Melkire

Rigged. This game is rigged. The sergeant tore the turban from his head and ran a shaking hand back through his hair as he paced back and forth 'cross the length of his quarters. He should've been focusing on the ongoing search for Mynhier, or helping Od'hilkas fend off an impending terrorist strike, not... not.... Gods-damned law enforcement. Taeros. Taeros was a pompous ass of a man, what with having the gall to outright taunt the sergeant with the precarious position they'd found themselves in. "Your...employers. Monetarists?" "Would that matter, Sergeant?" "You tell me. We're in Ul'dah. Does it matter? Should it matter?" "They are of the wealthy sort. They lost much property and wealth in this affair. Whether they support the Sultana or not, corruption is corruption. And if it be amongst those who consider themselves elite protectors of the Sultana... even Royalists would dare protest, I would think." The slime had a point. Gods damn him, the slime had a point. That said... me, mistaken? 'Mistaken,' my ass. Soddin' Blade, is what y'are. Swift. This was all Swift's fault. His mind raced back to the memory of his meeting with the commander, the briefing that he'd told Taeros hadn't happened. "Fafaso, take these to Liliana, please. Pond, Peak will be needing forms fifty-six and three-thirty-two back, now that I've signed off on them." Osric bit down on his tongue until he was certain that Swift was finished addressing his secretaries. This ain't Burning's office, and the man ain't Burning. "Sir, given my... history... sending me is tantamount to handing me my own noose and asking me to tie the hangman's knot. So why me?" The commander had turned to him, then. Had given him his infamous thousand-fulm stare. "An inquiry of this nature cannot be allowed to pass on anything but an impartial basis. With the Blades and only the Blades involved, this would be anything but. So I insisted on sending my own man. I chose you precisely for your history." "Sir, I... I don't understand." "The Monetarists are making a play for the Royalists' power base. Should the accused prove guilty... that would be a grave blow and a grievous wound, but one that would have to be borne. Should they prove innocent, though...." The commander frowned. "The Monetarists won't settle for that sort of outcome. They'll seek to warp the facts, bend the truth. Whatever gets them the verdict they want. Whichever man I send must be seen as impartial, or else he will be swept aside. Whichever man I send must be acquiescent and believed to be under their thumb, under their power. Should the accused prove innocent, that proof needs be bared under such circumstances so as to be irrefutable and impossible to cover up. And my man must be seen taking every measure so as to insure the opposite." "...you're asking me to risk my neck playing the field." The commander's answering smile was full of teeth. Rigged top to bottom. He could almost hear the Syndicate's insidious whispers in his ears, feel their grimy claws on his shoulders. "Ours, now. Ours, or Thal's. Bend a knee, little man, heed us, or your head will roll." "Bring the Sultanate down, brick by brick, stone by stone." "Grind it into sand." Melkire roared, reached for the metal crossbar at the head of his bunk, and upended the works, sending frame and mattress alike crashing into the opposite wall in impotent rage, where the pieces rang out against the cold stone floor. The door behind him creaked open, and a small voice said, "Recruits've turned in, Sergeant. Best not be waking them." He waved a hand back towards the voice to mollify his little corporal. The door could be heard creaking closed again. Rigged. But at least I got something done right, today. The order. The order was everything. Could change everything. Kiryuu, Deneith, Mcbeef. Kiryuu, Deneith, Mcbeef. The order would decide all.

Respect others. Do unto them only as you would have them do unto you. There, done. GOLDEN RULE WHOEVER HAS THE GOLD MAKES THE RULES.

