Melkire

Bomb Kitty was surely posting from his phone. Here's the streamlined outline for easy reading.

WRONG GAME FRANCHISE! CAPS LOCK IS CRUISE CONTROL FOR COOL. EVEN WITH CRUISE CONTROL, YOU STILL HAVE TO STEER.

Caw caw, motherf#&%ers. Caw f#&%ing caw.

This is an insult. ...Xydane actually has a brain, and uses it. Meanwhile EYES EYES EYES EYES EYES. Man, I only just saw that this thread is alive and kicking again. It lacks some manga recommendations. I'll be back later today with some.

More specifically, your knees will be broken, and you will fall. Those things are super easy for Lalas to reach, don'tcha know.

Move aside, folks! Master Race, coming through!

The private nodded. "Let's get moving, then." He turned his back to the campfire and gave that flick of his raised wrist again: Let's go. Let's go, go, go. "Thal's Ball, how many times? 'Corporal, you're an idiot,' I say. 'Quit mucking about with your health,' I say. But does she listen? Noooooooo." The Seeker scrunched up his face and proceeded to squeak out words in a tone and pitch more suited to the Lalafell he was attending. "Turns to me and goes, 'Private, I will do as I must.' 'Private, desperate times call for desperate measures.' Desperate measures? Ha. Demented lunacy, is what I call it." There are two kinds of field surgeons; Private Second Class Niles Ebner was of the sour sort, and it showed. He had stripped the little corporal out of her armor, laid her down on the cot, and tended to her... roughly. Even now, as he leaned over her to administer a potion, he was none too gently about tilting her head back, pinching her cheeks until her mouth opened, pouring the concoction in, and stroking her throat until it went down. He looked up at Xydane and Gregson, his tail twitching this way and that. "She'll be fine, this time," he spat in an irritated tone, "but she can't keep doing this. I'm a field surgeon, not a white mage of the Padjal." His eyes flickered towards the back of their little chamber here at Dragonhead, where a young hyur midlander stood at attention. "Jekkels can brief you. Leave me to my patient, morons." Gregson rolled his eyes, then led Xydane over to the other private. "Report." A nice, crisp Flame salute. "Sure thing, Karl-- I mean, ser. Yes ser. Um. Was at my post, just due east of the Gates when a cart rolled out, ser. Kept an eye on things, like you asked, and that's why I saw it-- saw him. That's why I saw him. Looked highlander, I think, but, uh... starved... emaciated, that's the word. Long locks, didn't get a good look at the color. Poor bastard looked miserable. Came this way, he did, and you sent Ebner and I and the boys here, and, well...." "Out with it already." "The descriptions match, ser. Mynhier was here, and he headed south bells ago." Gregson glanced over at Xydane. "He's headed home on his own."

Hiding behind me, huh?

