he’d never be able to prove that the fop had been in league with the runt – though the thought of Natalie ever so conveniently producing a cure for the blue blood virus out of nowhere, despite beseeching Kanaria’s help mere suns before, and getting reinstated for this was never far from his mind – it was as clear as the heavens to him that Jameson Taeros was a key instrument of corruption in the Monetarist machine that was eating away at the sultanate. Jenlyns Straightblade was too close to see that. That was why, when Melkire and Lazarov had last met, the sergeant hadn’t shied from the audition the pirate wanted from him. That was why he hadn’t shirked his duty: because, to his eyes, there was no one else. No one else cared. The dispute between Lazarov and Taeros had grown into a feud, and that feud - and Lazarov’s plans - threatened far too many, innocent or otherwise. He’d spoken with Grimsong once, on what might have been, what could have been, and what should have been, had there only been someone to act… or, at least, supplant the tragedy that was the Kinslayer’s legacy with something… more. Something that was not... less. While they hadn’t spoken at length, per se… …they’d been exchanging letters ever since. He only hoped she’d live up to her end. Two men. Two deaths. The denizens of Pearl Lane were running out of time… and in the current climate, Pearl Lane was a powder keg in the midst of a ceruleum-drenched city. That keg needed emptying. Careful handling, at the very least. Nero was the only one who knew how. Nero was the only one who could tell them. For that, Osric Melkire would hand Nero Lazarov the keys to the kingdom, just in time for Delial Grimsong to sidle up alongside the smuggler and teach him what a true viper was capable of. As for Taeros, the sergeant had gone ahead and enacted the very plan which he’d so vaguely outlined for Lazarov. He hadn’t dared risk exposure before now, though. He knew better. Plausible deniability. Alibis. For those, he needed someone else to do his dirty work. Dirk Problemsolver could not solve this problem. So he’d gone to the one professional he’d once been gaoled with. He had hired Blizzard Yuko and given him the names of known associates of Jameson Taeros along with the names of other key Monetarists. Blizzard Yuko was an oddity. There were more riddles to his enigma than the unusual name. The miqo’te male had been snubbed on payment by the albino following the failed “assassination attempt” on the sultana. Once Askier Mergrey had broken Melkire and Yuko out, the two fugitives had fled for the hills surrounding Black Brush… and there, Osric had offered to take up the two million gil debt owed to the man. ”Small payments, mind. Increments o’, say, twenty thou’. I pay you? You work for me.” It had started out as an exercise in prevention, paying Yuko to stay out of Thanalan and away from Ul’dah. Small payments made out to the male and delivered at seemingly-random drop points all over Eorzea. He’d kept up with his end of the deal, which had required some creative redistribution of Red Wings’ funds and an… odd apprenticeship or two, but he’d kept the gil flowing for moons. Then Lazarov demanded his price, and the sergeant had known just who to go to. Osric could only hope that the rising body count had Taeros fraying at the ends of his rope, because in three sun’s time, he, Kiht Jakkya and one other, along with some assistance from Tylwyth Narah, would be making for the Black Cells, ostensibly to rescue Roen. Melkire cared only to slit one man’s throat and hopefully not die trying. But first, a message. Psychological warfare, was what folks called it. A mental assault, intended to induce panic. Classic assassin tactic. He inhaled, breaking the eternal moment, and eyed the green linkpearl again. I have help. I have my knives. I have everythin’ Masters Rosethorne and Armstrong ever taught me. And I have that. If I ever needed help, it’s now. If there’s anyone ‘sides the runt who’s ever deserved steel, it’s him. There’ll be pain, but I’ll endure. Survival is a matter of will and desire. For everythin’ else, much as I hate sharpin’, there’s a stacked deck. I can do this. He breathed out then back in, one deep breath that came out in a sigh as he smirked and nodded at Endemerrin. He plucked the pearl from the former Garlean’s fingers, placed it in his ear, held it there, and spoke. "This message is intended for Taeros. I would appreciate if those who can would pass the message along. Dear Jameson, you fop, my condolences. Your friends must have meant the world t'you, as mine do t'me. Hopin' t'see you soon." He almost pulled the little marble to hand back to Rosethorne, but then he paused… and tapped at it again. "Oh, and one last thing--“ Kage. Natalie. Roen. Gharen. Itarliht. Askier. Coatleque. Now Roen again. Himself soon to follow. Sultansworn, paladins, the reformed. Falls from grace. A procession of them. The fault to be laid at one man’s doorstep. And now the gods-damned bastard had compromised the sergeant’s network. “--quit stealin' my shite." He all but ripped the linkpearl from his ear and tossed it underhanded to Merri. The male caught it one-handed, hammer in the other, and nodded. Words were exchanged, but the sergeant was barely paying attention… until, that is, Rosethorne strolled over to his furnace, considered the linkpearl carefully… and then just tossed the little sphere into the flames. Osric’s lips curled upward at the ends. “…you’re jokin’.” He was still smiling that shite-eating grin when, what felt like a handful of moments later, Endemerrin pulled the master linkpearl from the forge with a set of tongs, set it against an anvil, and brought the hammer down. The white-hot marble all but disintegrated.

!!!

At some cost. That's always been DRK's theme. At some cost.