Nero

Roleplay does have protagonists, though, it's just that it's very rare in roleplay to have just "one" protagonist. If you're talking about strictly a private group roleplay with its own separate narrative, then as long as everyone agrees that yes, the story of whatever we're doing revolves around these one/two/three people, then being a protagonist is fine. Same with being the WoL; I know of quite a few roleplaying groups who RP as canon characters or the WoL but it works out just fine for them because they all go along with it in making their own little alternate universe. Basically: "protagonist" status is determined by whoever you're roleplaying with and the nature of the narrative, because it's the interactions that drive a narrative in a roleplay.

The only way Square Enix can ruin any of my headcanons is by doing some actual worldbuilding and filling in all these bloody holes they've got. In which case, more power to them.

1. Have you killed your character before? Yep. The character death was a logical and foreshadowed ending to a storyline. 2. How did your friends take it? For the most part it was a tragic but well-conceived ending, although there was some lamentation that the character did not get fleshed out to his fullest potential, which I agree with. The death was had good set-up and context (and was maybe a little contrived), but there was (perhaps inevitably) things missing from the character before it happened. In some way, that highlights the tragedy of death even more; no person ever has a "complete" story by the time it ends. 3. Would you not want to RP with someone who may unceremoniously kill off their character? Why? Depends on how it's done and what it accomplishes, if anything. I'm always paying attention to the narrative structure of a roleplay, so I might get peeved if the death is arbitrary or done for the sake of edginess or attention. The rule I use is that death shouldn't be a definitive end but should open up new opportunities and avenues to explore. Deaths that fail to do these things and are just out of nowhere are not particularly compelling.

I don't lend much credence, but I don't have the "WoL is tempered" theory completely thrown out the window just yet. Tempering has been shown to be pretty universal: it induces slave-like devotion. We have yet to see if Hydaelyn's tempering is somehow different from the primals. So it's possible, perhaps.

“Ser Idristan Tournes, son of Baron Eaulaux Tournes, knight-captain of House Durendaire, you stand formally accused of heresy against the Holy See. The charges formally levelled against you are as follows: sabotage of the defenses of Camp Dragonhead, collaboration with subversive elements with the intention of committing apostasy, dereliction of duty, sedition, and embezzlement of military funds. How do you plead?” With an almost dismissive thunk, the hawk-faced inquisitor shut the large volume of Ishgardian legal code and glanced over his spectacles to stare disdainfully at the former knight. Idristan had been stripped of his tarnished chainmail, covered in little more than functional rags, and his hands and feet clanked with the burden of heavy iron manacles. His eyes still held something of a sharp, defiant gleam, though he kept his gaze fixed at the bottom of the podium that sat in front of the inquisitor. It was little more than the assembly room of Camp Dragonhead adjacent to the mess hall, hastily converted into a courtroom with the help of the podium, some rearranged pews, and the two men-at-arms of the Inquisition standing at his sides. “Not guilty,” he murmured, shifting from one foot to the other. There was a low murmuring among the assembled members of the clergy. “What have you to say in your defence?” “I have only ever been a loyal servant who has dedicated my life and honour to the preservation and prosperity of Ishgard and the Holy See.” Tournes’ voice cracked at the word ‘dedicated’. The murmuring increased. “If the Fury, by her grace, has seen fit to relieve me of my command and calling, then I accept Her verdict, but I deny any and all accusations that I had betrayed Halone’s trust in my duty.” The inquisitor’s eyes narrowed to blade-like slits, a derisive snort escaping from his hooked nose. “Understand that if you are found guilty beneath the Fury’s gaze without confessing, the punishment will extend to all of those in your command. The prosperity of Ishgard is reliant on the removal of those who would plot the destruction of the Holy See and her people.” “I understand the severity of my circumstances, Inquisitor. I deny the charges all the same, and request that those under my command be spared my fate.” The murmuring increased in volume to a low mumbling. “Whether or not your men will be judged is dependent on you, Knight-Captain,” the inquisitor growled. “Is it not a fruitful coincidence that your acceptance of your new mercenary charges occurred just before an insidious attack on Camp Dragonhead by heretics who had managed to infiltrate the walls?” “I did not accept any additional freelancers. Deneith had been in my service for several moons. Her companions moved onto the city.” “But you did exercise your authority in order to allow them entry, did you not?” “Camp Dragonhead is a fortification under the ultimate command of House Fortemps. It is they who--” “Yes, we are aware of House Fortemps’ frivolous association with outsiders, but it is not the decisions of House Fortemps that we judge today. Answer the question. On your authority, your freelancer and two outsiders were accepted into Dragonhead’s walls. Is this or is this not true?” “...it is true.” Sensing triumph, the corner of the inquisitor’s mouth split into a grin. “And Camp Dragonhead was laid under attack by heretics who ingested dragonblood. Is this or is this not true?” “It is true.” “Ser Idristan Tournes. You have been brought before the gaze of the Fury to be judged for your crimes. Confess, and surrender your collaborators, and Halone will exercise fair judgment upon you.” “I deny the charges.” Idristan looked up at the inquisitor to stare at the latter’s beady hazel eyes. There was nearly an audible gasp amongst the assembled clergy, as if they could not believe that the obviously-guilty knight would throw away everything. The grin spread across the inquisitor’s face. “Then by the power invested in me by the Fury and the Holy See, I hereby order Idristan Tournes, son of Baron Eaulaux Tournes, and all those under his command, to be arrested for heresy and taken to Ishgard to face punishment.” Idristan’s gaze wavered, and his throat caught, but not for the reasons he thought. Back to Ishgard? Not Witchdrop? The two men-at-arms at his side roughly clasped his arms and began to drag the manacled captain out of the door. The clergy assembled on the pews nodded sagely to each other in agreement in a display of synchronized sycophancy. That sight alone almost made him sick. “Fear not, Captain,” the inquisitor called out after him as a black hood was pulled over his head. “Given time, even you may be redeemed.” -- That was many moons ago. By the Grace of the Fury--perhaps an inappropriate thought for Idristan Tournes to think, given the circumstances--he and many others who had been held by the Church under accusations of heresy had been released. Lord Commander Aymeric's push for secularism had been almost unanimously passed by the newly formed House of Lords and House of Commons, and thus Tournes had been restored to his proper rank of knight-captain within the Temple Knights. And yet, he found himself with more questions than answers. Idristan Tournes was, for the most part, a loyal man who quietly and dutifully served his nation and faith in its time of need. And yet, someone saw fit to use the machinations of the Church to arrest him. But why? "Good to see you back, Tournes." A grunted greeting resounded to Idristan from the entrance to the barracks. The Elezen turned, his mail armour only half-donned to greet an older Wildwood. Idristan gave a brief salute. "Commander Marchand." Marchand was aged but not yet wizened; his worn face held surprisingly few wrinkles or scars, but his eyes were sunken and cheeks somewhat gaunt, belying his status as something of a haunted veteran. Nonetheless, the Commander never let such things affect his command. "They let you out of the stockades, eh? I'm surprised how many people the Church had locked up in their gaols. You'd only been held for a few moons but it's nice to see you still remember how to put your armour on." "A poor knight I would be if some incarceration were capable of depriving me of that much," Idristan said dryly. He was conversing with his commander and yet his thoughts were elsewhere. The questions did little to abate. The Church is--was--strict and ruthless, but fair. If Idristan had been truly suspected of heresy, then the Temple Knights would have been the first to deal with their internal affairs as they had always had. Yet, someone skipped some chains and involved the Inquisition directly. His mind wandered. "On your authority, your freelancer and two outsiders were accepted into Dragonhead’s walls. Is this or is this not true...?" Were they after someone under his command? Deneith? One of her companions? All of them? And whoever authorised his arrest...in the months leading up to the end of the Dragonsong War, Marchand had received increasing number of reports of heretics in the city. Were they truly heretics, or was the same entity within the Church using the Inquisition and heresy as an excuse? Idristan's mind gradually filtered itself back to reality. "...brood, so it looks like the Lord Commander is itching to send some poor sods off to the borders. Not enough to re-spark the war, but it'll be uneasy having to fight with dragons against more dragons if the rest of the Horde refuses to disperse." Marchand was blathering on, as usual, though the commander jerked his head towards Idristan. "You ready, Tournes? Your squad has to leave tonight for Cloudtop." "In a minute, Commander," Idristan said absentmindedly as he affixed the last of his armour to himself. "I need to prepare some correspondence." -- Deneith, By now you might have heard of my arrest. Someone or something within the Church may have been using its influence to gather falsely accused heretics. There may be more innocents involved. I cannot investigate. This is not an order; I am not your captain any longer. This is a request. Be careful. Someone may be looking for you. -Tournes

