Melkire

Whoa, congrats!

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[align=center] Elevator Music pt. 2, in which I am made to wait on peasants. [/align]

Tengri Geneq sat tailor-fashion atop one of the hills overlooking the upper paths. There was no hiding the revulsion in his expression as he watched Summerfield ride south. He flexed his hands, cracking his knuckles in the process, and listened to the rustle of his gauntlets as he did so. That damned bird again. Would that I could set a rothlyt upon it without drawing her ire. There came from behind him the deliberate footfalls of a man half his weight, and a presence brushed against his mind, announcing itself. He sighed and turned an expectant look upon the Wildwood who now stood over his shoulder. The Elezen frowned down at the woman, though his own expression was a pensive one rather than one of distaste. “Captain, if I might inquire…?” “You may.” “How are we to proceed?” He could almost see the wheels turning. Glaisyer was no blunt instrument, as Gnasher was; no fanatic, as Forgehands was; no hedonist, as Zhwan was. Say rather that Pierre of the White Needle was the most self-possessed and pragmatic soul to have ever been pressed or enlisted into Tengri’s service. The man’s concerns were so transparent, however, that his captain had no need of the mental link they shared to follow his current train of thought. She is a distraction. She is a liability. The risks outweigh the rewards. She will make us soft. We can afford neither doubt nor hesitation. She inculcates both. We should cut her loose. Tengri snorted as his eyes swept back to Summerfield. “Watch over her.” Pierre arched an eyebrow at that. “We are spread thin enough as it is. Zhwan continues to shadow the boy, and you’ve sent Gnasher off to I-know-not-where….” “Ortolf shall reclaim his place at my side. He will suffice. I am less concerned at present with the risk to my person than with the potential loss of a valuable asset.” “...and the Padjal? With all due respect, captain, was he not a valuable asset? You’d given us the impression that you were rather reluctant to be parted from him.” A long stretch of silence followed those words. “You saw how he was, once you and the others were made known to him. How distant he was with me. How precious little passed between us.” Tengri frowned. “That he considered himself beholden to Summerfield and I was, like as not, all that spared me his reproach. That and his own guilt.” “Was that guilt not the reason for your interest in the child?” That baleful white eye glared up at Pierre from beneath Tengri’s bangs. “Mind your tongue.” “...apologies, captain.” The former Garlean scowled. “In O-Rehn-Fahn, I sensed a kindred spirit. In O-Rehn Fahn, I glimpsed past, present, and future. How could I not? A soul constrained against his will, driven out of desperation to abhorrent measures, and set upon a course that would ease the suffering of countless untold generations....” The former Ishgardian crossed his arms and leaned against an ancient bole. Tengri looked up through the canopy at the clear-blue skies and sighed again. “He balked at the aberrations for which I am responsible, Pierre. He balked at the instruments I have chosen with which to cultivate growth.” “So? What of it?” “O-Rehn sought redemption and atonement, whereas I seek absolution.” “...ah. A subtle distinction, that.” “Quite.” “Which brings us back to the conjurer.” Tengri nodded. “Putting aside the matter of her talents, Summerfield is the first Eorzean I have known to accept me for who and what I am. No condemnation, no castigation, no vilification. She accepted me as she accepted Hearns, as she accepted Fahn. She expects reformation but does not demand it, encourages rehabilitation but will never force it. So very unlike her elders and erstwhile allies.” “She is unique, then, in this regard?” The Xaela shrugged. “Perhaps. There are others who may, in time, come ‘round to her way of thinking, if they have not already. The little thaumaturge, for one. The huntress, for another.” The Wildwood straightened, sparing one last glance for the woman below. “Then I shall do as I was bid.” Tengri Geneq pushed himself to his feet, chuckling all the while. “Good. Every garden needs caretakers, and every gardener needs tools.”

[align=center] Malms to go....[/align] .

[align=center] Elevator music goes here. "What's illegal can, at times, prove beneficial to the folks what need the most help durin' dire straits... but try explainin' that to any authority what holds itself 'objectively moral', aye?" "That very same sentence could define my entire existence, ser."[/align]

Love this idea! I've heard folks here and there pitch it back and forth over the past couple of years, and if I recall correctly there have been some groups/companies that have held something similar, but as far as I know no one's gone for a bazaar as a large recurring event. Lots of people I know, myself included, would love to attend, even if only as customers! I do want to take a moment to point out one possible logistical nightmare. You mentioned thieves. Anytime you open up a public roleplay event to IC strife, conflict, and/or discord, you are running the risk of said discord detracting from the actual event. What happens, for example, if you end up with more prospective thieves on a particular night than prospective merchants? Or what happens if a thief gets caught, so to speak, and the resulting row and ruckus drowns out other merchants? Don't get me wrong, I'm a fan of robbery, burglary, and skullduggery in general when it comes to roleplay. I just foresee a lot of issues with opening a large, regular public event to such things and openly inviting those things to happen. Otherwise, I'm seconding Sounsyy's suggestions.