Kahn'a is far wiser and far more diplomatic than I. I must have ran past the box mentioned in Riddle #2 at least half a dozen times before it registered on my addled, sleep-deprived brain. I brought that on myself. ;_;

Ouch. Tough crowd. Guess I'm playing devil's advocate. To be honest, almost everyone has had, at one point or another, a horrific hodpodge of an idea, character, story, roleplay, whatever. Hell, I was playing FFTA when the last of Stephen King's Dark Tower books were coming out. I ended up writing a 200 page document outlining 4000 years worth of characters and history, complete with creation myth, about the gunslunger descendants of Lini the Moogle on their noble quest to free Sequence from the Tower. It was dumb, but looking back, it was about as fun then as it is cringeworthy now. I was all of fourteen or so years old, amd I loved what I had made. Still do. The trouble with RPing in an MMO environment is that it's like the playground: the rules are there to keep as many ppl happy as possible, and in cases like these, the easiest rules to enforce are the ones everyone knows. That means no things like Godzilla rising from Vesper Bay to fight Bahamut, or Cloud Strife fighting Ryu Hayabusa across Ul'dah's rooftops, no matter how cool those things might be. Can't have them because "that wouldnt happen in the real FFXIV". tl;dr: silly backstory is silly, and none of the other kids at the playground will want to hang out with you because you took their Legos and made the Jetson's spaceship in the middle of Bedrock. You are the little boy. The rest of us are Will Ferrell.

"You first." Yer an idiot yer an idiot yer an idiot yer an idiot He fell in step behind her, and took the plunge. "How much do you know about Merlwyb's Ghost?" I have to know. Have to.

Them riddles. Mykaul and I were up late last night going over them in-game with Kahn'a. There's a special level of hell reserved for child molesters, people who talk in movie theaters, and people who think themselves clever. You're going to the special hell, Askier.

There's something stupendously amazing about three chaps in Allagan Visors gaping simultaneously like that. I admit it, I lol'd.

MAJOR LORE QUESTION, COMIN' THROUGH: Is tempering exclusive to primals, and if not, which entities are capable of it? To phrase the question another way: are claims on an individual, a la Hydaelyn's Echo (and presumably Zodiark's equivalent), akin to tempering, given how they seem to interdict and prevent tempering? My understanding has been that Hydaelyn and the primals are essentially claiming souls when they grant someone the Echo / temper them. Putting them under their respective umbrellas of protection/domination/whatever, so to speak. Hydaelyn, being the traditional "good/benevolent divine power", allows its Chosen to retain their free will, whereas the primals strip theirs of free will. Is this right/wrong? There more to it? Are there any other powers/creatures we see in-game (Siren?) capable of this? I ask because I'm looking to develop my RP character further, but I don't want to break any established lore in doing so.

