Melkire

Each and every single one of my college roommates and I would refer to Super Mario Bros. Wii as "The Divorce Game". Why? Because when it came out, the bromance went on pause. EDIT: On a more "the AI hates me" note, UFO: Enemy Unknown, more commonly referred to as X-COM: UFO Defense. The original. My God, rookies. My God.

Magitek, please. If only because I want this:

I took regular piano instruction for twelve years. For nine of those years, I attended every small recital and concert that my instructor recommended me to. I practiced various pieces for them, depending on the theme: Beethoven, Mozart, Bach, Chopin, Mendelssohn, Tchaikovsky, Brahms, and more. There were generally two or three, sometimes four recitals and concerts in a year. One was always hosted by my instructor for her studio. The others were always these get-togethers for instructors of the community to show off their students, raise their prestige, and push those students to the forefront so that they could be seen and heard, perhaps earn accolades, and maybe even be "scouted". Nine years. Eighteen recitals and concerts at least, twenty-seven at most. Trust me when I say that I know exactly how you feel. I didn't get into music, didn't choose to play piano, because I wanted to be a professional, or because my parents forced me to it, or because I was looking to show off. I genuinely love music, especially the works of the Romantic era (Classical and Baroque pieces still hold a strong place in my heart). I love listening, and even more so I love making music, knowing that I can sit down, on my own, whenever I want, place my fingers on the keyboard, and create something beautiful. But here's the rub: instruction, my teacher told me, is guidance, and practice is, well, practice. The best way to improve was to be exposed to what others could do, so that I'd find my drive, so that I'd strive to better myself, to improve, to be lit on fire, so to speak. Public performances, I was told, were for my own good. It never feels that way at the time. You're sitting there, hands in your lap, head tucked down, and then, at last, after an eternity of waiting, you hear your name called, and you panic. Except this isn't the sudden panic of cartoons, where the person in question is twitching and running about like a spaz. No. It's not sudden at all. It's a cold chill throughout your entire body, a heavy weight in your chest, a thousand butterflies in your stomach and a million needles across your skin, and that feeling has been building ever since you walked in and sat down. You’re sitting there, and you’re listening to everyone before you, who had their turn first, and they’re setting their fingers to the keys and something marvelously divine is filling the air, but you can’t soar with them, no, that weight in your chest is holding you down, because they’re so good, you’ll never be that good, you’re awful, why didn't you practice more, why couldn't you be better, why are you even here, you sit down at home and turds fall from the sky when you play, you can’t take this, you don’t belong here, you’re a miserable waste of space, you never belonged here and you never will, and that’s when you hear your name called. Now you’re on a precipice. Part of you wants to stand. Part of you wants to stand up and burst into tears, and regretfully inform the crowd that you’re sorry, you can’t, you have to go. That same part of you wants to walk out, wants to run even because you can’t bear the feel of their eyes on you, you want to leave and go home and cry and never come back. But there’s also a part of you that wants to swallow down all your doubts and fears, wants to nod and step out of the aisle and walk up there and sit down at the bench. You want to set your hands and feet in their places, take as many long, deep breaths as you think you can afford, and then play. You will fuck up. You will hit a wrong note here and there. You’re too loud on this section, and too quiet on the next. You might even freeze up, your mind blanking because you don’t remember what comes next, and you either have to stand and bow, or else suffer the intense silence and the murmuring that follows until memory, mind or muscle, kicks back in. And once you’re done, once you’ve played your part, the pressure is lifted, the weight is gone… but the dread isn’t. Because as you stand to bow, you’re aware: they’re judging you. They’ve been judging you the whole time. All you want to do is play, to have fun, to make music, to listen, to bask, but you have to perform and now they’re judging you for it and what right do they have and oh god they probably think you’re awful, you were nowhere near as good as the folks before you…. What you don’t realize until a long, long time after, years even, is that each and every person in that crowd is rooting for you. They are hoping to hear something beautiful flow from your fingertips. They are cheering you on. Why? Because they’re not here for a perfect rendition. Perfect renditions are boring. They’re here for YOUR rendition. Yes, they might have shown up for their child, or their friend, or someone they know. They’re not really here for you. But polite niceties require that they sit through the entire show, and that means that, when you get up on stage, they’re hoping you give it your all, that you can produce something that’ll catch their attention, their interest, that you’ll entice and seduce and enchant them. They don’t want to hear same old Beethoven’s Fifth as played a hundred thousand times by everyone else, their mother, the television and the film industries. They want your take. That’s how much you matter to them, at that moment. I almost always cried when I got home. I was rarely satisfied with my own performance. But gradually, I learned that I was improving. My instructor would bring me the review and commentary sheets from the real judges, the instructors from colleges and universities and conservatories, and they’d be wonderful. “I really liked your take on this section!” “Work on your memorization, you missed a few notes, but I’m looking forward to hearing more from you.” “You have a talent for evoking feeling.” Always, they would know where I screwed up… but they weren’t interested in my faults. They were interested in what I, and I alone, could bring to the music. They loved hearing the way I splashed myself onto the pages, how I colored the music. So you know what I did? What I kept doing? I’d take those fears, and that pain, and the tears, and the regret, and I’d ball it up, and I’d feed that ball as fuel to the fire. I told myself I’d do better next time, that I’d practice, that I wouldn’t half-ass it, that I’d put more time and more importantly more attention into my time at the piano, and that I wouldn’t just fall back on muscle memory – that I’d listen to myself play. And you know what? I did. And I got better. I still get that feeling, every time I sit down at the piano, whether it’s for a recital or for friends and family. Even when it’s for myself, because I can hear every mistake, every off-kilter note. The cold is always there. So is the weight. So are the butterflies and the needles. But it’s worth it. I love creating. I love soaring. And if I have to suffer a little so that I can soar with others, and they can soar with me, so be it. I’ll be smiling and laughing as I cry at the keyboard, so to speak. Performance anxiety feels awful. But it can be a good kind of awful. All you have to do to improve your self-confidence is to keep throwing yourself back out there, no matter how much it hurts. Eventually, those review sheets will come back with A’s and S’s and “EXQUISITE” and “I loved it, I was moved to tears." Mine did. Took nearly seven or eight of my nine years to get there, but they did. You can do it.