[align=center] "It took time. It took pain. It took blood, and toil, and sweat, and more blood. He hates me all the more now for that necessity, for forcing the words out of him, but in the end, your husband told me. He told me you could not pull the trigger alone." "...I could not."[/align]

"Berrod." "Hn?" "You busy?" "Not if ya need somethin'. What's goin' on?" "Needin' a word, is what's goin' on." "Yeah? I can come meet ya, or other way 'round, if ya like. At the Agency house right now." "Gimme a mo'." "Yeah, awright." "Edge o' Horizon, if y'can. Scaffoldin' overlooking Nophica's Wells." "Close, I'll be there in blinkin'." "...I'm blinkin'." Less than a bell later, Berrod Armstrong peeeeered down. "Y'got a lotta faith in that hunk o'junk." Osric Melkire sat perched rather precariously on a wench situated atop the scaffolding. "Who's Val?" His voice was muffled when he spoke... but also distant somehow, strangely so. Clinical, perhaps. "Yer brother, so ta speak. Student o'mine." The Lominsan grunted rather apathetically. Berrod was slow, yet he began to catch on. "...I see. Spit it out, then." "Think I've a handle on this Sutala shite. Ruttin' finally. Figured I'd let you know. Ain't the sole reason why I called you out here, but it’s the best.” The highlander blinked at that. Not the answer he was expecting, clearly. "Well -- that's good. Got any pointers, then?" The midlander sighed. "That's goin' t'depend on whether you've the right experience or not." He earned himself a scowl for his troubles. "Talk plain, hoss." "Fear 'n' anger, controllin' those comes down t'comin' to terms with and acceptin' that those emotions ain't only a part o' you, but that they're useful... jealousy's different." He shrugged where he sat, still staring out over the canyon. "Empty y'self first, that's essential. Then.... then, detachment. Distance. Professional distance." Berrod considered that for a moment. "That's wrappin a bandage on a broken leg, though. Bein' professional ain't a part o'the self. It's fake. A farce, a act. It ain't gonna help if things get bad." Osric shook his head. "You... don't understand. That's just t'keep the energies from buildin'. And we ain't talkin' false-facin'. I'm talkin' that stillness that grips you when you're hidin' behind the door, 'n' it falls shut next t'you, and you slip a garrote 'round some poor sod's neck and quietly strangle him t'death." He went quiet. Berrod Armstrong 's face blanked at once. "Wouldn't know nothin' about that, then." "...you sure?" Berrod Armstrong didn't answer. Osric Melkire glanced over his shoulder at the highlander. The big man opted into a solid quiet of his own - for the moment. "...well, that's what's been workin' for me. Like you told me when we were discussin' Leoric, no one solution for every man." He shrugged again, apologetically this time. "Sorry if it ain't much help." Berrod finally reattached his gaze, complete with a wide and horribly forced smile. "That's good, still. Won't work fer me, but if ya found what works fer you then that makes me glad." The Lominsan raised an eyebrow but let it be. "...aye, thanks. I... also need t'ask you a favor." "Yeah? Ask away." A moment's hesitation. "...bit reluctant to. Bit of a risk, what with you 'n' I 'n' all this shite we're learnin' t'deal with." "Worst I can do is say no, hoss." Osric nodded. "Warren ain't enough. Busy man, these suns. You too, but I'm hopin' between the both o' you, you'll manage. I'll be headed out t'Vylbrand soon. Be gone a fortnight or so." He asked his favor. There were a few tense moments of conversation as they discussed the details, but at last, Armstrong breathed an audible sigh of relief. "Awright. Thass good." Osric shook his head ruefully. "Don't think you appreciate how hard it was t'ask you this. Not after... that." "After what?" he asked with all the tone of a man who already had a vivid idea. The midlander gave his fellow monk a look as if to ask, really? We're really going to play this game? "Jus' answer me." "What you said that night, by the gates." Berrod nodded, his own notion confirmed. "I didn't mean that. I mighta looked once or twice, but I'd never cross that line." "Before? No, y'wouldn't. After I poisoned you, though....?" A shake of the head. "No," he said firmly. "She's someone ta protect. S'hard fer the shadow ta get past that. Er-- hard luck fer anybody who tries ta challenge that." Osric Melkire blinked. Stood. Turned slowly, his feet somehow finding purchase on the beam. And he laughed. "Hard... hard! Hard t'get past that, he says!" "...what? Why d'ya say that?" "Berrod... that's all the shadow's about. What's mine. What ought t'be mine. What's goin' t'be mine. What I'm goin' t'make mine. If there's anythin' I've learned from the Third Below, it's that." "I've known that long b'fore I felt that pain in m'knees. But if she's someone precious ta be protected, I won't fall ta any urge ta harm her. If I even have any." The small man nodded. "Thank you for that. Truly. If there's every a way I can repay you...." Armstrong snorted. "What are we, strangers? Don't worry 'bout it, hoss." That earned the big man a smirk. "I best be goin', then. Taken up enough o' your time as is." Berrod Armstrong turned around to leave himself, but answered with a quick, "Look sharp!" With one swipe of his arm he obliterated the crane's support. The bandage on his hand instantly reddened, but he seemed unphased. "Still yer teacher though," he called as the crane collapsed, "fall an' survive it!" The Lominsan winked, as he'd been stepping out over empty air even as Armstrong turned. The midlander rolled in midair, curling into a ball as he did so. Osric Melkire fell. And fell. And-- Osric Melkire obliterated some wooden barrels and various crates as he fell like a miniature Dalamud. "Gods damn," came the cry from above. "Well done!" There was the sound of pained and somewhat winded laughter from below. "Ow." "...I'll foot th'bill. An' the possible gaol time." "...good. I hate Blades."