He gave her a ten-count, then followed, scooping his duffel bag up off the floor beneath his chair and the moneybag up off the table with all the aplomb of a firefly amongst the coeurls. The duffel went over his shoulder by the strap, and the moneybag went back into its pouch, freeing up the knife he still carried in his right hand. Osric knew as well as Kink did that he had just called down the entire undercity of Limsa Lominsa on their heads. He wheeled about on his way out, just as he was passing the last of the tables, pivoting on one foot to face the Scuttlebutt patrons, and he threw his arms out wide to address them. He gave them the grin again, the one that said, this man is an idiot and an easy mark. "Ladies and gentlemen! I am a professional, looking to do business! This is an open offer, so please! Should anyone wish to try their hands at thirty thousand - that's four zeroes for thems what can count - please come and see me! Room 23 at Baderon's!" The tension that suddenly ratcheted throughout the stall was palpable. Baderon's was the Drowning Wench, and 'twas the Wench what was more o' less the lifeline 'tween the well-to-do's of the upper decks and the scum of the lower. Service flowed up and gil sank down there like nowhere else, and for that reason the gangs had collectively ruled Baderon Tenfinger's reputable establishment as off-limits. That meant no rinsin', no rollin', and no cleanin' on the premises. That included the Mizzenmast Inn. Gods help the fool what broke rank on that. Only three types of individuals were ever granted the privilege of rooms at the Mizzenmast: the influential, the wealthy, and the 'venturers. This man was too foolish to be of any import or influence, and he was clearly no 'venturer... which meant he had to be wealthy, or acting on behalf of the wealthy. Lent a certain credibility to his claim of employment in Ul'dah. Monetarists? Syndicate, perhaps? Someone was sending to Limsa for gossip.... and that someone was willing to pay. He bowed with a smile, then turned on one heel and started after Kink again. The next few bells will be the worst. The runners were like as not more'n halfway to their respective barons by now; their seconds would be carrying his parting words back shortly, if they hadn't started out already. The tails would be stickin' as close to him as possible, and the bold ones - the young, the desperate, the independents - would be trying for his throat, hoping to settle for an easy ten thou. Follow Kink. Give her the particulars. Lose the tails 'n' head for the Wench. Deal with any upstarts on the way. Sneak into Room 23 and evict whoever's stayin' there. Wait for contact. Make false promises, then boot them out the door. Change into m'Flames uniform, sneak out the window and make for the Aegis. Easy. Nothing was ever easy. False promises... it had to be Kink. Thirty thou was nothin' in the long run to the gangs; they'd take his coin and come back empty-handed... but to an individual? To a lowlife fence who was just dealin' enough to make ends meet? He remembered what it was like, bein' poor and destitute, so he'd chosen to light a fire under her ass. It has to be her. She's the only one who might, just might, be able get me some gods-damned answers. He'd given her no choice in the matter. She'd lose out, most ways, and lose out big. "Ran like a yellow-bellied eft, she did, scared little shite." "Bowed her head 'n' folded her ears to the barons, aye. No guts t'be found there." "Kink? Botched a job tryin' her hand at getting into the Maelstrom's papers. Incompetent dyke." "Tried 'n' failed to cheat the gangs, her. What they did t'her after...." All paths but one led to a sullied reputation... or worse. No, to his mind's eye, her only way out was to sit down to the table and play. Play, and win it all. This was a high-stakes game, and the table was laden with knives. Your turn, Sparrow. Pull me aside, even if only 'cause y'so rightfully pissed at me. The door to the bilge swung open. Thunk. Seated in the muck, back against the hull, was a ragged youth. His unkempt hair fell down in strands over his face; his clothes, such as they could be considered clothes, were torn twelve ways to the seven hells; and he was caked in the disgusting sewage what came with a moon's voyage at sea down here in the bilge. Thunk. The lad drew the knife from the wood between his feet, then chucked it down again, burying the tip of the blade in the floorboards. Thunk. "Dirk. I need you." The boy looked up and smiled.

THIEF, THIEF, THIEF, THIEF, THIEF!!!

Osric reached up with one hand and lifted the corner of the news pamphlet off his face, peeking out at the sudden commotion that had spread all along Sapphire Avenue. He'd been reclining on this bench for one of his infamous two-to-three bell naps, baking under the sun's heat, his exposed skin shielded by the pamphlet, and he wasn't particularly happy to have been woken halfway through his rest and relaxation. "Welcome t'Ul'dah," he grumbled, "where traitors are as common as cutpurses in Limsa." I should know, I've been both now. He groaned, dropped his hand back into his lap, and went back to sleep.

Yes, your thoughts betray you. Your feelings for this game are strong. *asthmatic breathing*

Darklight gear will be dyeable. That's what I got out of that. ...did I miss anything important? Other than Coil getting even easier, I mean.

