Melkire

As a heads-up for everyone, this update has broken the wiki for Android's default web browser. But that's to be expected, given that said browser is a p.o.s.

Unless there's another race that appeals to me, I usually play as humans in both roleplay and video games. XIV lacks bangaa, so I went with hyur. Midlander specifically, since I wanted something small, agile and nimble to complement the character's background, origins, etc. Only other XIV race I was interested in, Lalafell, I ended up using for an alt. I'm going to just quote Caine on this. (Fictional character, mind you, written by a relatively-well-versed martial artist)

*points to the main character of XIV's Main Story Quest*

*also raises hand* I need to poke someone tonight for a LS invite.

*whistles innocently* Permission? The hells is that? Given that one of Askier's last IC interactions before his leaving OoC for the Navy was to say, "hey, give me an opportunity and I'll be happy to blow the fop up into itty bitty pieces," I had to make sure this card was capable of doing so. EDIT: Can't stop, won't stop.

More like SMORES. Absolutely delicious. :moogle: Smores implies a sandwich though. o: ... wait. ...you've never had marshmallow and chocolate on a single piece of graham cracker? I've run out of crackers enough times that I've had to resort to the delicacy/appetizer/cheese-on-a-cracker approach rather than sandwiching the goodness.

More like SMORES. Absolutely delicious. :moogle: Coat, if the romance in question is the liaison with a certain fop, I'll pass. Grrr. Rawr. Etc.

If memory serves me correctly (along with XIVDB's dialogue logs from class quests), nowhere in the WAR job quests is it stated or even implied that anything a warrior does is based on aether. Their skills are described as ancient techniques, and the inner beast is implied to be a trance-like berserker state, some sort of primal rage that lies buried deep within. The relic armor is outright stated to be imbued with arcane enchantments, yes, but that's about as magical as it gets when it comes to Warrior. More or less spot-on with Monk, though, barring some simplification.

Cross-posting because I can. Ship ship ship ship ship. *deep breath* Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!~~~

Then explain the Tucopiss Tracker prototype. I lugged that invention of his around for months moons.

Too soft. No second chances.

"Cannot attack or block." Must be destroyed indirectly. Love it.

Osric chuckled at the gibe; subtle, petty insults were just another facet of life amongst thieves, pirates, scrags, coves, and all other seaworthies of note. He'd grown accustomed to this long ago, and if Nero thought that a few measly words were going to shake him, he was wrong. That said, the man seemed to be in genuinely good humor for once, a nice contrast to their first meeting. It was entirely possible that those words had been thrown out there by mere habit, without venom or ill intent. Astoundin'. How in the seven hells did you talk him 'round to meetin' with me again, Roen? Did it matter? Somethin's off. Somethin's different about him. He's-- Did it matter? Mayhap this time, each of us'll be willin' t'hear out the other. "Not like I chose the venue, but seein' as how it suits you, I ain't goin' t'complain." The soldier took a long, slow pull from his glass as he peered over the rim and across the room at the smuggler. The man's near-fall off his stool elicited a small smirk. The next few words out of Nero's mouth, though, dashed most if not all of Osric's hopes to the ground. He shook his head and sighed. "Ruin you, eh?" He paused. It was a small pause, just long enough to take a short, quick sip of ale, just long enough for him to gather his thoughts. He coughed as he lowered his glass, made an effort to cover his face with the back of one gauntleted hand. He set his tumbler aside, then gripped the edge of the bar as he turned to face the smuggler once more. "That's our problem, ain't it, yours and mine? You think I mean t'ruin you. Think I want you ruined, you and your plans." He scoffed. "Think it through. You ain't some wool-headed gadabout, nor some liver-bellied scrag what can't face the truth." His voice dropped a register, fell from a boisterous volume to a whisper, and if sheer will had been as much a force to be reckoned with as aether, he'd have pinned Nero to the man's seat with his stare. "Tell me something, Sebastian. Why am I here, alone, meeting with you, while my fellow servicemen board Maelstrom vessels and perish by the dozens when your own ships send theirs to the bottom of the Rhotano? Why am I committin' treason, lettin' you walk and leavin' you free, rather than calling in my men to clap you in irons, when a mere drop of my name and rank in the right place and the right time by you and yours could have me executed?" He leaned forward and threw out his hands. "Why would I be doin' any of this if what I wanted was to ruin you?" Osric snorted as he pushed himself to his feet, turned to pick up his glass and threw back the rest of his drink. He glanced at Nero as he plucked the bottle and the spare tumbler off the countertop and walked over to the smuggler's table.

"Hard" is an understatement, Dogberry.

That dress. That dress. HNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGG. I suppose I'll have to settle for that handsome tux.

And stop idolizing baraTitan while yer at it. You mean Grumpy Old Sumo Dad?

Miqo'te age of consent: as soon as the pheromones kick in.