He bolted, and as he did so one hand flew up to his ear. "Twenty fulms ahead... and off to your left... deep blue coat, white trim... shiny new shoes... aye, that's him... go ahead, I'm going to--" What's the play? Goobue high. Dirk smiled as he leaned back, one foot hooking around the leg of the table as his weight took the two front legs of his chair off the wooden floor. "Find a corner. Stick the old geezer when he turns it, slit his throat, and be done with it." The uniformed man to the left snorted as he dropped a pair of slimes on the tabletop. He steepled his hands and glared at the boy. "There's the captain's mission to consider. The higher the body count, the harder it becomes to get the job done. Bring in the authorities, make the search an official one." Dirk barked a laugh as the dealer started shuffling the deck from sheer anxiety. "Dream on. Do that, and you'll lose the target, sure as the sun rises and sets across the sea." The gentleman to the sergeant's left sighed and came down with a suit of Flames. He looked across the table to the dealer from underneath his green bandana and shook his head. "Ditch Faller. Hightail it back to the Falcon. Fly back to the Goblet, pick up Kanaria, and leave. Head for the Shroud. You've no history in Gridania; you can start a new life there with her. You can be safe." The dealer stared in disbelief, mouth agape. His jaw snapped shut, and He frowned, but before He could retort, the next man in line - dressed in a light red shirt with long sleeves and a black vest - folded his arms and spoke up. "We can't off Faller, the sergeant's right about that much - and I won't stand for it, anyroad - but we can't just leave the captain behind, either. Ain't right, when we owe the man as much as we do. " The dealer spread His hands, deck held in His left as eyed His helmsman expectantly. "So? What's your suggestion?" There came a smile as the man flicked his cards out over the table. "I fold." Osric sat back, stunned. "What, nothin'?" Ossy shrugged. "I'm here to make sure we don't go off course or run aground. I don't care which way we sail." Oz snorted. "Then why not let Him have fun with the whores while we're here?" "Principle." "Ah." Expectant eyes turned towards the last individual seated at the table. Rings looked up, gave his customary shite-eating grin, and came down with Coeurls over Snurbles. "Gutter games." "--make some noise, draw attention away from you, be a nifty distraction." Osric ran for Cripple's Walk. The Walk wasn't the pride and joy of Limsa Lominsa, but neither was it the shame. The wooden docks that shot off from the main thoroughfare were home to the meager and destitute, were in disrepair, and only the poorest of seafaring vessels chose to moor there... but at the same time, the commodities that flowed across the boardwalk were a lifeline for Hawkers'. Cheap goods, cheap supplies, that was what let the cripples thrive. The former problemsolver poured on the speed. Faller, old highlander that he was, may have had the constitution and fortitude to run him down... but he wouldn't prove nimble enough for this dance, of that Osric was certain. ...skirt this stand, slam through these gadabouts, vault this next one, dodge left, slide, feet back underneath me, next stand drop the pack drop the pack, good, good, TO THE RIGHT, shite that was close, the mop grab the okay got the mop, knock out those supports HAHA take THAT y'old kook... He danced around another storefront and stumbled, skid to a halt. Three of 'em. Three there, waiting for him. Sea Wolf with a two-by-eight cord of lumber, Seeker with a gladius, Plainsfolk with a musket. A gods-damned musket. As he watched, the Lalafell finished priming the shot, leveled the weapon, and-- --Osric didn't wait. He shed his hempen cowl, threw off the robe, kicked off to his left, brought his hands together over his head, and dove, to the sharp crack of gunfire, into the sea.

Gregson was none too subtle about plodding through the snow as he hurried over. "What's wrong? Where's the...?" He paused as he reached Vale, as he noted that the knight was still lugging the traveling pack around. He paused for just a moment, then shook his head, murmured an oath under his breath, and lifted the pack's flap, peered inside. "...aw, hells." He half-turned and bellowed up the slope. "COAL!" A smaller than average Hellsguard in Flame uniform lumbered over, saluted. Gregson slowly, carefully drew the pack off Xydane's shoulders, one strap at a time, before passing it off to the Roegadyn with no small amount of effort - Xydane's fellow midlander was anything but built. In point of fact, he almost looked like a twig standing next to the knight. "Get the corporal to Dragonhead. We can't do much for her here; she needs Ebner." The big Roe nodded as he slipped one burly arm through both straps and held the pack to his chest with his other hand. Then he was off, running down the slope to the east as fast as the trunks that were his legs could carry him. Private First Class Gregson watched them go. He shook his head and sighed. "Not the first time she's pushed herself like that. Not something that should be done. No staff, no rod... pushing herself to go from one to the other like that... she's going to break, one of these days." He frowned, then gestured for Xydane to follow as he slowly made his way back to camp. "Ebner and I - Ebner's our field surgeon - we're the only ones who know. Besides the sergeant and the lieutenant, that is. Most think she can only conjure." His left hand shot up as they approached the campfire, whipped around in a small circle that said, let's go. The few remaining Flames there began packing. Gregson bit down hard on his lower lip. "...someone who might've been Captain Mynhier snuck out the gate a few bells ago. Jekkels spotted him. Sent Ebner ahead to Dragonhead with half the squad to confirm. We'll see what he has to say."