He stopped grinnin' like a fool. He sat there and stared at her, long and hard. Thinkin'. Considerin'. Tugging at one earlobe. Call, raise, or fold? Raise. "We're dealin'." He reached for the smallest of his three belt pouches. Ossy, what in the seven hells are y'doing? That's all your savings. I have to know. He wrapped his hand around the throat of the small bag inside. No, you don't. The lass is a rumormonger. If she finds out who y'are, she'll sell ye t'the Admiralty, sure as the sun shines midday. Worth the risk. He came up with the bag... No, it ain't. How are you going to explain to Her Lady Grace why you didn't make the rendezvous with the Heaven's Gate in three days' time? Why you had to go into hiding, or worse, flee the city? Why you were skint broke and couldn't smuggle y'self off Vylbrand? How are you going to explain to Andralyn that there was no pardon? ...and dropped it on the table, where it rang out with the ubiquitous clinking rattle of... "Ten thousand gil in Allagan bronze pieces." Every eye in the Scuttlebutt was drawn his way. Chairs squeaked and tables groaned. The bar went silent. He dug under his shirt for the sheath that was secluded there, drew his knife in a reverse grip, and slammed it point-first down into the tabletop. Loudly. The whole thing took no more than a second. Every eye in the Scuttlebutt suddenly found somewhere else to be lookin'. Mercifully, there was no further noise from the furniture. He pinned Kink to her seat with his gaze. "Twenty more when the job's done." As if I ain't going t'roll you on that score. "That's thirty thou in total." More than I made in six years' worth of wetwork. Hopefully more than a fence can make in one. "I sail for Thanalan in three days' time. My employers are expecting me back in Ul'dah by then. I'm to have the information on my tongue, or else lose my tongue." He leaned forward and bared his own teeth in a savage facsimile of his erstwhile grin. "That said, 'summat rough' doesn't even begin to describe it, lass, because the answers that I'm after aren't known t'anyone outside the Maelstrom. And therein lies the catch. Yes, I'm trying t'roll you, but only insofar as the difficulties involved. Most'd fail, but Yayabuko said y'were the best, so here I am." He pulled his knife out from the wooden table. "A warning, girl: don't try your hand at rollin' me. I may not have any fences in m'pockets, but I know cleaners aplenty, here in Limsa. Let's not add to their growing list o' deaders. So. Thirty thou. Three days. You report directly to me at my inn-room door, not to Yayabuko. Y'roll me, y'bleed. Those are my terms and conditions, Dax."