The taller-than-average lalafellen corporal huffed an exasperated breath. She paced back and forth along the line comprised of her own men, her bone-white celata held beneath one arm, her blond hair still done up in its bun. Warmer than usual. Haruko Kokojo came to a stop in front of a particularly bland-looking midlander and glanced up at him out of the corner of her eye. Flame Private First Class Karl Gregson might not have looked like anything special, but his calm demeanor in the face of fire and his natural bent for tactics made him an invaluable asset that she had found herself relying on more and more with each passing sun. Such a shame about his face, though. "Gregson," she said now. "Analysis, please." "Musket fire, or worse. That it's coming from Pearl indicates a supplier, ma'am, given how poor the residents here are. That means they're organized. Worst case scenario, they've had ample time to train on them. Always plan for the worst. If it was me, I'd have posted my best marksmen at windows in the surrounding structures, assigned a heavy to each, and taken what's left down to the streets." She nodded, then swept her gaze back down the line towards the Brass Blades. They'd set up at the junction where the three alleyways leading from the Quicksand, the Gold Court, and Sapphire Exchange met. Even now, she knew, Blades were securing the various entrances into the palace and cordoning off any alley that led to Sapphire. Her eyes came to a rest on Broken Nose as the Hellsguard approached her; it had been he who'd been the one to sound the alarm over the recently-minted Sand Pearl, and she knew as well as her men did that the chaos they were about to confront rankled in the guts of the Blades just as much as they did with the Flames. Violence was one thing, a daily occurrence taken for granted in this city. Armed and organized refugees, however, were another. That spelt trouble, and that sort of trouble reeked of possibilities, possibilities like riot, revolt, rebellion, treason, and sedition. Such things could not be tolerated. Broken Nose came to a stop in front of her, and she snapped a sharp salute. "Small firearms, ser. Men up top." "We'll take streets." "Leaves us windows," she answered back with a nod of approval. He didn't waste time. Good. They turned towards the assembled men and women together. "BLADES," bellowed the Roegadyn, "THE STREETS ARE OURS. THEY HAVE CONDORS PERCHED HIGH, SO KEEP OUT OF THE LANES. HUG THE STONES. ONE CRY OF QUARTER, THEN BE ABOUT YOUR WORK." "FLAMES," cried the Lalafell, "WE'RE FOR THE STOREFRONTS, THE APARTMENTS, THE WAREHOUSES. SHIELDS HIGH, BREACH IN PAIRS, REMEMBER YOUR DRILLS. CLEAR THE WINDOWS. NO QUARTER. A MAN WITH A MUSKET STANDS CONDEMNED, AS DO HIS FELLOWS." Two sharp rasps of steel were answered by dozens upon dozens more. Moments later, the rolling thunder of a veritable stampede arose in answer to the sharp cracks of gunfire.

The floorboards creaked, the ceiling leaked, and there wasn't a gods-damned drop of warmth to be had in the little ramshackle tavern that had been more or less built into the cliffs. Carving through solid stone for a refuge in which to house this edifice, however, didn't seem to have made a lick of difference: the whole of the interior was damp, moss grew in the dark recesses and in the shadows around every corner, and most of the wooden structure was rotting away, as were the tables, the stools, even the bar. Whatever the architect's designs, Byregot had abandoned him to Halone's judgment, and She had found him wanting. Suppose he ought t'have thought things through first, 'fore buildin' on the edge o' the Oakwood. Ought t'have known better. There came the chink and jangle of glass on glass as a dark figure clad in the leathers and felt of the latest Lominsan fashion worked his way slowly down the counter, lifting, unstoppering, and replacing ancient bottles of aged liquor one a time to sniff at their contents. He methodically worked his way from left to right, top to bottom. Each successive glass was met with a frown or a grimace; occasionally, the man would scoff, as if offended by the apparent lack of a vintage that met with his approval. "Shite... there ain't a bloody thing worth drinkin' here." At last, though, he rose, prize in hand: one dusty bottle of Admiral's Ale. Satisfied, he reverently deposited the liquor on the bar before diving beneath the counter; he emerged again, a pair of tumblers in hand. He contemptuously lifted a bottle of whiskey that he had rejected earlier in the evening, doused a rag of a cloth with it, and wiped the tumblers clean. There came a creak behind him, from towards the entrance, but he paid it no mind. His work done, he hopped onto the bar, rested his feet against a pair of stools, and poured the two glasses full. His own tumbler, he raised to the batwing doors in mock salute, shite-eating grin on his face as he greeted the newcomer. "Lazarov."

...you had a perfect opportunity to use "Flashpoint" and you squandered it.

*throws confetti*

[align=center][/align] [align=center]FINALLY.[/align]

*stares* ...so my impression from this dev blog is that the relic quest for Zodiac Braves culminates in your relic becoming one of the iconic Final Fantasy weapons. Do I have that right?

I like the idea of using theater nomenclature in place of clunky/unwieldy titles ("Player-created", "Unofficial", etc.) but I'm a little concerned that folks new to the lore wiki will take one look at those names ("Props," etc.) and not immediately grasp that those categories service unofficial elements not canonized by Square-Enix.