Tengri Geneq sat within the confines of his' room at the Hourglass. He sat and glowered at the gem that danced across his fingers. A different stone, this time, but perhaps this one, too, was somehow trapped. Somehow rigged. That wasn't what was troubling him. There were ways, methods, to manage such risks. What had left him restless this night was that he'd not found anyone suitable for this particular soul stone, despite months spent searching. There was but a single candidate that came to mind. She was too close to the problem. There was too much at stake to risk everything on whether or not that child could resist temptation. He sighed and cast his thoughts back to when he'd first laid eyes on this particular gem. Mikh'a was perched on a rock overlooking the water. He had bare feet and a crude would-be spear in his hand. He was watching the fish as they passed with a very intent cat-like look on his face... and then he lunged. The spear went right through the fish's side and he yanked it back quickly. Mikh'a held it up to examine it proudly. Plopping back down on his bottom, Mikh'a plucked his pearl from his ear and pocketed it. "Fine," he grumped. "We'll do it this way just once." Mikh'a's shadow... licked its lips and ran a sleeve across its mouth. The boy stared at it. "Jin'li, if you're trying to test me again, I'm busy." He started to climb off of the rock veeeery slowly while watching the shadow. There were no further discrepancies between Mikh'a's motions and the shadows. A trick of the light, perhaps. "...right. Okay. Maybe I'm the one that's crazy." He stood upright and looked at his fish. "Er.... okay. Maybe it's just like when I talk to Spriggan. She doesn't answer either...." He looked back at the shadow, then around. "Uhhh. Rotund,a I have to talk to you." There came the sound of shifting sand... or perhaps shifting ash... as Mikh'a's shadow somehow squirmed and... and lightened... as a dark puddle of something pooled into existence about his feet. In a panic, Mikh'a scrambled backwards to get away from the movement at his feet. The pool shuddered and shot into the air, the black ooze swirling about itself before resolving into... a Keeper. An ugly, dirty, rotting Keeper. The disgusting thing leered at Mikh'a's fish. "Jealous jealous, that's me me me. So hungry, you know, so hungry. Parched and famished, parched and famished, but can't taste can't taste can't -eat-.... well, alright, I lie a little little. I can eat but I'm always hungerin'." The male bowed with a flourish. "Khuja'ya Zhawn. The Maw. Speak with the captain, yes? That's what you want, yes?" It took every ounce of self control Mikh'a had not to throw up. The smell was repulsive, would be even to a Hyur... but to his nose, which was even more sensitive than that of an average Miqo'te? It was awful. He stepped backward, then stood his tiny, frail body as upright as he could to look like he wasn't a total failure at life and his role in it. "...I uh.. I need to talk to Rotunda. You uh... You can have the fish. If you take me to him?" "Bad-bad at the listenin', yup yup! Ah, well. Rotunda Crow, not here. Not here! But you can speak with him, yes yes." The Keeper started pacing back and forth and speaking to itself. "Charged Khuja'ya with the task! Watch brat, watch brat. Observe! Report in in in, relay if need be! And needing's be!" "I heard you just fine, you can eat but never get full!" Mikh'a defended. "What do you mean he told you to watch me--- have you been following me the whole time?! You know everything I've said?!" The Keeper's ears wilted. "...oops." He rallied. "Rotunda or no, Rotunda or no?!" He jabbed one mangy paw towards Mikh'a's direction. "Don't you deflect--- this conversation isn't over. Yes. Either take me to Rotunda or bring him to me." "No need, no need!" The Keeper winked, then shut his eyes. Shuddered. Groaned. Stilled. Mikh'a hesitated and then took a step toward Khuja'ya with one hand out. "Er..." Whoever... whatever... opened those eyes next was not the Keeper of a few moments ago. The hands folded behind the Crow's back, the lips curled into a lazy smile, and the Keeper's weight was committed to one leg as the new resident of the corpse leaned to that side. "Master Korofi." The voice was the same, but the tone was different. Clipped. Measured. Garlean. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" The boy was perceptive enough. He remembered the reports. He remembered Rotunda talking about what was once Tengri but was now him. He remembered. "...you are neither Khuja'ya or Rotunda, are you?" "An educated guess. You're exercising your intelligence now. Most excellent. Alas, I am afraid you've quite missed your mark." Mikh'a wavered a little. "Adin?" "The very same." One hand emerged from behind the Keeper's back and rolled in a gesture. "The Curse of the Crows has its... benefits. Upon their creation, they find themselves in a communion of sorts, a network. Their minds are... merged? No, linked would be more accurate. They can communicate mentally at near instantaneous speeds over large distances." Adin grins. "Furthermore, the one who holds their leash holds their net... and can commune with them. Through them." He bowed. The same bow Tengri had once given Mikh'a. The exact same. "You'll have to forgive my mistrust and discomfort, but I didn't expect I would ever meet you like this." Or, truthfully, at all. He never expected to ever run into the man, despite his initial desire to ask after his own mother. "If Khuja'ya has been following me and they're a hivemind, you have been linked to them. You know why I'm looking for Rotunda?" "Unfortunately, my servants seem quite incapable of penetrating the defenses surrounding your home, so I remain blissfully unaware... though I have my suspicions. You have my compliments on those defenses. How did you accomplish such a feat?" Mikh'a smiled at the Crow. "By being smart." That was all he was going to relinquish as far as information went on the wards, he wouldn't risk endangering his family more than he already had. "Though it's good to know they do the job they were designed for. Thank you." "You are quite welcome. Now, what did you wish to speak to Rotunda about?" "The soulstones he wants delivered. I want to know who they are going to and I need a guarantee they'll be returned to their rightful owners...." "Neither I nor Rotunda nor the men and women to which they are delivered will need the stones once we have made full use of them. They will be returned to their respective owners regardless of the manner in which Askier Mergrey acquired them, though I know not what guarantee I could possibly give you." The Garlean ex-patriate folded Khuja'ya's hands behind the Keeper's back again and started circling Mikh'a. "I need to know that the stones are going to be retrieved from the people they're being loaned to and directly returned to whoever delivered them, Adin. I need that promise." He followed Adin's movements carefully. "I need this promise. That the one I'm going to give to you will come back to me... I can't give it to you without this promise." "I could promise you such a thing, but you would be taking and trusting the word of Adin Adonis. Your friends would argue that such a thing is worthless." "My friends have argued against a lot of my trust." His hand came up to touch his stomach. "It won't stop me from placing it." "Then I make you, this promise, Mikh'a Korofi: I will see the stones retrieved and returned. Tengri Geneq will make those deliveries personally." "Past misdeeds shouldn't rob anyone of the opportunity to make things right." He nodded at the promise and went to dig in his belt pouch. Eventually he produced the telling blue soulstone of the dragoon. "One more thing..." He said and closed his fingers around it. "Nahare can't be put in anymore danger regarding this. She can't be put at risk any longer. No more deliveries or tasks or anything should go to her unless it's absolutely necessary." "Then her work shall fall to Memith Ganajai until such time as Grimsong has recovered from his latest ordeal. That is my condition." "...fair enough," Mikh'a relented. He wasn't going to make all the demands and he wasn't foolish enough to believe otherwise. "Then done. I cannot guarantee her safety while Epinoch is still at large, but I can guarantee that my organization will leave her be." "That's all I can ask of you," Mikh'a agreed. "To ask more would both be foolish and I don't want to owe you any favors if I can avoid it." Adin came to a halt at Mikh'a's back. "How crass. I meet with you, speak with you, deal with you. I offer you not the slightest offense and yet you dare give insult as though you've impunity." The former triarius sniffed. "I forgive you, of course. Pray see to it that you watch your tongue in the future." Mikh'a smiled thinly. "Of course. Forgive me." He said and his ears flexed back. He turned to face Adin then and held out the soulstone finally. "It is yours for as long as you need it... though I warn you... Jin'li is convinced he will survive this and come out no worse for wear." Khuja'ya Zhwan's hand reached out and plucked the soulstone from Mikh'a's. "What Jin'li Epinoch does not know could fill several Sharlayan libraries... and I assure you, those are quite large." "I'm sure. You'll finish your task, of that I have no doubt." "Thank you for that vote of confidence." Adin held up the stone and inspected it, turning it this way and that against the light. "Was there anything else, Master Korofi?" The calico hesitated. "...there was," he said finally. He rubbed his arm and for an instance looked exactly as he was: a very, very scared adolescent boy. "...when you commanded in Garlemald, did you know Mikh?" Adin froze, save for a downward tilt to the Keeper's muzzle to bring his eyes in line with Korofi's. "I do not give handouts, Master Korofi, much less so when the information may or may not involve my own history, my own past. You must trade for the answer, of course, assuming you have anything of value or interest to me with which to barter." "I've nothing you could want." Mikh'a watched Adin and gripped at his own wrist. "And your past only interests me as far as your involvement with my mother. What you were... what you did... none of that means anything to me. You could have been the instrument for Dalamud's fall yourself and it would not matter." He hesitated. "What could you even ask of me? That you could not get on your own." Adin resumed his pacing. "For one, why the interest?" "My mother is a continuous threat to my life." Mikh'a followed him with his gaze. "And she's recently, after near a cycle, decided to become a much more active presence in my return to Garlemald. I've endangered an entire tribe of Seekers as well as plenty of others recently because of this and I just need information about her. She's my mother but my knowledge of her is limited." "Ah. Your little castrum adventure." "Yes." Adin sniffed, paused midstride, and turned to Mikh'a. "You forget yourself, Korofi. I asked you for the interest in my associations. You did not ask me about your mother. Not directly, that is." "Sometimes..." Mikh'a said quietly. "When we are in the company of others they observe things about us. They see the things we try to conceal from others. They know us sometimes better than they know ourselves. My mother is a very powerful woman in Garlemald and you were no less so when you were there. The probability that you did not move in some of the same circles, at least in some regard, is impossible. I ask what your association and knowledge of her is because I want to know her." Adin nodded, apparently satisfied. "Tell me how you constructed the wards about the Dauntless headquarters, and I will tell you all you wish to know of your mother." "I drew them. To tell you more than that would risk the security of my house. You're a brilliant man and I'm sure you don't like those wards there...." "I care little for breaking into your home, and care more for protecting what is mine. Nevertheless, that is my price." The Keeper frowned. "Drew them. Arcanima, perhaps...." He turned and walked towards the water, deep in thought. "The wards aren't hurting you, only keeping you out. But no... it wasn't arcanima. It's..." He tilted his head to the side. "I wouldn't even know how to begin to explain it. I don't lecture, I just do things." Adin rolled Zhwan's shoulders, the Keeper's back still to Mikh'a. "Then the usefulness of this conversation is at its end." "I suppose it is." Mikh'a wilted. "I'm sorry. I wouldn't even know how to begin explaining the wards even if I could." The Keeper dropped to its haunches and sniggered. "Observe and report, deliver and report, task task task, when does The Maw get to feast, I ask ask but no ans ans." Khuja'ya glanced over his shoulder at Mikh'a and winked. "Soulstones, soulstones, better than a man's bones~" The Crow rolled the dragoon's gem across his knuckles. "We done, we done done done?" "Khuja'ya..." Mikh'a looked defeated, but still he reached to grab the fish that had been discarded. He held it out. "You don't get full, but you can still eat. We're done." The Keeper's ears wilted again... but the undead abomination took one, two, three hesitant shuffles closer and snatched the fish from Mikh'a's hand before collapsing - Keeper, gem, fish and all - into a cloud of black ash that was blown away on a sudden wind. Two, almost three months now and nothing. No candidates. Not a one, save for the girl he could not count on. He sighed again and stood, slipping the little gem into a coinpurse as he did so and fastening said purse to his belt. There was much work to be done. Meeting with Summerfield. Visiting the Winds Estate. He would worry about candidates later.

Not gonna lie, I'm hyped. ALSO LOL HOLY SHIT VOLTRON ACTION.

That there is some sort of distinction seems plain to me, given that last statement from Erik that Sounsyy quoted. "The Fist of Rhalgr is their order". So I'd say yes, probably a militarized organization or something along those lines. You could be trained as a monk but would likely still need to be inducted into said order. I mentioned "war-priests" earlier because I recall reading something from over on the Official Forums that described the Fist as a very religious and militarized order/sect/organization/what-have-you. As a sidenote, found this tidbit for monk/pugilist lovers while poring through relic quest dialogue to find out whether Ivon Coeurlfist was of the Fist. Interesting confirmation that there are some aetherial / metaphysical / physical aspects to chakra, and that chakra basically describes internal aether and/or associated internalized processes. To wrap back around onto the original topic: aether-wielding martial artist is a go. The likelihood of an Othardian Fist is rather low, an Othardian monk in the Ala Mhigan sense somewhat more likely, an Othardian pugilist quite possible so long as pugilism isn't a specific style exclusive to the Ul'dahn guild (which it doesn't seem to be, but I can see arguments for it). EDIT: Found it. Info dump from Erik, apparently. http://forum.square-enix.com/ffxiv/threads/39515-Want-Lore-History-Here-you-go!-(Possible-Spoilers) "It was thought that all versed in the ways of the chakra were lost... But then what of this Widargelt simpleton? Just who is he? Perhaps the end of the Fist was not the end of the monks after all."

I do want to point out that the Fist of Rhalgr were an order of monks out of Gyr Abania that were commonly associated with Ala Mhigo. That order is no more; it was wiped out shortly prior to the Empire invading, conquering, and annexing Ala Mhigo. For any character to be considered a disciple of the Fist, they'd have to be middle-aged and have been present in Gyr Abania roughly twenty cycles (years) ago in order to have been trained by the Fist. Erik specifically refers to Widargelt as a "monk of Ala Mhigo". Widargelt refers to himself as a "brother of the monkhood" and states that his "order is the Fist of Rhalgr". He later speaks "of the monkhood and the Fist." There's a clear distinction there. All war-priests and disciples of the Fist of Rhalgr were monks, but not all monks are war-priests or disciples of the Fist of Rhalgr. It's fairly obvious from the 30-50 MNK quest dialogue that the Fist were but a single order of monks. That there are or were more orders that we are currently unaware of is quite likely, and that in itself implies that there could be monks not native to Gyr Abania or Ala Mhigo, even if they aren't known as "monks".

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Does the aforementioned spot-sharing still apply? I foresee myself wanting to make rolls, given character relationships, but then having to leave for work. I'm willing to observe if not. Just curious.

I can only be present for an hour, I'm afraid. Working that night. Wed or Sat would work better for me. Sign me up anyway.

If the healer in question is a WHM, there should be a Swiftcast-Stoneskin II at the start of an instance and right before each boss fight. Protect will follow... meaning there shouldn't be any reason for a PLD to be casting Protect anyway, since they and the healer will get to it at the same time. "But I'm saving my Swiftcast for raise/resurrection!" Swiftcast is a 60s CD. If you as a healer or as a tank anticipate a need for a rez less than 60 seconds into an instance, you have bigger problems than cooldown timers (and no, there is no instanced content outside of current raid/progression that requires you to have the DPS up, the idiots could be down/dead and you'll still be fine). Mind you, I'm not excusing the shitty attitude and the drop, especially if the healer in question was not playing efficiently. But... there's no need for PLD to cast either buff with a WHM in tow.

The horned man watched the horned child. O-Rehn Fahn sat tailor-fashion within the Gaze, his back to the entrance. Save for the slow and steady rise and fall that signified his breathing, there was no movement from the Padjal... nor were there any indications of abnormal aetherial activity. Whether or not there was more afoot where he could not see it was a cause for concern in the mind of one Tengri Geneq. He could almost hear her, as though she had not departed mere moments ago, as though she were retracing the steps of the conversation that had led him to this moment. "There is much he could do to rectify the wrongs he has committed." There was no doubt in his mind that the Hearer had the right of it. All that he had witnessed served to confirm all that he had heard: that the Padjal were possessed of great power, that their responsibilities drove them to act, and that at the heart of them was a desire to serve the people. There had never been any question concerning O-Rehn's capacity. There had been many questions regarding his intentions, many questions regarding his designs. We are very much alike in that regard, thought the Geneq. Summerfield is a fool if she thinks she needs point that out to me. Fahn was a symbol. "Captain," murmured a deep voice from behind his right shoulder. "Make the arrangements," he instructed, his voice low so as to not carry to the Child. "The Lady Conjurer has the right of it. If this redoubt is compromised, we must fall back to the secondary. Send me Pierre, then notify Sarangerel." "But Captain... Dravania...." His eyes fell shut and he pinched the bridge of his nose against a rising headache. "I am aware, Ortolf. That said, Jredthys has proven difficult. I cannot help but feel that Fortune has conspired to present us this opportunity, that we might attend to one matter while pursuing another." "Then let us pursue it! Leave this bairn behind, the risks--" He turned on the voice, his left hand lashing out. The gauntlet struck a barrel chest, drove the highlander to which the chest belonged back and into the wall. That same hand then found purchase around the highlander's neck, pushed, squeezed. "I WILL NOT!" He could sense the change behind him as it happened, could feel the slight shift through the air, the rustle of cloth, the sudden weight of the Padjal's regard as O-Rehn Fahn broke from his reverie and turned to watch the Xaela pin his servant against the cold stone. Tengri found that he cared little... but he did care. He forced himself to take several deep, calming breaths. "There is much that you do not understand, Forgehands," he hissed, "let alone comprehend. I would not part with this Child, even if the Traders themselves demanded him of me. Question me no further on this." The highlander nodded his assent. The Au Ra released him, dismissed him, turned 'round to glance back at the Padjal even as Ortolf Forgehands fled from the Fury's Gaze. O-Rehn had his back to Tengri once more, had returned to his meditation. There were no inquiries, no admonishments, no suggestions. There were no words from the Fahn for the Geneq, just as there had been no words between them since Liadan had left the former seedseer in the care of a self-admitted megalomaniac. "There is much he could do to rectify the wrongs he has committed."

Have had a rather busy few weeks, all things told. Pleasantly surprised. [align=center]

Osric: Big sis bites it pushing a little one out of the oven, dad commits sudoku out of grief, upper middle class whelp grows up a resentful murder hobo instead, loses his temper, has to run away and leave home forever, enlists, gets suckered into defusing terrorist plots. Tengri: Garlean schemes, Garlean dies, Garlean gets raised as undead, Garlean revolts, Garlean raises an army of darkness, Garlean regains mortality, Garlean aspires to world domination, Garlean wishes validation from his peers, Garlean boohoo. Haruko: Spoiled brat of an heir to a fortune goes down the wrong path and flees after an experiment in thaumaturgy goes horribly wrong. Returns years later and enlists for a time before deciding that jarheads are, indeed, morons. She opts out and signs up for traditional law enforcement instead. Emerissel: Head of a minor Ishgardian house, renown for producing high-quality dragoons, gets suckered by the woman he considers his adopted daughter into playing patron, benefactor, and employer to a company of misfits, troublemakers, and assholes. He takes more than his fair share of amusement from this, to go with his fair share of grief.

Recruitment is currently closed. We are still accepting applications are still happy to discuss interest in roleplaying with the Dauntless and/or joining our IC linkshell, but for now the Free Company itself is not taking on new members. We've got two narrative arcs firing up. Two storylines, two arcs, two plots, however you like to phrase such things. We're also looking into social events at least twice a month, which we might open up to non-members in the near future depending on relative success and whether we have steady-enough attendance. Thank you, all. :love: Current Officers: Mikh'a Korofi Siha Xinkei Seitsuda Gladepetal Osric Melkire

"A setting to display the recast timer in numbers will be added." ABOUT GODDAMNED TIME. :love: Massively stoked that we can now queue as a party for most of the roulettes. Dyeable Allagan gear SCREEEEEEEEEEECH. S1T7 cannot come soon enough. And I have one thing to say re: that MCH outfit: good looking gear is back.

[Mod Hardhat] Thread has been restored as per original poster's request. [/Mod Hardhat]

[Mod Hardhat] ... ...hey, look, a sticky-worthy resource! [/Mod Hardhat]

Cold. Shrieking. Movement, white on brown on white. Something large... loud crunching, more shrieking. The cry of eagles. Something large bounded through the snow, beat its wings. Ansfrid. He trembled as he fought to push himself upright. Cold. Snow. He'd fallen in the snow. Getting his bearings was proving difficult. How-- Panic as something struck them midair. Griffincry as they struggled to straighten out before they plummeted too far. Fear as he glanced over a shoulder and saw the billowing plume of smoke snake back towards them. Another collision. Grappling midair as they fell again. Impact. Hands and knees, now. He looked up and found a terrifying sight. Bubbling black ooze, like boiling oil in appearance, splattered the drifts as his friend raked their assailant with his claws. Another shriek, this one followed by a thunderous roar… and there stood Ortolf Forgehands, grip tight upon the griffin’s throat, claws still raking across his chest and drawing “blood”.... the highlander roared again and struck Ansfrid across the face. Once, twice… the third was a hook that drove the beast into a snowbank. The Crow spat to one side, then turned and stalked Melkire down. “Treach’rous bairn… ungrateful… tear ye t’pieces, aye….” “Ortolf,” the midlander cautioned as he scrambled for purchase, “don’t-- y’don’t need t’--” “Give it t’me. The temple stone.” Osric swallowed as he finally found his feet. His hands balled into fists. “No.” Snow erupted. Forgehands was on him in a flash. “GIVE IT T’ME!” The smaller man turned as he reached for fear and drank it down, fed it to his fire. In some far and distant corner of his mind, he wondered at how fortunate he was to have discovered this talent. To withdraw and regard himself and his surroundings coldly, to disassociate himself from the present… the rest was as simple as wishing he were elsewhere, that he was somewhere other than where he was, and then drawing upon the first below, upon Atala. He turned and pushed off with all the power that his chakra lent him and with all the agile grace that had come with growing up gutterborn… but he slipped. The ice below his feet betrayed him, and something seized his left leg, clamped down hard and dragged him back through the green wisps of aether that were his signature. Ortolf turned and whipped him ‘round through the air... he knew I’d slip, he picked here and now because he knew, Root, endu-- ...and down into the snow and onto the ice and stone beneath. Osric cried out in pain, though tapping the first above had saved him broken bones. Shadow. Ortolf went from looming over him to reaching down for his throat; he kicked out at the other man’s torso with all the force and all the anger he could muster. The highlander’s grasp slackened, and the Lominsan scrambled free and back to his feet. Forgehands came at him again, and this time he struck out. Jab, hook, jab again and again… the Crow slapped his strikes aside, almost contemptuously, with no regard whatsoever for the aether-driven blows. Whatever forward momentum Melkire had found faltered… and soon he found himself driven back, draining his reserves down the dregs as he fended off Ortolf’s assault. Cheat, run, or die. Tried runnin’, so..... He dropped low, right fist and arm drawn back, elbow to the sky, to strike down into snow and ice and stone-- Forgehand’s foot struck him clean in the face, and he went tumbling head over heels across that selfsame ice and stone. “Weren’t meant for you, else that’s what you’d have been given, bairn! We told you how this was t’go, we did. Clear as crystal!” He coughed and spat as he listened to Ortolf rant and rave. Red on white. Blood. “Did you forget? Rhalgr’s Own Fist, bairn, what’s the point in feedin’ your beast if you won’t use it? Coward.” Melkire laughed. ‘Twas a ragged thing, macabre. “You… you’ve no gods-damned idea.” Seated on the gods-damned cold stone floor. Because that's where he deserves to be, damn it all. "Give me the Lotus," he said as he unwound his wristwraps and dropped them into his lap. Tiergan Vashir reached into a satchel and drew out a small box of Allagan design that was adorned with a crystalline lid. The crystal funneled down towards what lie inside: The Lotus. the flower wrought of steel and power. It gleamed crimson as Vashir held it out towards Osric. The voices were stronger now, strong enough that they could be heard in the room and not merely in the mind. They were begging him not to do it, pleading with him to simply take the Lotus from Vashir instead. "I'll hold it," explained the former gladiator. “You need only to spill the blood. If you touch it directly somehow, things will be bad... for the both of us.” Osric nodded. He drew a knife from his belt and murmured, "promised Kanaria I'd never use one o' these ever again...." “You'll not be using it the way you normally would. I'd not count it against your promise.” .He held a hand out over the crimson flower, then slowly drew the knife across his open palm. Blood pooled... and then trickled. Dripped. Into the Lotus. A sudden burst of shrieking, screaming howls tore from the Lotus like a gale, wailing and weeping and roaring and crying, cursing the midlander as power course throughout the room, pulling at clothing, equipment, and furniture until suddenly the room was plunged into darkness. The darkness swallowed them both, dragged them down into the abyss. When the light returned, they were standing, struggling. Snow fell. The cobbles ran red. A little girl shrieked and wailed and sobbed. This was the Brume, and these were the corpses of children. She pushed at them, kicked them, struck them bit them flailed at them. Keeping a firm hold was proving difficult, but she wouldn’t escape. She couldn't. She was but a young girl and they were but a strong man. "Do it," they heard, and they recognized that voice, they recognized it because those were the words spoken by Ortolf Forgehands, and he would see their hellish training brought to a satisfactory conclusion. "A hundred innocents," he said, there and then, "a thousand, he will hide behind them all, he will knock them down, drown you in them if you let him. You will fall, and you will fail... unless you can do this. So do it. Do it." At last, their hand found purchase, and they lifted her bodily off her feet by the front of her tunic. The axe head they set against the frail skin of her neckline quivered in their grasp. She meets their eyes with her own, and they trembled harder as she begged them. BEGGED them. "Do it," he said again, but they could not. They could not, because the girl they were holding was D'lyhhia Lhuil. Say rather, the girl looked like D'lyhhia Lhuil. She had D'ly's hair, her face, her eyes. There were no ears, no markings, no slits... but she was her to the life. "Don't," she wailed, "please don't, please, Halone forgives, please let me go mister I don't want to die I don't want to I... I... please..." "DO IT!" barked the higlander, and they screamed, they bellowed, and she shrieked in fear, and they raised the axe high. There was a sickening squelch, and then there was red. Then, their whole world was red. They were red. They had done it. They were ready. But at the same time, they had fallen. Their stomach turned and flipped. They fell to the floor, and they puked. Gods. She deserved better. She deserved far, far better than them. The screaming, the sounds, the rush of pain, emotion, and horror - all of it spiraled down and down and down, howling into the Lotus in a torrent of madness before light suddenly sprang back into the room again and silence swallowed up all of the noise. The candles softly flickered. The sheets on the bed laid undisturbed. Everything remained as though nothing had happened at all. ...and then the petal bearing the mark of the Knife clicked a third of the way shut. Vashir scrambled backwards, away from Melkire.He let out gasping sound, choking, panting as he blinked something back, staring at Osric, but not really seeing him. Osric Melkire stared down at the floor in shame. He did not look up. The only sound from him was the slow and steady dripping of blood from hand and knife onto stone. Vashir's grip on the Lotus was like iron. His hands shook as he put the container back into his satchel, burying it deep as he worked to get his breathing back to normal, gazing down at the Hyur in front of him. Melkire wiped the blood off his knife onto the back of his already-bloodied hand. He sheathed the blade, then rubbed his hands together until the blood dried. "...are we done here?" Vashir swallowed hard, his voice low, soft, and ragged - as though he'd had been the one who'd screamed. As though he'd been the one who lifted his axe, brought it down hard, made the world red, red, red, re- He hissed, snapping his eyes shut. "I..." "Now you know," growled the midlander as he wound his wristwraps back on. Here, now, he grimaced as he watched the highlander loom over him again. “You will not cost me my vengeance. Rotunda will deliver, but first I must deliver Epinoch… which means I must deliver you.” Two large, strong hands seized him by the collar and lifted him up, held him aloft. “The stone.” “You… you want Mindclaw,” gasped Osric in desperation. “You want Horace Windwhistle.” Ortolf’s eyes went wide and wild. Those hands clenched against the leather they held. “How do you know that name, bairn?” “I have m’sources.” No way in the seven hells was he giving up Memith and Nahare. Forgehands snarled, eyes narrowing again. “No one’s seen Windwhistle in decades.” “I have. Fascinatin’ man, Horace. Talented. Heard he gave a man his eye back. Reconstituted. Meanin’ grown. From nothin’.” The highlander trembled. The midlander smirked. “Rotunda doesn’t know where Horace is, does he?” That smirk grew into a grin. “I do.” Agony. Red colors swam across a black field. When he came to, he found himself with his back to the frigid ground, Ortolf’s hands tight as a vice around his throat. ”WHERE IS HE?!” “Th--,” he choked out. “St-- the st-- stone….” The pressure lifted, and he gasped for air. Gulped it down. “I… the temple… leave me the temple….” The highlander growled. Somewhere off in the distance, there came another griffincry. this one pathetic and wracked with pain. “...you will return to me the one we gave you. You will not display the other so brazenly again, as you did with Castille in the Forgotten Knight. Zhwan saw. The captain… he is not like to leave you under my care. Pierre will be watching you from now on… but we cannot sense the nature of these stones. Only their presence. Their number. Am I understood?” Osric nodded meekly. “You will meet me three bells ahead of schedule, each time you present yourself for training. We will trade stones. You will train. I shall find you three bells after you take your leave. We will trade stones again. Am I understood?” Another nod. “The stone. That of the Hells.” Fumbling. Cold fingers. Cold leather. A moment later, a red gem went sliding across the ice. Ortolf Forgehands stooped and plucked it from where it lay. “You play dangerous games, Osric Melkire.” “...go piss in a river.” The winds rose, and then there was white between them, like a veil. The silhouette that was Forgehands turned and dissipated. The Hyur sighed with relief and laid his head back down. He shuddered as he struggled to control his breathing, to stay conscious. He didn’t last. Within seconds, he was out.