He was sitting upright on his bunk, staring down at the opened letter in his hands, and it took everything he had to keep from accidentally tearing the paper in two, he was shaking so hard. Thal’s Ball, what a ruttin’ mess this is turning out to be. What is this? What in Ifrit’s flamin’ piss is this?! Where did it come from? How did it find me? More importantly, where had Erik Mynhier disappeared to, and how was he back, to be writing and mailing him missives delivered from gods-know-where? I nearly died because of you. I lied for you. I conspired for you. What gives you the right to come marching right on back as if nothing ever happened? What gives you the gods-damned right?! He folded the letter and slipped it back into its envelope before tossing it back onto his bunk. He was just in time; his shoulders starting quaking as he sat there, seething, and the shaking went on, unceasing. Unrelenting. "You are in business that is beyond your rank and pay, even beyond this unfortunate city's politics." Understatement of the ruttin' century. The man took another step down the stairs toward him. The sergeant took another step back, another step down. He had done his research. The very next sun after the ball, he had reached out to what informants he kept in regular contact with. Noscea, Thanalan, the works. He had gone further: he’d told them to reach out and touch their contacts, as well, all the way up the continent, even to the frigid highlands of Coerthas. He had bled gil, and promised more, for information on one Xydane Vale. What he’d gotten back was, to put it plainly, downright terrifying. House of Fortemps. Confirmed dragonslayer. Carves up thieves for breakfast. A certain ex-thief was sure to be pissin’ his breeches very shortly, if he hadn’t already. Bad enough that he’d run into Vale here, now, in the Onyx district of Ul’dah. Bad enough that there was a woman being accosted - childish notions o’ chivalry are idiotic and are goan t’get you killed, ya dodo – which meant he hadn’t been able to simply walk away, oh no, not him. No, the worst of it was that Xydane Vale was not alone. Marcus “Yin” was here, as well. And he had traded insults with the man, for the sake of his own bluffing. He was bluffing because he was certain that if he came to grips with either of these men, he was a dead man, and it’d be a very ugly, very painful way to die. The threat to call in the Flames isn’t a bluff. No, but it was stupid. Stupid, because he’d be dead long before reinforcements arrived. Stupid, because the men before him would be long gone by then. Stupid, because the last time he had relied on the official linkshell, the Flames had failed him. Not counting the dead body. Containment and Clean-up responded quickly, there. The dead body that Vale was now claiming to belong to one of Mynhier’s would-be assassins. "Captain Erik Mynhier is safe and has been relocated after the failed assassination attempt at the Royal Ball. You remember that all too well, don't you?" "Where. Is. He." "If I was to give you that information, the Faces of Mercy will seek to rip that secret from your screams of death. I have given you a peace of mind. Take it and leave." His mind flashed back to the Elezen that he had ravaged. Beaten, bloodied, needled, carved, sliced, tormented, broken. The crazed Elezen who had raved of vengeance, who had begged for “mercy” as Melkire had gone about his work, demanding information, demanding a name. ”WHO SENT YOU?! he had bellowed. "WHO RUTTIN’ SENT YOU?!" ”Mercy,” the Elezen had wheezed between maniacal laughter and shrieks of agony. That had infuriated the sergeant. That this cowardly, incompetent slime would beg for mercy while he had undoubtedly never given his victims any…. Except maybe he hadn’t been begging, after all. The Faces of Mercy. The one name he’d gotten out of that peiste-begotten assassin had been “Ishgard”. Xydane Vale was supposedly Ishgardian… …and then there was Mynhier’s heritage to consider. Damn it. Damn it all. It took him every onze of his wit - arguing, wheedling, sounding out the logic, threatening, bluffing, lying, begging - to appeal to man at the top of the stairs. “Let me help.” Nymeia be thanked, Vale did. Vale did. They had snuck out of the city, the three of them - Vale, Melkire, and the lady - by way of the Gate of Thal. From there, they'd made their way under the stealth of night to the Coffer & Coffin, where they found her waiting for them. Her. The Miqo'te woman. "Xydane, I am taking a big risk..." "And so am I." They'd gone inside, then. There, under the deep shadows in the corner at the back of the bar, he had learned that Vale's promises weren't worth a tuco's piss. He'd divulged to the woman the details regarding the botched assassination attempt at the captain's residence, and she'd told him that Mynhier had been her agent in Ul'dah... and that she hadn't been able to contact him for over a sennight. In hindsight, it was a wonder that Vale hadn't simply killed him then and there, what with how he had all but spat in the man's face. "You said he was safe!" Back to square one they'd gone... but only momentarily. Turned out Vale knew a man, another knight, who could possibly track the captain down. Melkire had retorted that without a means of contact, Vale and the "exiles" were of no use to him. What was more, if Mynhier had been their man, then those selfsame "exiles" had just been blinded to Ul'dah. He had no desire to stand still and watch as the conspirators inadvertently drew his city into a small-scale war. So he'd grudgingly given them pearls. Two pearls, one for Vale, one for the Miqo'te. His own private linkshell, the one he'd been saving as a gift for his folks back in Limsa. All work and no play. Work, work, work work work. He'd given them his brother's name as an alias. Thomys. And he had left it at that, left them to their shadows as he stole outside into the breaking dawn. He had a meeting to attend. But