Kudos to Verad for making me crack a smile EVERY. GOD. DAMNED. TIME. To the point where I felt awful the one time I had to turn down RP with him on account of not having actually used/perused his marvelous products yet. ;~; ...need someone to shoot me in the chest for one, and an opportunity to slam someone over the head with a hefty book for another.

"People are working eight bells a sun and forty bells a sevenday and some a third job. Women can’t afford to take care of their children, feed their children breakfast, lunch and dinner. My main job is to provide a roof over your head, food on the table and gil in your pocket. This is politics as usual, playing the silly game, and this is not gonna happen. The POPULATION is TOO DAMN HIGH." - Jimmy McOte.

Blackflame will be mine.

I don't think that charisma is necessary for connections. Osric acquires his through circumstance, as a result of direct interaction, and earns their loyalty through characteristics that have little to do with charm Though my IC interaction with Osric is limited, I'd have thought that his Charisma was actually sub-average (he has a definite way of rubbing people the wrong way, and has never struck me as particularly measured in speech, or appearance), but that he'd possess both more dexterity, and an exceptional wisdom (as his key attribute). Good point. Lemme knock that stat down. *grabs sledgehammer*

Osric's Stats: Strength: 12 - Somewhat stronger than average since unlocking his first Chakra. Dexterity: 16 - He had to be, growing up in Limsa, giving Yellowjackets and rival gang members / thieves / assassins the slip. Constitution: 10 - No more or less robust than your average commoner. Intelligence: 12 - Tutored for the first decade of his life. He'll jump at the chance to learn anything he can, so long as it isn't for the mechanically-inclined. Wisdom: 18 - He's only ever truly been bested in wits once (helloooooo, Jin'li). Okay, maybe twice (damn you, Zhi). Charisma: 8 - Pisses people off... but somehow he ends up ridiculously well-connected anyway.

FIGHTING YOU Break me off a piece of that Kit-Kat bar.

Hah, I'm pretty sure Crofte's forwardness is beginning to ruffle more feathers than Natalie. Paladins and espionage. Oil and water. Nat had to deal with Crofte's shenanigans for once. Up was down! Black was white! WAIT WHAT. Osric and I both did a little double-take. Feathers, ruffled? Nah. MORE LIKE TARRED. :evil:

And, in between them, grey. ...Lawful, Neutral, and Chaotic?

"This video is not available in your country." Try this one. [video=youtube]

Well. Hope I tanked well enough. GAWD.

Why was Thaarus not playing the piano for you?

Ffffffffff, well written, Berrod. ...I'm throwing myself into the running with Roen and Zhavi for "slowest writer ever". Vote Melkire 2014.

