Kahnopy

I've yet to clear T5. I know what to do, I've simply been unlucky with duty finder groups and finding a raid community to join is difficult because they usually shun EU players even when my game time is fairly flexible. Hit me up in game, I'd love to help! And at reasonable hours for a change.

Not specifically Coeurl but...

Essentially, you pile a lot of different cultures together in a given place, eventually one will rise as the “main” culture, migrating individuals are then given a choice: either they fold, and get assimilated into it, or they stand and they become part of the struggling minorities. In the process of assimilation, identities may lose some of their flavour, behaviours may mutate to adopt the common mores of the place they live in. I believe this is where most Miqo'te are, because you don't really see a lot of successful “city-tribes”. Indeed, if they wish to stay traditionnal, they mostly keep to themselves, and generally far from the cities. So yes, take this phenomenon and add the fact that the lore on Miqo'te culture is a tad slim, and you will get what we observe now. Some Miqo'te will give out the impression of being cat-like Hyurs. “Is it fine?” Yes it is. “Why do you play a Miqo'te instead of a Hyur then?” Ah, that's where the answers will vary. Mine is that because Miqo'te is an old race whose lifestyle is going under some brutal changes, mostly because of the Calamity, the notion of struggle is never too far from them. I like the movement that brings to a character. I like the prospect of playing a character who has to dig out the ways he received to change them, whether or not it is by necessity. Yes, old ways might not be as viable anymore, trades and encounters might inspire individuals to move out, and those very ones might meet trouble adapting to a new lifestyle. Now what is important is that adapting is a process, for some even life-long. That journey is interesting to play out. So while it is fair to have some Miqo'te individuals with a “refined” or “civilized” behaviour, I find it most appropriate to have them stand in an awkward place with the society, with unexpected quirks, strange and old ways of speaking — isn't that conveniant for me? — or just generally different views. Little things that will make them stand out from the Hyurs, the Lalafells, the Elezens and the Roegadyns. Those bring flavour, but should not by no means be enforced.

Nuuuuuh, we'll be missing you dearly, jaw-friend. ; ;

DF Tanks. And not all those tanks, no. But a lot of tanks. Yes you're beefy. That's true, I kind of like how you have five-digits HP. And your new upgraded relic is wicked, I agree. HOWEVER. This does not make running instances a one-man show. The rest of the team relies on you for a smooth experience...but so do you, and I feel that is something you all too often slight as a secondhand matter as you sit on a throne of false domination over the run. We are damage dealers, we are healers, and you are a tank; we all work together to have some fun and acquire some booty. We respect you, so let's please make sure that it goes both ways. So. When your healer says they cannot keep you up on ridiculously long pulls, especially in new content, and that you see one or both of your damage dealers struggling to either stay alive or keep pumping the damage, could you please reconsider you game plan for the next 30 minutes? Could you please listen to suggestions, requests? Could you please actually bite your tongue and grow the patience not to speedrun everything when somebody is new to the duty? It is a simple addition to do, really, but if you only play tanks, it's not one you can do. A damage dealer willing to run through a dungeon sometimes has to invest up to twice the required time to actually clear it, yes this is called queue time. It's not so bad really, the game provides you with loads of side activities to get yourself busy as you wait for the ding, after all. HOWEVER. You singlehandedly have the power to make such a wait stupidly irritating by simply refusing to go through it, for whatever reasons. Please consider not queuing if you cannot commit for at least half the duty timer on a dungeon with people you do not know, as there is no telling what quality of players you will get. Patience, DF Tanks. That's what a lot of you lack.

"...Is dinner ready?" A confused little voice, that of a Lalafell, piped up in his head, it was the souvenir of an encounter that had occurred not so long ago. From his bench, Kahn'a met the eyes of the hooded figure, and while he did not make out much, he saw a glint in those eyes, a glint he recognized. It must be him, he thought. The good Sergeant Zanzio. Newest addition to The Red Wings, and an upstanding one at that, as far as he could tell. The two men had shared words and stories over a pleasant dish. Pushed by curiosity, the Lieutenant had then looked up for his service record, and in it, what he saw fleshed out the hint of respect he knew the Lalafell deserved. So many fancy words to talk of a nicely wrapped little bundle of a good man. A man he could certainly learn loads from, if given the chance. Chance... What was chance? Something he did not possess, perhaps he once did, but whatever amount he had, he exhausted it all over the course of the moons spent in the city-state. The Miqo'te had been burnt for playing the hand he was dealt relying on chance, this had been a hard-learnt mistake, and not one he was wont to make in the rest of his existence. Yes, chance seemed like the prayer of the fool; an alluring figure conjured by lust. Beautiful, but treacherous. Kahn'a balled his hands into fists. Fortune had played him for what he had been: a gullible kid tricked into obedience. This would change...but not now. At the moment, all that mattered were friends and family. And for him to be met with success in that quest, he needed information, something the Lalafell must possess. So when the tiny figure turned away, Kahn'a tucked the mask into the wraps of his robe and rose in an eerie fashion from his seat as if pulled by an invisible bond tied to the Sergeant. The soil of The Black Shroud was one he knew well, one he had learnt to move silently on. It was only natural then that the Miqo'te found himself right behind the cloaked Lalafell in barely a few leaps. The distance remained prudent, and his sight was clear. "...It isn't a drill, that much I can tell you've figured out, Sergeant. Why else would you come here for, if not to fade out of sight? But now I must ask, what do you know? What of the others, what of...you?" Words spoken, Kahn'a took a step back. A light cast over a roof and through the thick mantle of the tall trees revealed his messed up features and exposed flesh. The Miqo'te looked exhausted, but his tired eyes shone with a grim resolution. He would not give up on them until he had done all he could, and pulling off his escape had inspired some confidence back into him. With trusted friends, he could do this.

[video=youtube] ; ;

We can make this work, Kahn'a thought to himself. The room was filled with a great silence. Had they spoken to each other? What did they learn from the exchange of words? Whatever came to pass in the intimacy of the room, it had not brightened the mood, not lifted the spirits high, not soothed the concern. The reality of a struggle for survival dawned on Kahn'a as time passed by. Odd moment to feel that way, there, in the safety and comfort of a place most would have gladly spent the rest of their existence, but the Miqo'te's instincts kept ringing the bell of doubt in his ears. They had been saved from The Black Chains, yes, but something else was in the works, something he could not grasp but only feel. The contemplation of twilight before fell the cruel night and rose the Pale; an omen not to be overlooked. It was enough of a bell spent confined between those walls for Kahn'a to discover all he could use and to make his preparations. "I do this for the right reasons," he threw in the air, feeling scrutinising eyes on him. It sounded very much like the confession of a criminal caught red-handed. The irony of the thought tore a smile from the Keeper. Oh, what crude contraptions was he resorted to, when deprived of the safety of distance. Elegance mattered not, however, only the success. [align=center]~~[/align] A guard with a stern and suspicious expression stood before the door. On the flat of his palm was a plate of some fine dish, the mere sight was enough to upset his very empty stomach. There was nothing edible to buy around but disgusting porridge, and it was still infinitely better than the rations his unit could grant him. So to have fine cuisine delivered to some captive Lieutenant, understand how upsetting it was to the foot soldier. "...Your Captain urged us to speak up should we need aught," a low and rough voice had explained through the wooden panel, answering the simple soldier's doubt. "So shall you bring us those plates?" He grabbed the handle of the door, grumbling. He had had little choice but to comply, he wanted no attention from Captain River, none at all. But still, what would he do to get just a bite of that food...or the other. Of course there was another plate. A plate that had yet to be brought back there. Oddly, that second dish took much longer to arrange, so it had been decided between the two guards that they would carry each a plate. The soldier grumbled, because he knew this was just a dirty excuse for his comrade to beg for food to the cook, and probably see his modest request satisfied. "Stand back, I'm opening the door!" he warned, pinched with annoyance, and then he gave a turn of the key slotted in its lock. The first thing he noticed as he stepped in was the presence of only one of the two prisoners. The Hyur was in sight, but not he other one... There was also a noise in the background. Yes the soldier could hear running water. For a fatal instant, barely two steps into the confinement room, he relaxed and motioned at the origin of the noise, a room with showers separated by thin walls. "Is the other...?" But he would never learn the answer to his unfinished question, for suddenly, a great force oppressed his shoulders and his head. It was like the alluring call of gravity, inviting him to meet the floor with the violence of lightning. The poor man scarcely had time to blink that his legs lost their balance and he fell down, dropping the plate in a surprised gasp. And as if it was not enough, he was swiftly robbed of his consciousness, struck with something very hard on his head. Something, or rather someone had dropped on him. A wooden stick met the floor too, near him. It was one of the foot of a chair. A pale hand reached at a piece of meat in its pool of sauce spilled unceremoniously on the ground, right next to the soldier's face. It brought the chunk to an equally as pale mouth. Kahn'a took a much needed bite, before kneeling down next to the unconscious guard, and his hands slithered on the uniform. Some Gil, a shortsword, yes that would do. The Keeper smirked victoriously, he could not deny that getting the drop on that poor man had been exciting. But he wasted nothing more than a look at him, before turning once again to Titor. "It worked, the second one is still busy. Now, I give you the luxury of choice, you may remain collared here..." This was it. The dice had been cast, it was now time to move, time to disappear from sight, but most importantly time to pursue hope, that fragile thing. "...But I will not. I chose them." And in a blink of the eye, he was gone. [align=center]~~[/align] Kahn'a took time to assess his surroundings. Quite a few bells had passed, and the Shroud was in his reach. He had done all he could to traverse the land as discretly as possible. Come to think of it, the only risk he has taken on the way was back in Highbridge, where he snuck into a house to...attire himself more approprietely. An Immortal Flame uniform would not have not crossed Wellwick Wood without notice, so he improvised. Thick and heavy cloth now draped his potent body, giving him a much more unassuming appearance. But as he passed through Quarrymill, he had felt his heart skip a beat. There was a smell, a smell he was not completely foreign to; somebody he knew was near. Taking a seat on his bench a little out of the way, Kahn'a removed the wooden mask from his face to better look at the passers-by. Amongst one of them was a soul that bore more knowledge of his position that he had thought would be possible, given the haste of his move.

Count me in for this new round!

That game could be addictive if you managed to stick with it long enough. I had tons of fun playing it back then. Gotta gather all them pins! [video=youtube] When I need inspiration on Keepers, I play this. BUT THE REST OF THE OST IS ALSO SUPER GOOD.

Resistance was futile. That is not true, Kahn'a thought, but in the very least he conceded to follow the mountain of a man without making a rukus. It was certainly a much more preferable fate than to be slashed and scorched after all. But even then, as fancy and comfortable as it looked, a cage remained a cage, and the hunter longed for more. He complied to the orders of River's men, making it unnecessary for them to maintain their tight escort. Without a word, he followed the Roegadyn to the inn room, and listened to what he had to say. No complaint, no request, no sound in fact. Everything was concealed deep within himself. With eyes devoid of will, he watched the company exiting the place. It was then, and only then than the spark of life got inspired into his body again. At first he simply snapped his eyes about, acquainting himself with his new shared cell. Yes, yes, no doubt would a prolonged stay here be much more enjoyable, but there was no place with cushions deep enough to smother him and his guilt. Then Kahn'a moved towards a low-table. A fine work of carpentry, officers really were pampered in the Flames, even in detention. Without ceremony, Kahn'a dropped the hat and gloves that were not his on the table. He breathed out, fatigue creeping back on him now that he was granted some peace of mind. What was going to happen now? Information had been spilled, they would certainly be making moves upon it. Their investigation, as they called it. However, there was no telling how long it could take, and the Keeper knew it in himself: he would turn mad before seeing the end of it if he remained here while his comrades were out there, probably unaware that the Immortal Flames now had the slightest of leads on them. Loyalty. Kahn'a smirked pitiful and cast a look at the other person present in the room. Titor Jaraba. By the looks of it, he had been messed up badly as well. Had he spoken too? What did he tell them? Those were questions pounding against Kahn'a's teeth, but there was an odd comfort in silence. He simply laid his eyes on the Hyur, and he felt like he understood him. No words were needed for that. Was this the defeat of loyalty? Or...was there any to begin with? Before his mind could sink in dark patterns, the Miqo'te paced around the room, inspecting the furniture, the accommodations. He looked thoroughly at the furniture, but saw no furniture. The table turned into a temporary wall to hide behind, under enemy fire. The rug could serve to make men trip if it was pulled from under their feet with enough force. And the chairs were no more than planks with four sticks he could use to bludgeon his way out. He stopped in his tracks and stared longly at the chair. "Have you spoken?" his broken voice then suddenly asked. Slowly, he shifted on his feet to put the Hyur in his sight again. Expecting an answer, he stood there, while that little mind of his was already busy weaving a plan for his escape.

There in Ul'dah low-streets lay a discarded edition of the news; It caught Kahn'a's eyes. The Keeper stepped out of the shadows, and in barely more time than was needed to blink, shot out his hand and claimed the roll for himself. Once out of the way, he indulged his curiosity and glanced over the titles. There was one his eyes could not help but come back to, quite literally drawn to it. The Sex Queen of Ul'dah opening up a tavern of sorts in The Goblet. The Keeper's mouth pursed in disgust. Mother, I truly wish you're dead, methinks you'd have been grieved by this very sight. Kin rolling in mud in hopes of striking gold, that's what that is. An insidious and intrusive little voice murmured that perhaps, he was not that different. His goal was not gold, but when he donned the uniform, he had sold his body as well in some regard. The prospect of similarities between the two distilled a powerful fear in his heart, and so he quickly cast the roll aside, as if prolonged contact could stain his already dirty hands. Of course, the establishment was meant to be a place of leisure and respite, but Kahn'a harboured the doubt that with such a benefactor at its head, desperate souls — and not the poor kind — would converge to it. He spared the newspapers no second look, for in his mind bloomed another idea. Resuming his skulking through the streets, Kahn'a smirked to himself. If the rich and the yearning were to make the fortune of such an establishment with regular attendance, then there would definitely be opportunities for business…

Osric was the one who, with a single post, inspired me to really flesh out my own character and improve on writing. Such a complex and likeable character, and immersive writing. I will also shamelessly join Delial...dat chin. Edit: Nako'li you sneaky man! Nako'li was the first soldier Miqo'te that Kahn'a sort of met, back in April. Didn't take too many chances to roleplay with him, but the few times I have proved to be tons of fun, and magical of course. Nako'li's a cool kid. Looking forward to more! c:

I follow the previous post in saying that you probably stumbled upon silly people, or busy ones. As I started the game, I got rapidly involved with a Free Company, and the only time my level actually mattered was so that I could join a certain Grand Company, to match the FC's Roleplay Theme ― and even then, the leader gave no deadline. Again, in almost a year I have roleplayed in this game, that was the only exception, and one that made sense and that was in my reach with what time I could give the game back then. Hells, I proceeded to roleplay with the biggest baddie ever, in a large-scale plot, and he was a measly little Lv5 CNJ. Levels should tell nothing of the credibility of a character. What you might have encountered was typical shyness. Some roleplayers have their little comfort, their little habits, haunts and daily encounters, and straying off from that nice little bundle can seem scary to them. Those usually needs a little more than a nudge to answer positively. But if they are petty enough to disregard you simply because they think your low-level reflects your commitment to your character, then they are probably not worth it. That said, I am quite sure those are more of a rarity than a common occurance. So keep faith, fellow roleplayer, and carry on with the mingling!

Itchy. The bound Miqo'te struck the floor with the heel his boot, half believing he would cast the awful sensation away. But like a leech, it lingered, unimpressed, carrying on with its slow and lazy feast. Kahn'a could not help but wonder if that was what the victims of his hunts felt as their flesh were exposed, deprived of their smooth coil. He also wondered what was to happen to the little stripes of him he was leaving behind. With a disturbed interest, he had looked at them. Such a waste, he had thought, the harvest had been performed by a novice hand, and thus was no durable material to be created out of such an ugly dejection. So itchy. Roughly shoved into a uniform, and cotton applied on where the flesh was most exposed, Kahn'a was being lead to believe that fortune had finally chosen to grace him. All he could really do was believe indeed, not a soul had pronounced a word since the mistress of the domain had turned away and left. Along the corridor he was taking, he stumbled. He nary had space to take balanced steps, his escort was tight. And soon enough, he could taste the burnt air of Thalanan, and like a warm embrace, Kahn'a welcomed it. His senses were timidly coming back to him, they had crawled deep into his being, as if seeking shelter. A sniff of the air taught him what he needed to know, a look with his eyes confirmed and settled that perception into reality. So, the good doctor had been caught too. Before he could linger, the Miqo'te averted his eyes. He felt unsurprised at the pitiful state the Hyur was in. In fact, a tiny part of him was even relieved. Misery loves company, was that how it went? Not entirely. The Keeper was also glad that he had not been stranded once again. That very fear was irrational, and come to think of it, childish even. But like a steel hand it had gripped Kahn'a, trying to squeeze the possibility that in order to save their skin, The Red Wings would leave him and anyone caught behind. He would still be battling with that demon, had it not be for the frustrated look on the soldiers' face. Obviously, something had happened that did not please them. And soon he understood. The massive Roegadyn man was towering over them, doing his introductions. There was... something oddly creepy in his behaviour. His words, his detachment. His smooth manners. Was this the face of a man who had seen too many winters donning the same official garb? Has he grown accustomed to that kind of occurrence... that kind of mistake? This was a face that called for many questions, but Kahn'a kept them quiet, before everything, he simply wanted out, and if complying in silence meant he would see his stay shortened, then so be it.

Plick, plock, plick, plock, plick. For long, this was the only noise disturbing the thick silence of the room plunged into darkness. The rhythm was implacable, and it carried on for longer than the mind can focus on it. Kahn'a could not even confirm whether this was water or his own blood dripping like so. He did not care. He did not care much then, but be left alone. He was cold, aching, battered, fatigued, but he was still there, still conscious. It was not adrenaline or even hope that kept him up when he should have passed out. No, it was guilt. An insidious, slimy warmth creeping on his body, but it was merely another ailment amongst others more concerning. Yet... it kept Kahn'a awake. He could simply not oversee what he had done, well, said rather. He had the choice to keep silent, but the longer the interrogation dragged out, the weaker the idea sat in his head, only to end up being a folly not to pursue. It was not the first time Kahn'a had told a person about the true nature of the Red Wings, but it was assuredly the first he knew the information he gave away would be used against him. The confession was barely a few words, but they had reached the ears of the sadistic mind Kresha sported. Did she believe him? Probably just enough to stop indulging her sick sense of pleasure. There was also another worry that occupied a tiny corner of Kahn'a's mind. When she left, the torturer mentioned with delight having to meet someone else; a guest, she called it. ... What was happening? Had someone else strayed off the Captain's orders and got captured? Had they crumbled to the pressure of being on the run, and turned themselves in, much like what Kahn'a did? The possibility was dismaying. Another prisoner meant another person that would without much doubt suffer at the hands of the almighty Kresha. But more importantly, it was another mouth, with words held right behind the teeth. Another mouth to speak, to tell a different tale. It was a danger, a sword floating above the Miqo'te's head and that could drop at any moment. What if the versions did not match? Whether those words carried truth or not, he was persuaded that at the slightest difference in their forced confession, his jester play in front of the impudent queen would resume, a cruel show paid in blood and steel. She told him so. Don't give in, help is coming, stay strong. In the dark, Kahn'a laughed.

...N-no? Teeth bared, head hung low, unsupported, the Red Wings Second could feel forces quitting him. Battered and dazed from the punch, he did not immediately realize that his fragile nose was bleeding. He made the mistake of breathing, and soon enough shook in convulsions, coughing the blood that tried to sneak its way into his lungs. Getting rid of it, through spasms and reflexes drained him out, and when he finally settled down, he could scarcely find the force or will to shut his mouth. The Hunter was ashamed to admit it, but he could not carry on much longer like this. "Enough," he implored so very quietly in humid words. "I can't take this anymore." He was not far from the truth. Barely a few bells of that treatment, and his mind was all worn-out, fatigued, caressing the limits of sanity. His pulsating headache was making matters worse. He could have fainted had he let himself, but the promise of the Hyur would certainly be kept, she would not let go of him until she had her bone to bite. "I-I apologize, I have not the means to answer your question. I handle men and supplies, I'm not told about which contact stands where. But I'll give you something. Something that I pray will make you understand that there are a great many things you do not see. But before... something for you to think over. If we had contacts in Limsa Lominsa, then how come the ambush we fell into was so effective? As much as you're making me hate it presently... I am a man of Ul'dah, I rarely leave these parts, and therefore know little of La Noscea and its surroundings. But my instructions were to assist with the safekeeping of the carriage, despite not having prior knowledge of the field." Rolling his head as if it weighed its bulk in gold, Kahn'a angled himself so that he could meet her gaze. It was much easier to believe in the sincerity of words that way. "You'll know this already if you possess a clearance. The Red Wings... we're no relief unit. It's a lousy cover that few bother scratching at. The Captain never spoke the legal words, but the way I understand our mission, we handle tasks that the Flames cannot, for they are bound to respect the law." Kahn'a nodded weakly, "This is what we are. Keep that in mind, but see the veil of confusion lifted for the points that made little sense until then." And then he carried on, explaining the mission for the second time, with as many details as he could recall. They had been reached with blank orders coming from the Hall, urging them to escort sensitive material and weapons to the town of Limsa Lominsa, for an exchange with the Maelstrom. Kahn'a assumed that whoever had set up this ambush had much to gain from sparks of arguments within the Eorzean alliance, and he told her that. "Our dire lack of preparation and the urgency of the orders eventually lead to the failure of the mission. We regrouped to the Drydocks in Moraby Bay for a debriefing, this is when the Captain decided to take the road. He... he asked us to fan out, we would be contacted once everybody was safe for further instructions. That was when I returned to Ul'dah and got rid of my pearl. He had chosen to run, and I could not follow that call. But I would not abandon them either. So I skulked around the city, trying to find any information, any rumour of somebody who could profit of our demise. After a fruitless fortnight of searching, I decided to drag attention to myself, became bolder with whoever I spoke with, and this in order to have you come pick me up. There was no doubt we were hunted then. Shortly after I adopted this new behaviour, your sniper found me, and I took precautions to protect myself, while meaning to establish a contact with the Flames. With you." Kahn'a coughed again. He knew his limbs should not have felt this weak, but the exhaustion of his mind had somehow plagued his body as well. "On Her name," he begged, "I swear that this is all I know. Have men sent to the Drydocks, if you so fancy, but I doubt there's aught to be found, most of us were trained to leave no trace, since we do not officially exist as anything but an unimportant relief unit.

The cry of her rage. Her white knuckles gripping the blade. Blood. Blood, and then the sound of wet meat meeting the ground. Now spoilt, unproper. The continuity of Kahn'a's consciousness was breaking. Dotted with suffering, this implacable hatred coming from the stomach, tensing the body with the acid it carried. There was also sorrow. Sorrow in a little boy stranded in his head, alone, terrified, wondering why he was hurt. And why he was hurt some more. The innocence of that child was waning, yet he was already not white. His hands were stained red. But he had faith. Faith in the world of man. He had been seduced by the distant radiant flame. He believed in its magical power. He approached it, slept under it, made it his... Until it licked his flesh burnt. Gone like whispers uttered in the screaming winds, all feelings and thoughts left the Miqo'te's body to bow to the master of this new kingdom carved out in pain and blood. It bore many names, but the one pulsating in Kahn'a's mind was Chaos. A black, deep... ... You know what? Nevermind. One, two, three, four... ... A piercing scream of agony filled the room in an instant, leaving no ear spared. You thought weaved cloth, as thick as it was, could muffle the song of the dying? It might, in truth, but their words resonate in men's heart regardless, for they are universal. And like with any language of man, the only difference observed was the interpretation. For some, it meant an intense joy. The sound of victorious feet trampling over conquered ground. Rhythmed with the cadence of failing heartbeats, it was a fuel for them to keep going. For others, it was the most frightening sound in existence. The vicious corner of dark imagination even paled next to it. Kahn'a was one of those people. And so, while he was being carved and salted, he felt sad over his bruised self. A maddening out of body experience, and yet he was still in there, tearing his lungs out from the burn of salt and exposed flesh. How could the chair remain so still, the young man was harming himself further trying to desperately break free. Kahn'a became unaware of things, his eyes were clenched shut. Not that opening them would serve it good, he had blood all over his eyebrows, all pearled up from the shallow yet painful cuts. All he picked up that came not from his own body was a voice. A demonic voice. Ah, and a hand on his throat. Then it went away. He was still alive. Wheezing like a newborn, Miqo'te gasped for air, the necessary air that he could not refuse, and that kept him up for this lovely show of humanity. Could he speak? The answer to that hung in the air, his body was acting incoherently. Clenching jaw, creaking teeths, then wide open mouth for more air, and the sinister of clashing teeth to imprison his voice again. Just like that, Kahn'a became as much his own goaler as this demonic avatar, wrapped in warmth and alluring. He wanted to speak, and wanted not. ... Sorry. This is what the Keeper was trying to word through his struggling over air.

I told you there was no need, skank. Kahn'a took the hit, a rough cry torn from his throat. He clenched his teeth to try and lessen the pain, but they would not leave him alone. Hair grabbed again, head pulled back... again. It was fortunate, for he really wanted to spit right in her horrible little nose, a reward for her great receptivity. He had the suspicion that such a treat would have not been welcome... Yet it was too hard to resist. But instead of spilling his saliva, he weaved it into words. "...and you keep dumbing down my words, leading yourself to unnecessary confusion. Are you deaf, perchance?" The Miqo'te attempted to smirk, but withdrew quickly from that madness. The stinging pain in his bloody cheek - his now incomplete cheek, he could see a thin piece of flesh on the floor. It was his - prevented him from acting too confidently. It was little more than a bloody scratch. Yet at the hack he received, a grim resolve burgeoned in his heart. "See yourself humbled, Hyur. This is only happening because the prospect of fooling you around appears so... enticing." "You hide behind men and chains to ask questions, worse, you conceal your glaring incompetence with lousy interrogation techniques, you fail to recognize that I have done everything in my power not to know of my own unit's plans, and that I am of no use to you and your mislead comrades." "Yes, yes my Captain is a fool for sitting me on a position I have neither bought nor deserved. From times to times I like to remind him of his mistake with very precise and yet inconspicuous clumsiness. Rather effective." Kahn'a afforded the luxury of a dramatic pause. His eyes were seemingly empty but fixed on her. He was not in the room but wandering somewhere in his memory. At a very particular moment that swung his life around. "I know not if my file makes mention of it, for I have not read it, but I was appointed by our Grace to help in delicate matters. If you put that blade down, I shall be willing to share, it is most juicy stuff, I assure you. But at any rate, the city was short of hands and despite my crude nature, I was told that I had what it took to bring aid. I was little more than what you'd call a savage back then and I was very willing to insert myself in your great City. To adapt. I accepted. I bent my knee before Her and She gave me a commission. And there you have it. Savage made Lieutenant. But It was not a full cycle ago. And your world is so... complex. How could anyone expect a simple mind like I to grasp all its subtlety in such short time, I ask you?" You are losing your grasp Kahn'a... Don't give in.

"N-n-no! I'm not!" The words were out before the wheels of his mind could spin. This was how Kahn'a realized that fear still had a hold of steel on him. "I have lived in your world for less than a cycle, I knew not how supposed treacherous brethren would be treated, y-yet I had to approach the Flames regardless. S-so I snuck to that place, that hideout that I knew of from previous operations. I had hoped that the threat of explosives would force a peaceful chat, but your lads proved me wrong. They were bloodthirsty. Not a chance to yield without violence. And I didn't know you would shoot!" Kahn'a grew uncomfortable, this was probably not the smoothest angle to approach her with. "I'm born hunter, alright? It is not natural for me to head into the beast's maw when you know it could eat you. I-I did what I could to protect myself." During all that time he had not stopped quaking. Here was another other show of her cruelty. Kahn'a was sure it could not be good for the lungs to remain so cold and so exposed. He tried to find something in the room that could warm his mind, that could help him trick himself. But there was nothing. Just his torturer spinning that damned blade in her hands. Put it back, you could harm someone with it. There is no need.

Do you get sort of sick pleasure from it you- Kahn'a smiled. "Sit, sit." he suggested, almost inviting. He knew she would not heed his word, but he had all the reasons to delay matters as much as possible. Especially because... Kahn'a liked the face he had been given. "However I would really like some clothes for the long story. Here, I'll give you a sample that should get your attention." Dangerous game he was playing, but at the point he was... It was better than betrayal. Even though during those life-threatening moments, he had truly considered it. Selling his comrades for his life. A part of him, during those instants, had wanted to call them cowards for not facing hardships head on, to hate them. The line of tolerance was a thin thing, doubly so for the Keeper so very wary of others. "You were right," he started, "We have been set up." And so Kahn'a started telling the facts. How the Captain had received unsigned orders, specifying that they would go on a mission stripped of their best asset. How he thought this was Redaction being cast on them. How they lost the carriage of Garlean weapons in an ambush. He obviously left all locations out of the tale, he could not endanger them. "And after we discussed what should be our course of action against this set up, I followed some of them back to Ul'dah, and I-" The world blinked again, and for the second time, he heard a voice in his head. Had he gone mad? It would have been understandable, no doubt had this frigid bitch broken one too many men, he could have been on of them too. In fact he was about to. But no, the voice. It was as simple as someone speaking to him. Someone was speaking to him. How, Kahn'a did not have a single clue, but it was happening regardless. Was someone truly coming for him? The Miqo'te had not realized that he had stopped his story, his jaw hanging as if he was forming more words. He swallowed, and felt a tear roll down his cheek. "I left them." Kahn'a resumed his story, wet eyes blinking at the woman. A glint of hope shone in this eye, the hope that somebody was moving to get him out. To the lady, it could have easily passed as a hope of redemption, after an especially compromising confession. "I could not support their decision to flee. I left before I could hear more of their so-called plan. I had faith in the Flames." Kahn'a hung his head. "I genuinely have no idea where they went. I just wanted to save my hide, so I tried to bait Flames to me by throwing my name in the low streets, hoping for a catch. It... It worked."

The Miqo'te caught himself being very proficient with a flourished vocabulary of foul words to describe Kresha. He could not believe she was only doing her job, there was something else. Something much darker. Silly Hyur, he thought. Their social nature, massing them in clusters piled in these towns. They never really knew the meaning of quietude, of isolation. Of meditation. The Miqo'te, him, was quite comfortable being alone. The utter darkness was not the most convenient, but it was nothing to fear either. He watched her and her lapdogs leave the room. "Funny," he whistled once the door was closed. "They plunge me in this closed space without light, yet they are the ones in the dark. They need to know." The Keeper took a few moments to appreciate that truth. Alas, it was little more than seconds. His challenging smirk fell, and he let out a heavy sigh, weighed with weariness. He needed out. Somehow. Now that he was given some time to breathe, he could calm himself. Binds? Yes, they were still very tight. It looked like he would have to deal with the filthy Hyur again. And he would rather bark at one of her men to stick her in rather than giving her another show of pain that she seemed to get off from. He had to come up with something. ... Did he pass out? The hour seemed so short, and the door slammed open with the benevolent little company making their way to the Keeper once again. Kahn'a followed them with his eyes. He only dared look at her when she planted herself in front of him. She had the look of someone who knew she was about to get what she wanted. "I'll talk," Kahn'a finally said in a shameful whisper. "But atsa Flame soldier, grant me some dignity. I would like to be dressed a little more for this." "It could take some time." Yes, Kahn'a. This is all you can do.

Sixteen... Seventeen... Eighteen... The terrified muffled sound resumed. The sly Kahn'a had tried to fill his lungs with precious air as soon as the fateful sound of fingers snapping split the air. But there were too many factors making it hard to keep level-headed. No he would not die, but he was to experience true fear until he somehow appealed to the cruel fiend. This time he cried not when he recovered, but screwed up his head, his hair pulled roughly, angling his head in an uncomfortable position. His shaking was tremendous, the iced water adding to his apprehension of pain, of death. He let out a grunt. Get your filthy mitts off, witch. One by one, the barriers of civilization that Kahn'a had worked hard to erect were falling. And like a cornered wild beast, his heart started filling with primal hatred, a strong urge to harm something. No, don't give in, don't give in. Please don't fucking give in. Like a red thread meant to guide him through the maze of sadism, he kept repeating this line in his head. He had to hang onto something to keep his mind from just spilling everything, and anything. Out of the blue, Kahn'a chuckled, barely making a noise, you could only tell by the twisted smirk, confused between pain, sarcasm and disgust. "Intimate? Aaaaah," he sighed, hanging his head back, defeated. "Look at me, Hyur, take a real close look, since you already dare breathe down my neck. This could have been you, I could have been you. There is nothing separating us. Nothing." "You want answers?" he squinted. "Very well. You're serving someone from beyond the border with your search. Remnants of well-hidden corruption, it had enough time to produce an awful lot of paper, of orders, orders that you're following presently." "You want to know where the Wings are? Aaaah," he breathed out, almost relieved, "I have nothing to tell you, for I know nothing. Tainted Command must be desperate if they order their fiends to work on assumptions, on guesses. You can drown me all you want, you can perhaps kill me if you keep going. Nothing I shall say will set you on the path of those I got caught for." "Being who you are, you should know. In your field, ignorance is the strongest of shield."

Physically weak, mentally diminished, Kahn'a found the strength to send the most pious of prayer to Menphina. He was by no means a firm believer, but if there were immaterial guardians, surely the Lover could take him in pity. What good was the harsh training men received if their resolve, their determination could be swayed so easily? What good was loyalty if the hand that fed you eventually balled into a vengeful fist? What good... What good... What good was a life of pain when ceasing to exist sounded much easier? ... No. His distress was poisoning his mind much like water would end up poisoning his lungs, if breathed in. How to stop it? The harsh Hyur figure standing there, slightly bent towards him, awaiting his answer. She was both saviour and executioner. No, she could be either. She could make it stop. Through messy eyes, he took the whole scene in. This unnatural room. The absence of natural. The very natural and distressing noise of water slowly dripping from him. The feeling of having a hundred snakes slithering down his skin. He shivered uncontrollably. Kahn'a wanted it to stop. She spoke. Gibberish Kahn'a could not make out, his tormented mind too busy drowning in endless depths. Quaking with a fear without a name, he brought his eyes to her perfectly apathetic face. There was nothing that spoke of compassion, of grace. What had he imagine? That his suffering would break a heart or two? Inconceivable. The were hired thugs with official garb, that was the true nature of the Flames. "I-" His voice was strangled, he had the hardest time forming words. "Why had I lingered in town, if not to turn myself i-in?!" he yelled with wrong intonations. This was a lie, concealed under questionable bluff. "I wanted to save my skin, s-s-so I drew attention to myself! Pl-please, I'll say anything you want, but no more water-" And as if the single word had become a powerful trigger, Kahn'a screamed in despair. He looked every bit the challenged individual, rocking in his chair, ready for anything to make his pain stop. ... 'Don't give in, help is coming, stay strong.' ... The world blinked as a clear voice started speaking those words to him. Grunting out of surprise, he spun in his chair as much as he could, trying to get a look at that new cruel being. A cruel one who dared give him hope. And whose voice was known to him, but the tones remained buried deep down in his mind, locked tight under what little protection he could offer his mind. It was right though. Kahn'a had to live. He had to resist. He cast an appalled look at Kresha, shaking with sobs. "D-don't do it again! I'll say anything, anything you want to hear, but I beg of you, no more. Make it stop!" Perhaps a tiny part of him started clutching those words as the those of the saviour. Don't give in. Don't give in. Don't give in... Carry on.

The heartbeats quickened. No one in their right minds could think him an actual traitor, right? "You can't be serious, I told you I know naug-" The once distilled fear in his voice started shaking him more. But the rest of his plead could not be heard, it was a muffled grunt under a piece of cloth. Kahn'a shook in his chair, he wanted it off, he wanted out. The wave of panic struck much earlier than he had anticipated. Being robbed of his sight was bad, but he could cope with that. No, it was only prior knowledge that inspired him the terrible fear he was prey to. Waterboarding. If there was one thing to be learnt about Kahn'a Od'hilkas, it was that he was scared to death of large bodies of water. They stretched as far as the horizon went, ready to swallow any and all into their depths. Kahn'a already felt deprived of air. Very false observation, since he found himself soon screaming when the bucket of water was poured on his head. Hands clawed at the chair, muscles tensed in ungodly speed and force, he shook and screamed on the chair like a demon, a possessed soul hollering in the name of its voidsent. Twenty seconds were short. But you thought the life was being squeezed out of you, it felt like an eternity. The Keeper gargled on water multiple times, coughed, spat, screamed again. A floating sensation was creeping inside him, by before he could give in, the towel was removed. And twenty second is all it took. All it took to break the young man's calm demeanour. His manners, his self-control. All of that, gone in twenty seconds. He was no extraordinary man. Just a soldier that had been in the right place at the right time. And with a cruel symmetry, he had been caught on the worst timing possible. There, his face revealed, he was crying for his life. You could know that the grim exercise only meant to simulate death, it did not make it any less frightening, mind-shattering. Perhaps something in the Keeper had actually died there. "P-please," he begged, "I-I am useless to you. I only wanted to change this place for the better. I did nothing. I know naught." Pitiful supplication followed with gross sobs, motivated by a primal fear. No resistance was possible.