before that... Before that, he had some business to conduct. A professional to see. A consultant. He had run into Kahna's Od'hilkas first. And the Red Wings? Should they be told? Or am I lying to them, as well? Indeed, they should be told. They already know of the Exiles and I. He had met Od'hilkas a sennight ago - everything seems to have happened a sennight ago - he had met him a sennight ago, at the Quicksand, and they had hit it off almost immediately. He'd gotten the Miqo'te hooked on spiked pineapple juice; the Miqo'te had reminded him not to trust others with his personal stock. He'd poked fun at the cat-man's physiology; the cat-man blithely told him to go shove it, though not in so many words. He'd been surprised to learn, not even a sun ago, that the man had recently enlisted; more so to learn that he had recently been inducted into the Red Wings. Even more so that Peak's missives regarding the captain had never reached them. So he had invited him to the search party's first debriefing. Wherever Mynhier is, they are tailing him right now. The Red Wings might know. I just spoke with their most junior today. They're in the dark. I'm meeting with them tomorrow. Here, now, on his way to find his consultant, he had taken Od'hilkas aside by the arm. "I found Vale. And a woman. Miqo'te. Says she knows you Red Wings. This true?" "Wh-what name does she go by?" The sergeant had opened his mouth... and then snapped it closed. "Damn. I was so busy covering my own ass that I forgot to lift her skirts.... She had a spear. Keeper. Shorter than I. Said Erik was her man inside." "She's right... but that she holds such information, it's-" "Told me to tell you, she's lost the captain. Red Wings should know. Keep this quiet. Especially at the meeting. Blades, Flames, 'sworn... they hear about this, it all blows up in our faces." "Lost? She knew where he was, and no one got informed?" "That was my reaction. I don't trust her. Maybe you Red Wings do. Not my call." "You can trust my silence at the meeting, but I'll need to know more. After, when we can't be overheard." "I'll feed you what information I can, when I can." And that had been that. He sat down, reached into a belt pouch, and came out with a linkpearl, slamming it down onto the tabletop. Endemerrin Rosethorne, magitek expert extraordinaire, laughed faintly as a grin spread across his cheeks. "Well, then." Osric pointed at the bauble. "This has two matching pearls on the same shell. Can they be traced? From this one." The man pursed his lips. "...I suppose with the right tools, maybe. It'd be quite the feat. It's easy enough to cancel out linkpearl signals with generators, but-" "Can it be done?" "Ah... Maybe? Sounds like a fun project, at the very least." "Would you need this one on hand?" "Most likely. As well as a few other things." He reached into his pocket and pulled out another pearl, sent it sliding across the table to Merri. "The fourth." A smirk. "There's no fifth, I promise." He tucked the first pearl away. "Materials? Payment? A way to reach you. Not to rush, but I needed this done, like, two bells ago." "Well, so long as you don't mind waiting a few more. I'd have to stop by my workshop. I've an idea or two, though...." "I'd, ah, not recommend using the thing. To communicate. Sensitive matters. Military." "Nnh.... Why not just go straight to the Garlond Ironworks if it's something like that?" "Because Garlond is up to his arms in gods know what, his apprentices are booked, and word on the street is you're the next big thing. Up-and-coming star. And... this isn't exactly on the books. Or on the level, either." Rosethorne laughed somewhat tiredly."Flattered to know my reputation is still floating around. Here I thought the calamity and my leaving the Ironworks put a cork in that." He reached forward and plucked up the linkpearl. "Got something I can actually use to contact you with?" Osric grimaced. "This was supposed to be for exactly that. Alas, gave the others to some suspect characters. Hence the need to track them down on demand." "Right. I, ah... I got it covered. Here," he said, digging into a pouch at his hip and passing over a sky-blue linkpearl. "No promises on whether or not I'll be able to throw something together, but I'll give you a ring on this pearl if and when I do." "And the rest? Materials needed? Your fee?" "Pff.... I've got the materials around my workshop, I'm sure. We can discuss the coin later. Won't be anything outrageous ...Though when next we do meet, I'd love some sort of, you know... identification. I'd rather not be unwittingly breaking the law." "I'm the one breaking the law. This bit o' work you'll be doing?" He stood up. "Helping to unbreak it." The meeting. Kahn'a had shown up. Osric nearly laughed aloud when the private had walked up and saluted him first, out of everyone in the room. Instead, he had returned the gesture... before pointing out Commander Swift down at the head of the table. The Miqo'te had flushed red as he ran over there to correct his mistake. Ser Deneith's late. Where in the seven hells is that woman...? "Sergeant. Please have a seat, we'll be starting shortly." He sat down to the table with Swift, Rand, Kokojo, and Od'hilkas. He sat down to lie to the very authority to which he'd committed his life. The Sultansworn never showed. Here, now, bells later, on his bunk, quivering, the second missive in his hands. The one from Kahn'a. He read it aloud in the privacy of his quarters. "Urgent. Come now, post-haste. Vesper Bay. Lives endangered. The Captain is depending on us." He didn't have time for this. He didn't... but he'd have to make time anyway. He took a few short breaths, and read it aloud again. And again. And again. Until he stopped shaking. He tucked Od'hilka's missive away into his pocket, then took up the captain's letter and threw it into the blazing fireplace before heading out the door, heading for Vesper Bay. You. I'll deal with you later.