A man on the ground is a dead man. Elezen as a rule were not used to fighting from such a vantage point. Lalafell were. It was that simple. She followed Xydane down the hall, then turned right. What awaited her weren't prison cells but closets, storage rooms, maintenance rooms, offices... she found a corpse, stripped clean of clothes, in one room, and several more in another. The last chamber... the last chamber was where... the place lay in ruins: papers, chairs, and tables burning, walls charring, roof crumbling, room smoking. Kokojo heard the knight bellow, and, though she couldn't make out any words, she got the gist. She hollered back, "Clear! We're clear! He's not here!" Back down the hallway the little corporal darted; she came to the junction and went the other way this time, her breathing labored now as she turned one corner after another after another until finally she found.... Too many. Too late. They pressed in around the Hyur, lances drawn back for the thrust. She dropped her shield. "...very well. So much for the lieutenant. What can you tell me of your subordinates?" He sighed as he dipped the brush again into the soot black dye and drew it over the barbute helmet again. The voice in his head never ceased; it was always asking questions, always pressing for weakness, for advantage. "Only ever had the one since Halatali. Corporal Haruko Kokojo. Female. Dunesfolk. Good person. Good soldier." "Specifics please, Master Osric. You should know that by now." Another layer. One stripe. Two stripes. Three stripes. Jin'li had insisted that he look the part, so he had gone to great lengths and pains to smuggle his father's old armor out of the city. "Helped me with the recruits, mostly. Occasionally accompanied me on investigations and matters of a more... personal nature." "Skills?" "Paladin-in-training, but her bladework is shoddy, from what I've been told. That said, could've been Sultansworn thrice over, if she'd chosen the Oath." "Hmm. Why didn't she?" "Because I asked her not to. I... needed her. Needed someone. Load's too much for one person to carry, at times." "...you said 'thrice over'. If her martial prowess is so... lacking... then how?" He put the brush aside, turned the finished helmet to face him, and sat down on the dusty dirt floor of the cavern that was Lost Hope. "Big things come in small packages. She may never be one of the greats when it comes to the sword..." He smiled. "...but she excels at aetheric manipulation, and has a talent and potential for conjury the likes of which hasn't been seen by the sultanate in over three generations." The lances speared through the air towards Xydane, only to clash against a sudden hexagonal lattice of blue-white. The steel points rebounded, and the four Elezen staggered as they rocked back on their heels. One of them glanced back and gave a cry; the others turned, as well. She'd been spotted. Kokojo's sword-arm hung at her side, the blade trailing on the ground. Her left hand - raised, palm out - rose further, drew and threw her helmet off. Her hair flowed freely... then rose, billowed, as if a sudden wind had picked up and held. No mage, she, but long before she'd found succor at Stillglade Fane, she had found the Ossuary. She'd be stripping the gears again, doing as she was now, falling from grace, falling from White to Black as she released her grasp on the elemental and turned her focus to her own aether. She reached inward, pulled out the energies she needed, and a flame burst into being in the palm of her hand. She held it up, presented it to the four. "Burn." So they did. Fire rolled over the lattice in broiling waves as the Elezen screamed, wailed. It didn't last long - thaumaturgy wasn't her specialty - but it lasted long enough. She let the protective lattice wall drop as the heat faded, and she gave her knight a gift, presented him with four unguarded backs. That would have to be enough, because her eyes rolled back in her head. Haruko Kokojo collapsed.

Welcome spiffy Kage False advertising.

Osric screwed up. Generally speaking, he almost always screwed up. The important questions to ask were always how and how badly. Hawkers' Alley was a fairly respectable place, relatively speaking, for a market crawling with thieves, footpads, pirates, ruffians, scoundrels, and the lot. Though you were almost certain to be pickpocketed at least once a visit, you weren't likely to find yourself accosted, nor - unless you were a very troublesome sort - find yourself shanked and dragged off to be dumped into the ocean. The one thing Hawkers' had going for it that markets such as Sapphire didn't were the street urchins. Though this wasn't the gutter, the gutterborn were always out in force. He'd pressed his way through the sea of living bodies, noted the Seeker in question - was that a glacial coat? - passed Raz discretely, crossed palms with a few youths of his acquaintance, and sent those scags on their way with a message to Thomys. It was more or less the usual, something along the lines of, "I'm in town. Stay low. Keep them safe. You know the drill. Territories any different? Borders shifted? Any change in management? Who's new in town?" And so on and so forth. Tom would deliver. He doubled back to deal with the inevitable hanger-on, and was gifting the lad - highlander, young, brawny, stupid - to Lymlaen's waters when he saw his mistake and learned the how. He'd rightfully assumed that they'd have picked up a tail already: the lift was always watched, even when the landing couldn't be. What he hadn't accounted for was the possibility that their tail had a tail. Osric had time to think, the hells is Faller doing here?, and then their eyes met. He bolted.