I'm almost tempted to post the powered armor from Metal Wolf Chaos. Almost. Instead, the obvious: White Glint, from Armored Core.

~squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees~ Thank you again. Looks stunning. And omg FFTA Ifrit. :love:

That looks sooooo goooood, goddamn.

-scrambles for a working computer!-

Is this a bad thing? Because I fail to see it. Not every rep is a bad rep. Sounds like somebody who'd be hooked on one night stands ifyaknowhattahmsayin' 1) Excuse you I have (and by that I mean exactly .00000001 places to go because I'm insecure as fuck) many important things to do, such as cry over NO FRIENDS. 2) I had to google what Flynt was talking about. I'm like -2, people. I WANNA COME, DAMN IT!

I'll keep the real ugly stuff off the table, then. S'honji Hayakawa goes through girls like Fatty McFatFats go through Baskin-Robbins ice cream. He has a flavor for every day of the month, and his latest is this sweet and tragically innocent Lalafell lass. Berrod Armstrong is so obsessed with well-kept physiques that if you were to drop him into a body-builders' convention, he would collapse and every /fit/guy within a hundred yards would get sucked in to form the new Armstrong Singularity. Every happy moment is a Merri moment. EDIT: Oscare is the most selfish person ever. He comes, and then he goes, and then he comes again, and then he leaves again. WHERE DO YOU KEEP GOING? I WANNA COME WITH YOU, KOUHAI.

Oh, the things I could say and share in here.... I'll just settle in and watch this thread like a hawk, instead.

[align=center]The Dauntless On the Lookout for Immortal Flames Interested in Transferring, Adventurers Interested in Fighting the Good Fight, Journeymen Interested in Reaching New Markets, and Civilians Looking to Make a Difference! Courage to Those Who Waver, Hope to Those Who Falter, Wisdom to Those Who Stray, And An Answer to Those Who Pray. Every Man & Woman, Every Helping Hand, Every Emboldened Spirit Brings Us One Step Closer to a Brighter Future! Contact Mikh'a Korofi, Siha Xinkei, or Osric Melkire for Further Details and Information or to Express Your Interest! [/align]

Ahem. Let's not derail the thread in a "yes" "no" "yes" "no" fashion. Moving on.

For Osric? It's not ice. He's not cold, or uncaring, or unmoving. It's not water. He doesn't adapt well, he'd rather change his environment than let his environment change him, and he's not flexible enough. It's not earth. He's not hard, or stoic, and his faith can be shaken. It's not wind. He's not free-spirited enough, and he's shackled to the consequences of his life choices. That leaves fire (the obvious one)... or thunder, which calls into mind roiling thunderclouds, sudden and swift bolts of lightning, a presence that's there off in the distance, waiting to strike, and when it does it's loud and hard to miss, and the whole elemental is mythologically associated with judgment and justice and a little dash of chaos.