Define "babies". Is this a new drop, or a new mechanic?

Faller, Faller... Orobons? No, no... Ziz. No. Gods, why can't I remember which gang he ran with? Because your memory's only good for counting. You're shite with faces, and y'know it. He sat back, content to look on as she chided the man for his grubby fingers. Gil in his pocket, drink in hand, and Limsa Lominsa's finest entertainment before him. He missed this. He missed this a lot. Then she turned to him, and the night, if it was even possible, took a turn for the better. "Yayabuko send ye? If that's how y'introduce yerself, I'll be takin' an extra fee fer me lost gil." Yayabuko? Who was Yayabuko? And what bloody fee was she on about, anyh- Oh, sweet Menphina. The Sparrow's turned fence? And she thinks I'm buyin'? Oh, piss 'n' blood, this is too good. This is gods-damned golden. His cheeks were burning as he bit down on a surging bubble of laughter. They'd likely take the flush for drink, and leave it at that, which suited him just fine, because he was too busy considering his options to bother with worrying over something as trivial as his bloomin' facial expressions. Do I correct her, or do I play along? Loathe to spend the gil I just won, that's a drunken night at the least. The hells would I even want to kno- Oh, there was definitely something he wanted to know. Something which he'd normally have no way of knowing. Information he couldn't get at through his regular channels. Oh, but this was a dangerous game to be playin', and the table he'd be sitting down to was laden with all manner o' knives. Risk naught, win squat. He dropped his boots to the floor and sat forward, the front legs of his chair slamming down. He took a swig from his mug and eyed Kink over the brim. "Extra's a mite unkind, eh? Seeing as how I won fair 'n' square, kept my trap shut, bought drinks, all graceful like, and 'ere y'are, all pissy 'n' shite, all but callin' me a gadabout. I'd rather not have t'be goin' back empty-handed, tellin' Yayabuko that ye done tried t'rinse me purse for y'own vindictiveness." He put his mug down, slid it to one side, rested his elbows on the table, and steepled his hands. "So. Ye dealin', or am I walkin'?"

What I've done, because I hate using Tab and Shift+Tab to cycle through targets: 1. Bought a USB mouse with a mousewheel additional buttons (Mouse4, Mouse5, etc.) 2. Keybound "Target Nearest Enemy" to Mouse3 (aka clicking down on the mousewheel). 3. Keybound "Cycle to Next/Farther Target" and "Cycle to Previous/Nearer Target" to Mouse4 and Mouse5, respectively. Some games let you bind target-cycling to Up and Down on the mousewheel; FFXIV is not one of these. 4. Use Mouse3 to target the nearest enemy and then cycle closer or farther away depending on which target I'm after. 5. Use the Rotate Camera command (by default, Mouse1 click-and-drag) to rotate the camera to exclude any targets I don't want to be able to cycle to, e.g. if there's an Aevis way in the distance that I don't want to accidentally target, I tilt my camera so that it's no longer visible on my screen. Zooming in and out to exclude targets also helps; by default, Zoom is bound to Up/Down on the mousewheel.

The Atma grind just sounds like a major pain in the tush. I'm not going anywhere near it unless and until I absolutely have to. Giant's Helm all the way. The masks were terrible, aesthetically-speaking.

I want that Ornstein-esque armor in the top-left. I want it bad. I want it so bad that I will PvP for it, despite hating this game's PvP and PvP in general. I loved Dark Souls. It's a damned shame that it's exclusively for PLDs. I used to run around with greatswords and greataxes while wearing that. Then I finished my Giant set and never looked back. =3

((Been super busy lately, sorry for the ongoing delay; the post I was going to write turned into a demon wall of text, and kept bumping me back.)) ((In light of tonight's meeting for the Wind Swept Sands event, this delicious tumor of a subplot is going to have to take a wild detour to accommodate Erik's IC return. Expect the post later tonight. Please look forward to it.))

I feel like this can't be emphasized enough. There is always demand for criminals/villains/antagonists for long-running FC plots. Mook, head honcho, either way, what it comes down to is that it's much easier and much more organic to have a unique PC handled by a different player managing the "bad guys", because otherwise whoever's in charge of running the plot has to double-time it as the villains in addition to their own characters. It's not something I've personally done, as my sole RP character isn't currently positioned to engage in criminal activities, but getting in contact with leaders of small RP-oriented FCs to ask, "Hey, I like RPing criminals/villains/whatever, do you guys need a bad guy for your plot, and do you think my character would fit in that role?" is something that I imagine would make for faster progress than hanging around taverns/FC housing and trying to roleplay your way INTO such a position. tl;dr: this is one of those cases where discussing and arranging things OoC will make for much more and much faster headway than trying to do it all IC.

May she rest in peace. I can somewhat relate, as my grandfather passed away little more than a year ago (old age, in his case). Don't worry about the game; family comes first, always. Be seeing you soon. Best wishes.

...do I know this girl? He kept one eye on her as he divvied up the hoard of gil into two piles, counting out coins and leaving just enough on the table for the wenches to collect, enough to cover his tribute to The Spinner. The crowd started breaking up; always a good sign, in his opinion. Nothing worse than a bar fight breaking out at times like these; commotions such as those made making off successfully with one's winnings very, very difficult. Was it her very false - and yet impressively realistic - grimace? Was it the way her ears folded back over her head? Something about her was gnawing at him, like some elusive string dangling just beyond his reach that led... somewhere else. He felt like a kitten: every time he made a play for that tenuous connection, it slipped away, quick as a blue bird. He finally chose to ignore the string. He went straight for the hand that held it, instead, claws extended, ready to draw blood. There were three at the table when I sat down. Male highlander, dark hair with red highlights, dark skin, beard, likely military. Male Elezen, dour, long brown hair, probably pirate. Female- "This y'first trip t'the city?" He had to work very, very hard to keep the smile on his face from deteriorating into a lip-curling snarl. Such a question was an affront on several levels. First, the implication that he was not native, made to ostracize him, to turn the other patrons against him. Second, the implication that, if he was in fact a native, he came off as a foreigner, with all that that implied: gods-awful at cards, with terrible manners and a complete lack of respect for the hardships of the gutter. Third- Quit it. Focus. She's tryin' t'piss you off, so don't give'r the satisfaction. Don't give away the game. Give away the...? Please. This skag is ten years too early t'put one over me. How old are ye, lass? Seventeen, eighteen at most...? That was when she flashed him the most disturbingly mangled smile he'd ever seen. He nearly groaned. She's drunk. Lovely. FOCUS! Alrigh', alrigh'. Highlander, former Flame, maybe Maelstrom. Elezen, pirate... captain? Pirate captain. Miqo'te, short, scrawny, with a- He blinked. Ah. Ahhhhh. This explains a lot. It also explained why she hadn't recognized him. Of course she wouldn't have; she'd have been, what, fourteen when he had skipped town? And how likely was anyone, really, to recognize him now in his current get-up? He'd made the right choice, it seemed, in changing his clothes upon arriving at the docks the other day; he had broken into his duffle bag, right then and there, and had swapped out the red cotton shirt and black-trimmed leathers of his uniform for the usual dull brown attire of pirates and privateers everywhere. He'd even swapped out his mask-and-turban for a bandana; he'd figured it'd be less conspicuous. No one had recognized him since his arrival, other than his folks and a few yellowjackets who had strict orders to not touch him. Coupled with his long absence, this disguise of his had been more than adequate to dispel any ideas. Osric Melkire was dead, in the eyes of Limsa Lominsa; he had been for five years. He finished scooping the last of his gil into his coin-purse, secured that in a belt pouch, then sat down again, leaning back in his chair and kicking his feet up onto the table, flashing her a rictus of his own. "Mayhap 'tis... but y'know better, don'tcha, Kink?"

You say that as if it's a bad thing. D:<