If there was one thing that bothered him the most about all of this, it was the smell. The cloying scent of fragrant incense alight within the many lanterns of the ballroom was engaged in a frenzied battle royale with the saccharine perfumes and colognes of far too many stuffy nobles, their duel only interrupted by the rich aromas of expensive and pretentious foodstuffs. It was if his nostrils were being laid siege to, the gates of his senses being assailed all at once. If there was one thing that aristocrats would find any excuse for, it would be banquets, lavish parties, and celebrations. This particular one was being held by the Viscount Drucert, in honour of the Lord Commander Aymeric and his heroic efforts to preserve the integrity and safety of Ishgard against the Dravanian Horde. If the rate of courtly festivities had been any count, Aymeric had saved the entirety of Ishgard from the Dravanian Horde at least eleven times in the past seven suns. Nonetheless, such extravagant parties were important in their own way. It was a way to acquire acquaintances, build bonds, cultivate contacts, and otherwise dance in the delectable dangers of a deadly decadent court, for those who sought that sort of thrill. Thus it was that Maximilien Valencourt, eldest son of House Valencourt, of the Order of the Knights Dragoon was unfortunately bidden to attend no less than three times; once by his father to maintain diplomacy, once by his superior within the Temple Knights to keep an eye on the schemers and demagogues, and once by his Hyur manservant Baldred, who desperately wished to gaze upon the generously spherical form of the Lady Braicaird for reasons unknown to man or gods. Maximilien brushed an irritable hand through a cropped mane of platinum-blonde hair and gritted his teeth behind his smile as another Lord and Lady Whatever-The-Hells-Their-Names-Were wished him praise and good fortune for his service in the Knights. His attendance had been something of a last minute decision and it showed; the doublet he'd been rushed out in was an elaborate black feature embroidered in gold, but was both too short and too tight. Appearances-wise, this wasn't a problem; the nature of his occupation had lent Maximilien a generously muscular form even amidst the typically lanky build of a Wildwood, and while his manner of dress, polite countenance, and handsome face that was, in the words of his manservant, "just tarnished enough to be catching", he had no shortage of female attention, yet wearing the ill-fitted outfit was akin to being bound to an inquisitor's breaking wheel. The musical sounds of cello, flute, and harp filled the room as pairs and couples assembled on the centre ballroom for a dance. The dragoon did his utmost to sink to the back of the wall, avoiding the longing gazes of many a young handmaiden as he did so, though Maximilien could not help but split his face into a bemused smile as he saw Baldred attempt to manoeuvre the rotund Lady Braicaird like one would attempt to spin a barrel of popotoes amidst a circus troupe of plate jugglers. "You should dance," a gruff voice emitted itself from Maximilien's side. Leaning on an immaculate rosewood cane and dressed in equally fine furs was an older Wildwood gentlemen, still sporting the tarnished golden locks of his youth amidst the cracks of a face that had not aged gently. "If you had the intention of coming yourself, Father, perhaps I might have taken the time to go out and learn," Maximilien retorted. Had anyone else taken notice, the Baron Valencourt might have been called something of a small man. The years had not been kind to his looks or his height, and while he was still nearly half a head taller than the tallest Ala Mhigan, "shrunken" and "wizened" would not be inappropriate words to use. The older Elezen grunted disdainfully. "You mean go out and play with your swords and men-at-arms. How fit a sense of humour the Twelve have to grace me with an eldest who took his duty seriously except when it came to the attendance of the court. I thought these things were supposed to be in reverse." "Yes, I suppose it is odd that a life of fighting dragons makes the idea of fending off snakes rather unappealing," Maximilien returned dryly. "In any case, I have business with the Viscount Drucert." Baron Valencourt squinted at his son. "You had not invited Lady Auzenne?" "My betrothed, in her brilliant foresight, has fallen ill, else I'm sure she would have loved to have accompanied me." That was not entirely a falsehood; Audrielle Auzenne did seem to take a certain perverse pleasure in taking the opportunity to cut Maximilien down, just as he took equal opportunity to launch the subtle barb at her every now and then. Their arranged marriage was in actuality surprisingly cordial, but neither had the grace nor the patience to express it in a way that might be considered proper. "Well, you behave yourself. You present your house, and--" "Yes, yes, you doddering old fool. Get on with it; there's a dance I should be pretending to watch." Maximilien waved a hand in an idle 'shoo' gesture as his father harrumphed and sauntered to elsewhere in the manor. The night was unseasonably warm, especially for Ishgard being only at the end of spring, and a room overflowing with stuffy clothing and equally stuffy aristocrats made it no cooler, to say nothing of the braziers and lanterns generously illuminating the ballroom. What he would have fought a hundred wyverns at once if it meant being rid of this torturous doublet and be out in the night's cool breezes. A servant offered him a glass of wine, which the dragoon accepted disinterestedly. Before long, the music ended with a mercifully short last lilt, and the dancers separated as all clapped politely in the same mechanical manner that one might polite for a vase that had successfully managed to crash itself against the floor. "Honour to you, my lord Valencourt." A sweet, feminine voice quavered at his side. Maximilien nearly choked and spilled the wine, cursing himself. Let my guard down. Blinking and trying to keep his irritation hidden, he chastised himself for not being more vigilant in warding away potential paramours and tried to focus on whomever sought to speak to him. The lady that had approached him was not an unpleasant thing to look at; she was a fair-skinned Midlander with bright, polished eyes that could not have been older than twenty cycles. Dark chestnut-coloured hair tied into a neat ponytail that draped her shoulder and a modest dress of pale sapphire blue adorned a lithe body. And while Maximilien at least approved of her hairstyle, her presence had rather infuriatingly trapped him into serpentine labyrinth of polite convention. She smiled demurely--there was something refreshingly awkward about the manner in which she carried herself. "They say that you were the one responsible for hunting that beastly dragon Kuovara with the Convictors." Maximilien did his best to avoid coughing and nodded, plastering on a well-practised facsimile of a warm smile. "They speak too well of me, I'm afraid. It was the skill and fortitude of the Convictors that spelled Kuovara's end. Though, if I may, my lady, I can say without fear of blasphemy that your beauty outshines the Fury herself." The Hyur girl blushed and demurely glanced towards her feet. Good. The more she looks away, the easier it will be to slip away. "You are far too kind, my lord. And too modest. You are a dragoon; surely it was your presence that spelled victory for them." She shuffled closer towards him in a display that could only laughably be called subtle. This was apparently what passed for female courtship these days. Boring. He gave her a soft smile. "Not at all. The Convictors have an undeserved reputation as an unruly lot; their skill is second only to their devotion to the cause." Maximilien raised his hand to call for another glass of wine. Boring. "I would love to hear of some of your exploits, my lord. While the war is a serious subject, your heroism is unmatched, of that I am sure." The Hyur looked up at him, polished eyes gleaming again. Boring. Maximilien dipped his left hand behind his back in a bow. "If it pleases my lady, then perhaps one day. Alas, I fear such a subject is not an appropriate subject for one so esteemed." Only a matter of time, and then he could escape this unbearably oppressive company. This is boring me. With the focus of an arrow that could have pierced the moon, Maximilien focused a furious gaze on his manservant. Baldred, while still enamoured with the porcine form of Lady Braicaird, had the good sense to perceive the ray of focused death burrowing itself into the back of his skull, and hurriedly nodded. "Oh no, my lord. To tell the honest truth, I find it...rather fascinating. The stories of valiant heroes defending our city from the Horde." She clasped her hands together, laying them low at her waist. Enough. "My lord Valencourt." Baldred was a young man, merely twenty-three cycles, with a short crop of black hair that was perpetually unkempt despite the groomer's best attempts to make it presentable. "Your father is calling. He desires your company." The classic "father needs me" excuse. He and Baldred had practised and refined it far past the point any excuse should be refined. Maximilien dipped his head. "My apologies, my lady, but it would seem my father has need of me. Pray keep yourself in good health that we might meet again." Another short bow, spin around, and stride away before they can reply. The dragoon bumped into another noble here and there, but the sooner he found somewhere he could be isolated away from this crowd, the better. This was all dreadfully boring.

Kasrjin's relationship with his chocobo seemed to have ameliorated since the last time he had checked on the animal; Karadwyr shuffled about noticeably less as he checked and re-checked the fastenings of the saddlebags that were to hold his provisions. The chocobo was a massive black destrier meant to carry a fully-armoured knight into battle, so at the least he did not need to worry overmuch about a weight limit. The bird chirped what Kasrjin interpreted as solemn approval as he loosened the straps somewhat, running a hand between the soot-coloured feathers and the faded brown leather of the bags. He'd considered removing the saddle itself, but if the struggle with the saddlebags had been any indication, manipulating straps and buckles could only lead to his utter doom. The Xaela's provisions had been hidden in the middle of a small, rocky outcropping at the bottom of a steep hill, blanketed by layers of rough animal skins and covered with what foliage he could find amongst the Highlands. The foul scent of the animal skins kept most benign scavengers--person and animal alike--away, while the accumulated shrubbery caused most carrion to be disinterested in picking away at said skins. Kasrjin removed the stones anchoring the skins and swept some layers of dirt away from a pit to reveal several sizeable bags of hand-tooled leather. A cursory inspection revealed that everything was as he had left it; strips of brittle steinbock meat, dried through exposure to frigid winds, crushed snurbleberries, almonds, strips of cloth for bandages, tools, a fur-lined cloak, and a thick insulated waterskin to melt snow in. "I have no qualms with civilization. I simply find yours to be obtuse to interact with at times," he grunted as he began to migrate the supplies to Karadwyr's saddlebags. "I also lack the means for personal storage and there are certain risks I do not wish to take within the city." Truth be told, he had no idea if those armed men were still looking for him, Roen, and Edda, but it would make him feel somewhat foolish to find out by being caught by them. "To answer your earlier question, we do not live amongst the steppes. The mountains and glaciers serve as our home, and the winters there are harsh. Blizzards have lasted up to half a moon at a time." Kasrjin was careful to keep any accurate directions out of his description, though it was less out of mistrust and more out of simple force of habit. "You have your fair share of vengeful weather, but its touch is gentler than what I am adjusted to." His supplies successfully transferred, an endeavour that brought more than a little relief. It was little more than luck that the Au Ra had managed to relocate his cache--though "relocate" was perhaps a generous term as he could not be entirely sure that this was the one he had intended to find--for more than once while gathering these provisions had he been completely unable to find the place where he had stored it, as the snow would sweep or obscure any landmarks he could make and his own sense of direction was...lacking. At the least, somewhere out there were several buried pits of varying provisions. Perhaps they could use them in an emergency. Or someone could, at least. Tracking was for the Nayantai. Kasrjin kept his sigh internal, and turned to face the paladin and the Miqo'te. He glanced at Roen. "I would mention that my expedition may last longer than it takes for this endeavour to be completed" The paladin had made an offer to help him, but he was not entirely sure that she would be willing or able to commit to such a lengthy journey. "Should we find--" A pause. He briefly had forgotten the Miqo'te's name. Mark...Lurk....ah, right. Think of cloudy water. "Should we find Mirke's compatriots swiftly, you plan to accompany them until their rescue arrives?" Karadwyr warbled again with a brief shiver, Kasrjin reflexively wincing as he imagined the buckles and straps of the saddlebags exploding apart again.

Regarding the codes specifically, the codes will apply to all of the characters on your account, so you don't have to worry about choosing a character for them to apply to. Feel free to ask any questions about the RP scene or what have you. Hope to see you on Balmung!

The chocobo occasionally squawked as the Au Ra set about affixing the various satchels and bags that would carry his supplies. The merchant had assured him that the system would be simple to fasten to the bird, and yet the Au Ra found himself confronted with a convoluted system of belts, straps, buckles that seemed to be constructed with little more than leather and wishful thinking. The bird's protests--perhaps themselves a commentary on the nature of his purchase--were not lost on him as he continued to struggle with making sure all of the saddlebags were properly attached to the chocobo’s harness. The situation was not helped by the gentle snowfall that had overtaken the Coerthas Western Highlands. Flakes would drift and tangle amongst the bird's coal-black feathers, causing it to violently shake every now and then in order to keep the snow from accumulating. Occasionally this action would jolt the buckles, causing them to explode apart from one another and leave the Xaela sighing in exasperation. Roen had contacted him after several moons of silence wishing to speak with him. True to his word, the Au Ra had been avoiding Ishgard as best as possible, but the Falcon’s Nest and the Western Highlands were sufficiently removed that he could still engage in some manner of commerce. His arrangement with the knight--a glory-seeker wishing to claim credit for his hunts--had removed the need for him to enter Ishgard itself to collect and redeem hunt marks, and though the rate he collected gil was reduced as a result, the security of the arrangement was preferable to any profits he might collect. The chocobo and the saddlebags both were a result of his planning a long expedition into Dravania. With the help of the aether compass, the Xaela’s hunts had taken him across the breadth of the Highlands enough to know that what he was looking for wasn’t here. Kasrjin’s struggle was interrupted by a familiar and somewhat lilting tone chiming behind him. "Too tight and it will begin to chafe the bird. He will become unruly if not relieved." He did not need to turn his head to see who it was; Roen was always wearing metal sabatons that were heavier than what he expected her to wear, and so her footfalls--ever marked with an unconscious sense of consternation--were easy to recognize. A frown split the Au Ra’s face. “I am aware, yet the creature refuses to be still and...these...straps…” He muttered a series of expletives beneath his breath before finally managing to wrestle the last of the buckles together. Roen stepped up closer to the larger chocobo, clicking her tongue as she pulled on the reins slightly, brushing some snow off the feathers on the neck. Kasrjin noticed her own bird of burden--a hue of golden yellow--following her dutifully and swivelling its neck toward the paladin at the noise. "How long have you had this bird?" Her hold on the reins were firm but her voice steady, her other hand still stroking the feather under the wing. "Nine suns, give or take. We are...not yet overly familiar." The faintest of relieved sighs escaped from his lips as the Xaela began to test the integrity of the other saddlebags and pouches...only for some of the buckles to, rather predictably, blast apart in all directions, resetting more than half of his progress. "Novsh rem ila," Kasrjin spat, instinctively reverting to his own language as he scratched the side of his horn with a gauntleted hand. At the time, he had no reason to doubt the merchant’s integrity that these saddlebags were, indeed, “universally sized”. This exercise was a constant reminder that commerce was not particularly his forte. "This circumstance is dire and requires a different skillset." A frustrated expression on his face was followed by him robotically cocking his head at the paladin's chocobo. "I request the opening of negotiations." The paladin tilted her head to the sound of buckles and contents coming loose with a wrinkle of her nose. The look she gave him was one of patience, although there could have been a little amusement hidden behind a puff of breath released through her nose. "I can show you the basics. With some practice, it will become like second nature." The Xaela snorted. "I do not require second nature. This animal is to act as porter, and little else." Roen canted her head, releasing a longer slower breath. "The better you treat your bird, less trouble he will give you. Some come to be trusted companions to their owner." "Karadwyr, voroi bakh." There was something intuitively comforting about reverting to a language he knew. Kasrjin’s mastery of the Western language, while improving, was still somewhat tenuous at best, his focus on clear pronunciation and proper diction overriding his sense of tone. His native language felt much smoother, and the chocobo seemed to sense a greater sense of ease from him, however slight it was. At the least, it appeared to fidget less. Roen glanced over her shoulder to the Au Ra, a small lift to one corner of her lips. "Ah. So you can be soothing." She glanced between him and the bird. "You are a stranger to him, treat your bird with some care and..." She paused. "Does he have a name?" Kasrjin rubbed the bird's neck. A satisfied warble gave him adequate feedback for this action. "His name is Karadwyr. The original name, as I was told, was..." A pause, searching for the right word. "Not complimentary. Perhaps for justified reason.” "Hmph," the paladin snorted as she stepped forward, lifting up some of the leather strappings to work on the inner bindings first. She slightly leaned to the side as if to show him what she was doing. "Work from inside out, and middle to front and back." She began to re-fasten the buckles. "And intelligent animals reciprocate the attitude you give it." Far too convoluted. Working with animals was for the Jungsai or Nayantai to deal with. A Khadai’s relationship with animals went as far as eating them or sticking them with enough pointy objects to fend them away from the camps or the hunting grounds. Roen slid two fingers between the animal's hide and the saddle bindings. "Should fit snug but not too loose. This is easy way to tell." "As you say," the Xaela grunted. "You wished to speak with me, regardless. I doubt it is about the nature of myself and this bird." Her lips pursed as she paused, her gaze diverting from him back to the saddle. She worked on the buckles for a few more breaths before she spoke again. "Ah. Yes. There... was a matter I did wish to speak to you about..." The Xaela cocked his head at her. “Is this environment uncomfortable for you? If you wish, we may appropriate shelter, or at least a tent.” He was certainly used to the cold--the glacier held far harsher conditions than this--but the paladin, while she held a stoic expression in the face of the elements, was not as resilient. "Hm?" Roen glanced up at him. "Ah, nay. It is not that." A sigh. "I just am finding this a difficult thing to... hm." She glanced away again. Kasrjin tilted his head somewhat. It was unusual to find this typically headstrong woman to be this hesitant about something. Perhaps it was dire. Perhaps Ishgard was on fire, or sinking. "I thought... well... if we were going to be traveling together... That is if you even want my aid..." She started then paused, her brows furrowing in thought. Rather than concern him, her hesitation simply confused him. What topic could exist that could make one so uncomfortable? "How important is... is your origin to you?" “An odd question," the Xaela remarked, almost immediately. "What definition do you apply to 'origin'? The land where I have travelled from? The people from whom I derive my custom? The sire and dam who birthed me?" "Yes. All of that. Where you are from. People who taught you. The land you grew up in." Roen started to absently fasten a few more buckles and check their fit. "How important are they to who you are as a person?" The movement of her fingers upon the leathers slowed, and a long white breath plumed before her lips. She bit her lower lip in thought before she spoke again. "There are rumors amongst the lips of many Ishgardians, that speak of the dragons' hatred comes from their memory of the sins of the Ishgardian's forefathers. Would you agree with the dragons? That you should be judged by the act of your people?" His emerald eyes shimmered at her in thought as he folded his arms before speaking. He had heard of the true nature of the conflict of sword and wings in this land. Long ago, the Ishgardians had murdered one of the dragons, thus starting the conflict. A war of vengeance. It was...an obtusely silly thing, to him. "Memory. Memory is an....unreliable thing." Roen blinked. Where before her grey eyes were regarding him from the corner of her eyes, she turned her head slightly to better meet his gaze. Goldwind, having grown somewhat stiff due to standing still and waiting outdoors, decided to wander about, sniffing and scratching his beak on a few stone walls. "There is a certain phrase taught to us early on. It would mean..." Kasrjin pursed his lips in thought, gears grinding in translation. "Perhaps...hmm. The equivalent would be, 'an arrow's echo cannot hurt you'. What do you believe your memory is to you?" She furrowed her brow in thought, giving his words some consideration. "My memory lets me know who I am, where I have been, all I have seen and done. It shapes who I am, and who I decide to become from this moment. All those I have known, all my successes and the failures." Kasrjin shifted his weight from one leg to another, some pieces of his armor jingling with the motion. "I have noted this. Your people...you measure the worth of your entire lives in memory. For your peoples, memory holds what appears to be infinite power. It governs every thought, informs every choice. Memory drives your...hm.” A pause. “Your passions. Emotions. Love. And also your madness. Obsession. Hatred. You believe that it is memory--the sums of your experiences--that determines who you are, but only the opposite is true. Memory is little more than an image created to make sense of the past. It carries no meaning, no truth, and no pain but what is ascribed to it.” The paladin narrowed her eyes. "I believe we learn from our experiences. Our mistakes. And if your mistakes are dire enough, there are consequences that you must face." Her hands had stopped working on the buckles, although her grip on them lingered. She turned a bit more to look up at the Xaela. "'An arrow's echo cannot hurt you'. Your experience provides knowledge you may draw upon...but any joy or pain you derive from it is from you alone. Not from your memory. A scar, too, causes no pain. It only reveals an echo of pain, an echo that cannot truly hurt you unless you allow it.” Kasrjin shifted his weight again. “Many of my peoples are from other...tribes, of the Xaela. Some were conquered and absorbed. Some wished to join willingly. They carried with them the memories of their customs and their tribes that once were. Those memories hindered them at times. We taught them what a memory can do, and more importantly, what a memory cannot do." “What if the memory is still fresh? The consequences still persistent? And the hostilities continue?" Roen had returned to looking at him from the corner of her eye. "The conflict between the Ishgardians and dragons have not ceased. It may have an action of their forefathers that started it, but the enmity continues. We fought a dragon, you and I, not too long ago. Based on a conflict that stemmed from history. Was not that dragon our enemy?" "You wished to know if I believed the dragons' war to be wrong. I do believe it to be...wrong.” It went deeper than that. The conflict at its core was inherently alien to him. Khadai never fought for ideas like vengeance or justice or righteousness. They fought to preserve their lives and way of living, yes, but past wrongs had never entered the picture before. Kasrjin could not even begin to explain this concept to her, though. “To fight on behalf of a memory is pointless. It is the same as snuffing out a flame in the hopes that doing so will restore the tree. The dragons fight because their memory of Ishgard brings them pain. Ishgard fights for the reverse reason. They have yet to realize that the pain comes from what they ascribe to it.” Roen seemed to chew on that for a moment longer. Her fingers rubbed together and a few expressions flittled across her face. His words did give her some reassurance, although it still was not quite at the heart of the matter. Was she still stalling? Kasrjin unfolded his arms, laying them at his side to return to his neutral stance. “You asked this because you believe I place the same importance to memory as your people." The paladin nodded, looking off at the snow that was slowly gathering height against the wall behind him. "I agree with some of what you said...." Another pause as she flicked another glance at him. "And your answer is clear that you do not." She shifted her weight, her thumb rubbing against her finger again. He took note of her growing discomfort, and his own confusion grew. "Khadai." She cleared her throat with a shake of her head. "I believe I am not being quite straightforward. So I will just... say this. There are people in Eorzea, who would see me as a spy, or an enemy of the state, because of where I was raised, the people I call parents, and the land I call home." She glanced about, her voice lowering. "I was raised in Garlemald. My parents are Garleans. I am... one as well." A slight pause in that admission. A ridged brow raised itself as Kasrjin’s emerald eyes shimmered at her, but his expression was his typical stoic demeanour. Was that it? The Au Ra was expecting something far more dire. "...and what do you wish me to do with this information?" A hand reached up to scratch the side of his horn again. "I am unable to serve as courier at the moment. if you wish to convey this to someone else." Was there perhaps something else? Some hidden meaning that Kasrjin did not pick up on? His confusion swirled somewhat with anxiety that he was being introduced to some new foreign social convention that he would have to work his way around yet again. A part of Roen seemed to stiffen in anticipation of his answer, but upon his bewildered nonchalance, she too raised her brows, then frowned. Her lips opened then closed. She slowly shook her head. "I... I do not know. I do not know what I wished for you to do. Perhaps I just wanted to share that with you. When you spoke of them, and called them the black ones, I... felt that I was not being truthful in letting you know I share a heritage, the same origin with those people you killed." Her frown deepened slightly, perhaps at her wording. Kasrjin raised his shoulders. Shrugging was a gesture that was coming to him more naturally. "It is true that I have killed many black ones...Garleans. I question your intention. Do you believe yourself to be Garlean? That you should be treated as one?” Almost brazenly, he reached a gauntleted hand out and touched her head, the side of her cheek, her shoulder, her waist....all with the same stoic demeanor as he usually held, though he did not notice her cheeks becoming flush at his motions. "You do not wear the armour. You do not wield the weapons. You bear no insignia, you do not follow their leaders, and you do not seek to conquer those that they do." The corner of his lip curled upward ever so slightly. "I have only your word that you are Garlean as you claim." "I consider Eorzea my home. It is to these people I owe service and debt. But.." She looked away for a moment, before she peered back up at him. "It does not bother you in the least?" "I am told my grandsire was Dotharl. A Xaela tribe. Violent. Their way was to absorb whomever they did not kill, and make them forget themselves in a frenzy of bloodlust and war." He scratched the scales of his chin. "As I recall, the chieftain of a conquered tribe tortured, then exhibited to his people as broken and feeble. After that, the Dotharl cut off the chieftain's head so they may drink his soul.” He shrugged casually. “Such as it is. I am Dotharl by association of my grandsire. Does this bother you?” She stared at him, her eyes widening at the details. "You... do not practice these things. Your people, your tribe, do not do this." It was not quite a question and she stared at him intently. A thoughtful hand ran itself through Kasrjin’s ponytail. "Then you have your answer well enough. You do not seek to judge me for the circumstances of my heritage. When should I judge you for yours?" The Xaela shrugged again. "Truthfully, I question your eagerness to associate yourself with the label. 'Garlean'. Your name is not Garlean. Your dress is not Garlean. Your mannerism is not Garlean. How you speak, what you believe, what you feel, what you do and seek to do is not Garlean. I have only your word that you are Garlean. The only one between us who appears to believe that you are Garlean and therefore worthy of their shame is you." She continued to gaze upon him for a bit longer, an expression relief starting to wash over her face. The corners of her eyes crinkled. When she dipped her head, it may have been to hide a curl of her lips. Kasrjin studied her expression intensely. Was this truly what she was so conflicted about? A matter of heritage? Heritage was important in this land, but the Au Ra had yet to believe that it brought any measure of anguish in this manner. "Your sire was Garlean, perhaps? Your dam?” he continued. “Perhaps they dressed as such, acted as such, and sought to conquer my people as such. Had they approached me, dressed in the garb and evident in their intent to act as Garleans do, then I may treat them as only a Khadai can. Yet, they are not you. Nor are you they. In the same that I am not Dotharl.” Her lips twisted this way and that as he continued. She shuffled her feet, making an absent show of scraping away a patch of ice on the ground. "I... understand your point." She huffed although it lacked any real indignation. "I am starting to feel a bit foolish." Kasrjin snorted. “You continue to make the mistake of ascribing to me the behaviours of your own people." She glared at the stubborn patch of ice. "It mattered to many others so..." She frowned back at him, although there was a slightly pause. It was as if she had words on the tip of her tongue ready to tumble forth, only to be held back at the last minute. He wrinkled his nose. "If nothing else, your obsession with vegetable material for sustenance disproves that I am one of you." The disdainful gaze on the Au Ra’s face intensified somewhat. “To harvest fruit, berries, or herbs is one thing. But it is...barbaric, pulling plants from the ground to eat. And unclean." The faintest upward curl of his lips indicated that perhaps this was his first earnest attempt at humour. Clearly his reasoning now has caught her off guard. It took her a breath, before her eyes slowly narrowed and her lips were tugged wider. "You should not dismiss the roots so easily. Popotoes can be quite tasty when steamed and prepared correctly." He snorted derisively. “I have seen Yerenai no older than five cycles prepare foodstuffs better. You will excuse my doubt.” Kasrjin paused, shifting his weight again. "...have your fears alleviated?" She smiled up at him--a genuine expression she did not bother to hide this time--and nodded. "That is...good. Though truthfully I am still ignorant of what reaction you expected from me." A wry grin crossed his lips, evaporating as quickly as it had vanished. "If you find that you trust nothing, you may trust that I will not hold the same demeanor as your peoples. Whatever you may think of them." Roen dipped her head. "You would think I should have learned that by now," she murmured. She seemed to be studying his shoes. "You are not like anyone I have ever known." She crossed her arms, suddenly pulling herself up straight. "And I have known both good and bad." She gave him an odd look, although there was a hint of fondness in them. "I do not think I can attribute you to either." His gaze was somewhat more stern. "I recognize your jest, but people are not simple. They cannot be easily condensed in such terms in the manner of, 'Miqo'te are numerous and possess a disproportionate desire to mate.' You would do well to remember that such simplicities cannot be attributed to individuals, much less groups of peoples.” As the wind began to howl, the Au Ra glanced skyward at the worsening weather. He fastened the bird to the post and withdrew from his waistpack a series of folded hunt bills. "The climate deteriorates. I will require more hunts to be completed yet if I am to fully supply myself for this expedition." His gaze fixed on Roen again. "Are you...well enough to manage?" The phrasing was still awkward. It was not as if he did not know the words, but more that he was still unsure of his conveyance, even after all of this time. The paladin glanced up at the dark skies and the whipping winds and snow. When Roen turned back to him, her expression had softened considerably since the talk had began. "Worry not, I can manage well enough." She canted her head. "I daresay better than you in somethings." Her words carried a hint of a tease as she looked around for both their birds that had wandered off. "At least your saddle will not loosen anytime soon." Kasrjin’s head dipped in a nod. "My gratitude, then. Alert me if you see any Garleans nearby." She nearly snorted out a chuckle as he strode away.

After further consideration and examination and complete failure to find a definitive answer from Square Enix on the subject, threads advertising the sale of housing are temporarily suspended until the official transcription of the Live Letter is available. Unofficial translations of the live-letter seem to be unable to agree on whether or not selling houses entirely is actionable or whether or not simply flipping is actionable. I think it's fair to consider those sources unreliable. Basically, we'll be erring on the safe side regarding the selling of houses as long as its status a bannable in-game offence is still ambiguous.

The sale of FCs is still allowed, basically on the premise that the FC is the item being traded and the house is just an aspect of that item.

While the wording did suggest that "exorbitant" charges were what were specifically permitted, for the sake of avoiding loopholes, any advertisements for the sale of in-game housing in exchange for in-game currency are no longer permitted.

The most recent Live Letter during E3 has confirmed that the sale of housing for profit is not allowed, and that the sale of in-game housing for in-game currency is actionable by Final Fantasy XIV GMs. Threads advertising the sale of an in-game house or lot in any section of the RPC forums are no longer permitted and will be archived at moderator discretion. After further consideration and examination and complete failure to find a definitive answer from Square Enix on the subject, threads advertising the sale of housing are temporarily suspended until the official transcription of the Live Letter is available. EDIT: In the wake of the automatic housing demolition, any requests for housing (whether or not it is for resale) are not permitted and will be removed at moderator discretion.

Please do try to remain civil and on-topic, or else this thread will have to be locked. Posts derailing or attempting to derail the thread will be removed. Debates on other subjects should be off-site or in PMs.

I think Ishgard mellowing out is the natural end for Heavensward. It's not the actual events themselves that really put me off, because Nidhogg being whacked and reformation being implemented was completely inevitable. It's the fact that the story is paced atrociously and that there is never any sense that this ending was earned by, well, anyone. Pacing is, of course, a double-edged sword. Too slow and it drags on and nothing gets accomplished. Too quick and the story ends up being rushed and unsatisfying. If they really had to pull off the "Nidhogg comes back to life" plot device, then Heavensward should have ended with Nidhogg's first death followed immediately by Estinien's possession. 3.1 and 3.2 would deal with Aymeric acting in direct opposition to Archbishop Thordan in order to secure peace with Hraesvelgr's brood. 3.2 would still end with Vidofnir getting shanked. 3.3, Nidhogg dies. 3.4 and 3.5 would deal with the conflict of Ishgard's reformation and the expansion ends with Thordan becoming a Primal in a desperate bid to secure the theocracy's power after peace had been achieved with the dragons. Instead, more than half of the initial expansion story and the subsequent 3.1 and 3.2 patches is spent fucking around with the Scions, watching the Ascians and Warriors of Darkness twirl their bad-guy mustaches going "Guys we are totally still relevant to the story", Regula van Hydrus shows up to join the mustache twirling by going "Look the Garleans are still relevant too", and seeing Square Enix completely fucking bomb any potential that Ul'dah had to be interesting by not going through with killing off the Sultana. Then in the subsequent patches, peace is achieved effortlessly by Aymeric going to Vidofnir and saying "We're really really sorry", we fuck around with the Scions some more, Minfillia gets the boot, and then the whole thing kind of sputters and...ends. I mean, I get that the main conflict is between the Scions and the Ascians regarding the revival of Zodiark. Fine. I just don't think that the pacing of a far more interesting storyline (the Dragonsong war) should have been completely butchered in order to make room for the Scions and Ascians who really don't even do anything besides show up in the background and remind you that things are going to happen. Not that they are happening, but that eventually there'll be some kind of payoff. And I'm not exactly advocating for Game of Thrones-esque levels of character death. Grimdarkness is absolutely unnecessary, and arbitrary edginess is a horrific thing to see. But even in light-hearted, idealistic stories, there are struggles. There is an ordeal for our heroes to conquer, and the resolution is earned. Can you imagine if, in the Lord of the Rings, Frodo and Sam really did take the Eagles to Mordor and just dropped the ring into Mount Doom? Pop, just like that? But in Heavensward there was no struggle. No sacrifice. And no, Haurchefant and Ysayle don't count because Haurchefant was a completely one-dimensional character whose death was needless and idiotic (The Warrior of Light could be a master at four different healing classes and sort of just watches him die because drama) and Ysayle dies in a context that is completely irrelevant to her character arc. Estinien's struggle over Nidhogg and subsequently over his own vengeance, then dying in order to keep both of those things from continuing to hurt people he cares about. That's a struggle and sacrifice. That's a price paid to overcome a meaningful conflict. But Estinien is just fine too. Turns out, all he had to do to kill his most hated enemy was get possessed by him. Huh! More people should try that. It just makes me tear my hair out because this story could have been good. But it's not. Lack the manpower and resources or something.

I'm apprehensive at best. I found the finale to be headache-inducingly saccharine. There's no real weight or tension to Ishgard as a setting anymore, at least not any weight or tension that hasn't been done in the same setting before. The part that interested me the most about Ishgard were, well, the things that made it Ishgard. Specifically its status as a despotic militant theocracy waging a genocidal holy war against a superior force amidst a tumultuous climate of political ambition, religious zealotry, and class warfare. There was something fascinating about the dichotomous nature of Ishgard's politics and culture, being ostensibly built around order and a single-minded goal yet also being unstable without the unifying threat of the dragons and built on the foundations of a lie (or at least, a historical misrepresentation). The terrifyingly absolute power of the Church and the Inquisition lead to a pervading sense of tension as well. It was a unique location with a unique context, as far as the FFXIV setting goes. I'm afraid that post-3.3 Ishgard will be mundane and watered-down. The despotic theocracy bit has been effectively neutered by the reformation of the government into a secular bicameral republic that, according to the ending, faced little to no resistance in its implementation. In the context of the narrative and the circumstances, the peace with Dravania was achieved practically effortlessly--basically, the Warrior of Light went around and talked to people and did all of the actually significant fighting--and said peace has made it so that any mention of Ishgard's militancy--another interesting cultural aspect that only Garlemald really shares--would be made on a small scale at best. I mean, Nidhogg's brood is still out there, sure, but the narrative is in a corner as far as they're concerned. If Nidhogg's brood is still a legitimate threat, then it cheapens Nidhogg's death, and if the brood is viewed as little more than an annoying remnant than it still drastically reduces the militant aspect of Ishgard's culture. Now that's not to say that something has to be grimdark doom-and-gloom in order to be interesting, and that's not necessarily to say that post-3.3 Ishgard will be sunshine and flowers (although it probably will be), but conflict is the soul of drama and basically, I found that the larger-scale conflicts that were possible by pre-3.3 Ishgard were more interesting than any conflicts that will be possible in post-3.3 Ishgard. Class warfare? True, with a bicameral republic the conflict between highborn and commoners is not only still present but particularly more pronounced with the House of Lords and House of Commons, but the class warfare concept is represented--or was represented, depending on your opinion of 2.55--much more effectively by Ul'dah. Replace "plutocrats" with "aristocrats" and replace "wealth" with "bloodlines" and you have the exact same conflict in a context that is nearly identical with a little bit of racism for spice. You don't really have any large-scale conflicts with dragons anymore unless they got the Nidhogg's brood thing as mentioned above, which carries with it its own problems narratively speaking. I mean, what's the point of killing the leader so dramatically if you have to end up hunting down every member of his horde anyway? About the only thing Ishgard retains that remains unique of it Church attempting to retain political relevance after what seemed to be a unanimous movement towards secularism, for some reason. I'm disappointed.

This is a reminder that all aspects of 3.3 content are considered spoilers and will be considered such until we reach a three-month marker past the general release on 6-7-2016. Do Not Post Spoilers in Thread Titles Tag Your Thread Titles with [spoilers] At The Beginning If They Contain Spoilers Make Use of Spoiler Tags in Your Posts Where Appropriate Moderators Reserve the Right to Strictly Enforce the Above The Only Exception to the Above is the Town Square (IC) Board. The above rules do not apply to FFXIV News threads where patch notes and the like are under discussion. Thank You.

Looks pretty good for the most part. Few things to note. The data and classification part of the format is pretty neat and adds to the "data file" type feel of the profile, but I'd avoid rigidly sticking to the terminology and the acronyms for the sake of flexibility. I'd edit it slightly to the following: It more or less delivers the same information and feel but does not limit you to sticking your guns to terminology or acronyms that other characters/players may not agree with. As for the titles, it's a little confusing to see them when there is little to no indication as to how she earned them, where she earned them, or who calls her by these numerous titles. It might be best to omit that information from the profile for now. Also, if she's a covert agent highly skilled in infiltration, having a reputation as such might be considered counter-productive. Those are just nitpicks though, so I really wouldn't worry about them. Besides that, I don't see any other issues with it, and I do enjoy seeing the SCP-style [REDACTED] appear on a profile.

The Au Ra glanced at annoyance with his knife, peering at it with a practised eye. One of the teeth of the serrated edge had been chipped off. With a tsk, Kasrjin diligently reapplied the blade to the tusk of the dead yeti he was perched on, making a mental note to replace the blade when he could. A hatchet may have been preferable. The merchant had assured him of the blade's quality. "Finest Ishgardian steel," he had said. If this was the finest quality they had to offer, it was no wonder they were losing their conflict against the dragons. Kasrjin had been prowling the Western Highlands for almost fifteen suns now. He no longer entered the city at all. He had made an arrangement with an enterprising young knight eager for prestige; the knight would supply him with bills, coin, and provisions, while the Au Ra would hunt the beasts and allow the knight to claim the credit. It had been a profitable arrangement thus far, given the circumstances. After pulling the tusk from the yeti--with some difficulty--the Au Ra tied the prodigious trophy to his back, swinging the blued steel upwards in order to prop it on his shoulder for travel. With this last trip, assuming the knight went through with his end, he should have enough for his expedition. Kasrjin had done little with his hunt earnings beyond stockpiling it and spending it on provisions. With this last hunt, there should be enough: one of the large birds for a mount, some survival tools, and provisions for at least thirty suns for one man. With this, he should be equipped to enter Dravania. The Au Ra had only been to Tailfeather twice, but the climate was not nearly as harsh as the Highlands. Conversation with the huntmaster had revealed that danger took form in other ways: dragons, aggressive animals, and "beastmen". If the Ishgardians are correct, the dragons will mistake me for one of their own. the Au Ra thought rather snidely to himself. The pearl fastened to his horn chimed lightly, startling the Au Ra somewhat. By all rights the sensation should long have lost its power to cause Kasrjin to jump, but it was not used often enough for him to build a proper tolerance for the sensitive, almost imperceptible vibrations that the device made whenever contact was made. "Khadai, Captain Mirke has hired me to guide her back out through the Western Highlands in search of her crew. I have asked her to meet me at Falcon's Nest in a few suns. I was wondering... if you would accompany me?" Kasrjin frowned somewhat. That woman had been asking many favours of him lately. Self-reliance is hardly a virtue, apparently. "I possess pre-determined plans to venture out. I will meet her with you, but I do not make promises to my participation." A frown. Falcon's Nest was quite close to Ishgard. People had been looking for the three involved in Dragonhead; himself, Edda, and Roen. Would this be too risky? Almost subconsciously, the Au Ra did his best to tug the hood of his cloak over his head, though the large horns adorning his head still made distinct shapes emerge from even the largest of hoods. "This does not sound like a venture you would take. For what reason do...." he paused. "We shall discuss this in person, then." The wind was picking up. Best to collect his compensation as early as possible.

Please remember to try to maintain a civil tone amongst discussions. Posts attempting to bait or "troll" users, and posts involving unnecessary aggression or insults are prohibited.

I've always liked Tailfeather, and I sort of view it as a place that would become something of an adventurer hub. It's the lone settlement of spoken in Dravania and largely self-sufficient, so it seems like it'd be a great jumping-off point for expeditions, hunters, etc. looking to venture into Dravania to hunt monsters or try to harvest some of the rarer materials that are only available there. Also it's pretty big and open and has one or two decent interior spaces, and a river nearby for idle fishing.

I try to expand on the character more. I'll pitch moral dilemmas or such and try to work out the character's reaction. I'll likely do this multiple times with multiple situations. Once I feel that an area of them has been sufficiently fleshed out, I try to brainstorm a plot, encounter, or dialogue that would lead my character to discuss or display the expanded traits or beliefs. If the problem is more deep-seated in that you don't like the character concept, try to gradually shift it. Even if you continue to dislike the concept, if you're attached enough to the character to not discard them then you may be able to find a middle-ground where you're comfortable with playing their present personality.

The Main Story is something that happens beyond the scope of my character. It's a far-off series of events that affect the world that the characters inhabit, but the characters aren't directly involved. Sort of like the Dwarves of Erebor being affected by Sauron's destruction but not directly participating in the battle for the Black Gate, if that makes sense.

Dark Knight doesn't utilize a mundane base class so I guess Kas technically falls under self-created? I really just wanted him to use a two-handed sword.

http://blogs.indiewire.com/theplaylist/first-look-scarlett-johansson-in-anime-adaptation-ghost-in-the-shell-20160414 Fellow weebs, join me now in this pre-emptive mercy killing. This is going to outdo The Last Airbender. Look at that legendary resume.