Forgive me for pulling a greentext, truly, but: >Comics >No authors at cross-purposes I've read enough mainstream comics and heard more of the same from friends to know that's so, so untrue. With regards to comics, I meant that authors are generally not at cross-purposes within a single run of issues. Jeph Loeb didn't have to deal with Frank Miller at the time that Loeb was writing Batman Hush, for instance. Grant Morrison could do whatever the hell he wanted with Clark Kent during All-Star Superman because it was a self-contained piece that didn't come up against any other author's narrative. This only becomes an issue with comics as a result of crossovers, whether those be large, company-wide events or a guest appearance of other characters from other comics (which then occasionally leads to some nasty retconning back and forth).

I think this owes itself in large part to the nature of the medium as a collaborative venue unlike any other. In roleplay, you have the potential for two narratives to come up against one another, and if you've two "special" characters and the authors don't take measures and/or don't establish some guidelines early on, they'll find themselves engaged in an arms race until both "special" characters end up so over-the-top that both narratives could be said to suffer for it. You won't find this in most forms of writing. Novels, comic books, television, films: very rarely do you come across two intertwined narratives in which the authors have such vested personal interests that they at times find themselves cross-purposes. In contrast, you see this often in roleplay, on the tabletop, etc.

He's Hildibrand's younger brother and the son of Byregot and Menphina's Godbert and Julyan Manderville who came into his share of the family's fortunes when his older brother ran off to go be an inspector. As previously mentioned, he gets all his money from Julyan as he is the quintessential Mama's Boy. The catch is that he's actually adopted, and the Mandervilles took him in. He's really a castoff bastard son of Rhalgr, and only Godbert and Julyan are privy to this information. #ridiculous headcanon #but it's MY headcanon

GET OUT NO U I was going to make it 999 but that would've OP as all hell. Then I remembered your little jackpot....

Thal's Own (ROG weapon) : A pair of wicked, serrated knives, worn with use and inscribed with over five dozen small, intricate runes detailing their history throughout Limsa Lominsa. Bloodied Brass Knuckles (PGL weapon) : These knuckles have long since rusted over. Blue Amalj'aa Headband (DoW Head) : An heirloom bequeathed to a one-time diplomat. White Ring of Devotion (Rare Drop) : Ring with STR, DEX, VIT, and DET Weighted Dice (Rare Drop) : One-time use consumable item. Guarantees that your next /random will roll a 777. Stack of Raunchy Novellas (Interior Furnishing) : Exactly what it sounds like. Haunches (emote item) : Character drops onto their haunches, arms resting on their knees. Siltstone Whetstone Osric Melkire Triple Triad card

It's funny that this topic comes up today. Before yesterday, I would've told you that my character is a somewhat graceful loser, who keeps his mouth shut and doesn't complain, who maturely recognizes and acknowledges a loss. Yesterday I learned that this stoicism is a façade, and that he is, in fact, very, very childish, and deep, deep down he hates to lose. He just usually hides it really well. I learned this because he got a fistful of smelling salts pushed back at him and up his nose. Now granted, he's no Miqo'te, but most folks would take that sort of thing badly. He took it... well... the best way I can describe it is as "an attention-seeking hissy fit of an obnoxious tantrum that had him stomping up and down through the dirt, kicking up sand and in general being so immature that I almost walked away from the keyboard in shock that the character had twisted in my hand like that." Seriously. The character narrative took over and my fingers were busy typing away the last thing I'd expected.

I'll go hide in the corner now even though my character is more like The Question. I can understand how that's a major turn-off for some people, though. Competency in certain areas, especially hyper-competency, rarely comes off well. More often than not, it's aggravating.

I know you're not good for me, so why do I keep coming back to you?!

HEMA videos, other visual material on traditional and contemporary techniques for knives and daggers (there was this one particularly good one that went into how both standard grip and reverse grip are valid, and the relative strengths and weaknesses of each), more material-by-osmosis on various infighting techniques than I can be bothered to remember at the moment... but that's all the physical stuff that I have little to no practical experience in. Law-wise... COUGHNOTROLEPLAYINGLAWENFORCEMENTCOUGH. Everything else, I'm about as clueless or not-as-clueless as anyone else, I imagine. Though I've done a little digging into Thieves' Cant, taken what I liked, and left the rest out. EDIT: Others have mentioned that they read a lot. I do, too. Not just fiction, either, but mythology, documentaries, various treatises on a number of different subjects, etc.

For Verad: