Nero

Drawing his sword was pointless. He saw its mouth open. Instinct commanded him to move out of the way. In one fluid motion, his right arm pressed against the small of the paladin’s back, right foot just above the toe of her sabatons, and Kasrjin threw both himself and Roen facedown into the snow. The beast was massive. Its jaws were large enough to swallow the Xaela whole, considerable frame and armor and all. The great gout of flame spewed forth from the jaws of the dragon, scorching the cliff behind the Convictory. To the credit of their construction, the violet tents, though blackened from the heat of the attack, did not ignite or crumble. The dragon let out a magnificent snarl, perching on its haunches briefly before leaping mightily into the air, its wings beating furiously as it ascended into the cloud cover above again. Vapor from incinerated snow wafted in gouts of mist. “The signal! The signal!” someone had begun shouting. As the dragon flew away into the sky, one of the knights rushed over to the firepit and threw a small cloth bag into the embers. The flame sputtered and coughed briefly before the orange flames flashed into a brilliant azure, and billowing smoke of a matching hue began skipping into the sky. The flames of the signal fire grew hotter by thee second. Ser Tabourot, the Elezen having lost his coif somewhere along the way, put a singed horn to his lips which blared out a deep, echoing tone. As Kasrjin leapt to his feet from the snow, his eyes were gleaming. That was a dragon. Not just a beast, but an intelligent one. He was very much looking forward to defeating it. The Au Ra did not know what the knight’s intentions were, but the attack on this camp was meant to shake the knights. The dragon would not be easily spotted while the cloud cover lasted, but high in the sky it followed the knights to the camp such that it knew where they were based even with the cover of the cliffs to defend them. Then, it struck and retreated before retaliation could be mustered. It was a taunt and a warning both. “Prepare for battle! As soon as Ser Vaillancourt returns, we venture forth. Is the trap still intact?” Tabourot shouted. “Aye, ser! The briar and birch made it through!” Tabourot glanced at the Xaela and the paladin still kneeling in the snow. “You two as well. We’re mobilizing.” “You cannot strike at the beast while it possesses the cloud cover,” Kasrjin rumbled. Tabourot shook his head grimly. “You will learn how we hunt dragons in Coerthas, Ser Khadai. Now prepare to move out.” It was just then that another horn was heard in the distance. The knights’ heads whipped towards the direction, and in the distance another squad of knights could be seen trotting through the snow. Tabourot snatched a spyglass from his belt, and upon looking through, his eyes widened at the sight of an indiscernible signal before he shoved the spyglass back into its pouch. He waved a hand at two knights hurriedly carrying lengths of lumber. “Drop it! The dragon’s minions seek to undo us! All hands to arms!” As if on cue, a skysplitting cry pierced the heavens from above. Far above, a cloud of what seemed to be locust rapidly began descending towards the camp from the cliff above the Convictory. With remarkable discipline, the knights rapidly congregated towards the center of the camp. The knights had dropped everything save for their weapons and shields. Axes, bows, and swords were poised and readied. The archers quickly formed a firing line towards the back, followed by the lancers ahead of them readying their spears between the shields of the swordsmen. Tabourot himself was standing at the front of the wedge they established, his own blade and shield held aloft. “Dragonflies! Hold the line!” The dragonflies had thin, serpentine bodies, held aloft by furiously beating insect-like wings that seemed to hum. They snarled and spat as they almost immediately swarmed upon the formation. Arrows flew with telltale twangs as hooked arms and feet slashed at the knights in the front of the formation. Kasrjin withdrew his sword, and did his best to join the knights in formation. He retreated to behind the shield wall, one hand placed against the flat of his blade, the other firmly grasping the hilt, prepared to wield it like a spear. A dragonfly swooped right past him. With a measured, steady gesture, the blue steel of his blade flashed forward, neatly severing the creature’s wings. A visible grin was on his face.

Kasrjin nodded but did not glance at her. “The design of his armour and his weapon intrigue me,” he commented idly. “I am interested in seeing how it is utilized against aerial foes.” In the brief moment of solitude that he’d gained from relocating himself, he’d handily finished the remains of the stew in record time and was now idly stirring the wooden utensil within the bowl in contemplation. “The more I see of this land, the more it confuses me,” the Xaela admitted quietly. “It is odd. At times I witness solidarity and discipline, and it is comforting. At others, I wonder how your society has not collapsed in on itself. You are a people of contrasts.” It was an observation he had made before, and it was one that had managed to remain almost amusingly relevant throughout his travels. “How can one people be so opposed in all things? There are the disciplined and the unruly. The giving and the selfish. Those who appear to sabotage those around them, and those who appear to do naught but strive for the same.” Roen had equated the dragoon to the Khadai, but how true was that comparison? Did that man possess the same sense of duty in their role? Kasrjin felt compelled to ask the next time he saw him, but at the same time he was uncertain that he would accurately convey the meaning of his queries. It was frustrating at times, attempting to express himself on the Western continent. Straightforward speech was never enough. Direct statements meant implied intentions. It was like a maze, and every navigational skill he knew set him upon a dead end. “All of my people are wary of the dangers of...specialization,” the Xaela observed. “I would know if this dragoon is as capable against dragons as he is against the black ones, or against other beasts. How do these dragoons fight aerial enemies?” Kasrjin mused more to himself than to Roen. Whenever he felt especially uncomfortable, the soldier within him came forth and distracted him handily with tactical speculation. “Traps may be effective, unless the dragons are intelligent. Projectile weapons...the fortification we stayed at before coming to Ishgard. They possessed what appeared to be...harpoons? It must take a great deal of training to become accurate with such things.” For now, he’d managed to distract himself from how confused Bellows’, well, bellowing had made him. It was enough, until the hunt was called.

Kasrjin was in the midst of considering her words when the commotion started. He vaguely recognised the Hyur and the Roegadyn by their silhouettes--he’d made it a point to not register too many individuals at once, lest all Westerners begin to look the same to him--but Bellows’ shouting registered as a clearly memorable aspect. The Xaela remained expressionless to the belligerent vitriol being spewed his way, tranquilly consuming his stew, eyes pinned to the inside of the wooden bowl with remarkable discipline. “Well, I don’t trust him. And I sure ain’t going to have him watch my back,” Bellows had just finished sneering. “That leaves no one else willing to do so,” Kasrjin replied with a dry observation, more to Roen than to the angry sellsword. With no more comment, he stood up, bowl of half-finished stew in hand, before picking up the amusingly slight wooden stool in the other hand, sauntering to another area of the camp away from the fire closer to the stony refuge of the bluff that sheltered the Convictory. He could feel the glares attempting to bore holes into the back of his head, but the thoughts in his mind, rather than anger, indignation, or stale, cool indifference, were more confused than anything else. It was true that Kasrjin had cut down Bellows’ associates, but he had explained the circumstances as best as he could. The Au Ra pointedly noted that even Roen, the Westerner with whom he’d possessed the most rapport, had not accepted his justification as reasonable for reasons unknown to him. He could only assume at best that the belligerent demeanor possessed one or more nuances of Western culture that simply escaped him. Ser Tabourot, to his credit, was quick to stand in front of Bellows, the Convictory knight standing a full head and a half taller than the sellsword. “Ser Khadai is under the jurisdiction of an Ishgardian dragoon, and is to be treated the same as any enlisted man of honour,” the Elezen snapped, though the knight’s eyes flashed the barest hints of unease, presumably in anticipation for Ser Vaillancourt’s reprimand. “You would do well to remember your place, sellsword. It is bad enough that we are forced to take to the field alongside mercenaries, but you will keep a civil nature or you will be keeping company with the next true Dravanian alone.” Kasrjin remained seated in his corner, eating his stew. This was a confusing land indeed.

He would describe the Convictory as a “quaint” encampment. The stakes and steel lances planted in the ground were notable--Kasrjin wondered idly if cavalry attacks were common given the weather, or if dragons were prone to similar tactics to warrant such fortifications--and the rocky bluff surrounding the tents provided ample cover from the air. The soldier in him asked numerous questions all at once: was this camp intended to be mobile? The gaudy violet tents that nonetheless appeared collapsible and the occasional wagon seemed to suggest so, which in turn implied that these were dragon hunters in the truest sense of the word: they sought and pursued their prey, rather than waiting for the dragons to come to them. Assuming that this particular band of knights had some measure of success with their tactics, the tenacity required for such a task was rather impressive. The Au Ra supposed he would see it for himself during this hunt. Amusingly enough, Kasrjin felt his appetite vanish momentarily as his head swivelled about like a newborn coeurl, scrutinizing everyone and everything with an intense emerald gaze. The knights were dressed in chainmail--once again, he noted that there was a great deal of harvestable metal in this land--presumably as a balance between defense and mobility. There were none of the massive harpoon launchers that Camp Dragonhead had. Even in the calm after the blizzard, there was a bustle of activity. Rope, chains, and lengths of lumber were being assembled into what he could only assume were traps. Firewood was deposited into a nearby wagon, crates unpacked, bows were restrung. True, the Xaela had been exposed to Western military forces in Camp Dragonhead, but unlike their fellows among the Convictory, they did not display the same martial discipline that he saw here. It was comforting. The atmosphere felt almost familiar. Several knights stiffened or tensed up upon seeing him. The Elezen--Kasrjin had already forgotten his name--appeared to mollify them somewhat. A few eyebrows were pointedly raised at the sword in its harness upon his back, a few more at the brass-coloured armour and black tabard that were clearly of Ishgardian make. For the most part, he ignored them, though at times the knights would receive a blazing stare in turn, though it was out of curiosity than of apprehension or irritation. As he sat down, the bowl was offered and Kasrjin knew food when it was presented. The spoon was unhesitatingly buried into the viscous gravy of the stew and in but a few moments he had quietly shoveled several mouthfuls of sustenance into his face. It was not that he was particularly hungry--the Au Ra was used to fasting during hard times and eating was very often more a matter of practicality than of satiating an appetite--but force of habit dictated that the warband would move very soon and anything that was not eaten would be left or must be eaten on the march, and Kasrjin found the latter quite aggravating to do. It was only after several rapid spoonfuls that he registered Roen asking him a question. He took a moment to slow his chewing to swallow before glancing at her. “I do have other obligations,” he admitted. “But I am curious. And my objective’s location is not something that will be simply deduced. There is risk in this, but it is acceptable risk.” Kasrjin eyed her steadily. “A dragon is a...new foe. I do not intend to be reckless. I intend to observe, and should I be called, follow directions given by those who are experienced.” His emerald gaze sharpened. “Do you believe this risk acceptable? You may be a skilled combatant, but you admit that you have not faced true dragons. My homeland contains a number of large and dangerous beasts; the Khadai are called upon to defend our territory from them. And so this is...comfortable. Within my role.” Kasrjin shifted on the little stool he was sitting upon that seemed to struggle to hold all of the Au Ra’s frame. “It is not the same for you.”

A dragon hunt. The Xaela had to admit that the thought of it was...almost exciting. The Khadai were defenders first, and at times this meant they were called upon to slay dangerous beasts or monsters that had tread into their territory, and Othard was host to many such fauna. A dragon, however, was an entirely different challenge altogether. Kasrjin was looking forward to gaining such valuable insight on how to hunt such a menacing and intelligent foe. While the thought of violence and having to fight was somewhat irksome, he realized that part of it was that this knowledge he would gain would be practical. It wouldn't be confusing etiquette or needlessly circuitous social conventions or nebulous concepts like the transaction of services. In this foreign land of fluid structure and uncertainty, this was within his sphere and role. There was a foe who was a threat to him and his, and he would learn how to eliminate it effectively. Yes, he was rather excited for the whole thing. So much so that the thought of it brought a genuine grin to his lips. “I wish to participate,” he rumbled with little else. His tone was as straight as ever, if somewhat lighter. The dragoon appeared to have caught the expression, for he himself broke into a smirk and nodded in turn. “Excellent. I do hope you will not disappoint me.” He turned to face the squad of knights behind him. “Ser Tabourot, I expect that deploying too many knights at once will make our mark suspicious, and so while Sarrasin and Porter scout our mark, your men shall be on standby. Pray return to the Convictory and rest for a time, and do take our two new additions with you.” Vaillancourt flashed a toothy grin. “And I hope I do not need to make any reminders that Ser Khadai is not, in fact, a Dravanian?” His words dripped with the venom of an implied threat. The other Elezen, Ser Tabourot, bowed low. “Of course, my lord Maximilien. They will be afforded every courtesy.” There was a slight clanking as the dragoon withdrew his Gae Bolg, the great wings of the weapon extending as he did so. Kasrjin could not help but admire the construction of the lance, even as part of him wished to ask questions as to the function of the wings. It appeared to be top-heavy and weighty, but the dragoon easily grasped it in one hand as if it weighed nothing at all. “Then if that is all, I will depart on some reconnaissance of my own. Be wary of any signals you may receive, not just from me, but from Sarrasin and Porter as well." Ser Tabourot bowed low again, as Vaillancourt lazily sauntered off, lance in hand. The former gave a polite, if stiff nod to Kasrjin and Roen both. “The both of you are welcome. Please join us in the Convictory; we have food and fire to warm you if you need it.” It was at this point that the Xaela realized how long he had gone on without sustenance. Khadai warriors were, by nature of their environment, trained to function without food if required but it was still not optimal and would affect how he fought. His emerald eyes glanced at Roen. “Food sounds...good,” he said, studying her. The female’s frame was much slighter than his and thus it was possible she required less to maintain herself. “If we are to hunt a dragon, we must ensure we can perform optimally.” A pause. “What are...your thoughts? On this.” It was another of his awkward questions, stiffly spoken as if he knew what the words meant individually, but not the phrase itself. And there was some truth to that; if Kasrjin had learned one thing during his time on the Western continent, it was that direct statements were often misinterpreted. The people here were deeply suspicious of others, and thus were always attempting to guess at an ulterior meaning or implied statement. He found it all terribly annoying.

I don't mind at all. Feel free to use them as you wish. A couple more: -How does she prefer to resolve conflicts? Guile, diplomacy, violence, a mix, etc. -What is her attitude towards certain contentious topics such as racism, poverty, etc. and what are her reasons, if any? -What kind of "progress" does she work towards? Does she seek love? Riches? Does she have long term goals, or is she mostly focused on just having as much fun as she can in a day?

That last step is a tad irritating. Assuming that 3.2 comes out in March-ish of 2016 and it takes three weeks of new tomestones to get an i220 weapon, people will probably spend more time grinding this weapon than actually using it while it is relevant. And God knows how long it'll take for the next step to make relics relevant in 3.2's PvE content. BUT GLAMOUR FANTASY XIV AMIRITE

The dragoon lifted up the violet visor of the beaked helmet, revealing a face that was surprisingly youthful in its appearance but well-worn and aged in its demeanor. His features were sharp and hawk-like, almost gaunt, with high cheekbones and a sleek, pointed jawline, as if his face were built to complement his armour. Honey-coloured eyes gleamed at both the paladin and the Xaela in turn. His bow was as noble as his countenance; left leg bent, left arm behind his back, right arm at his chest, right foot straight as he bent low at the waist, in a display of classic aristocracy. A small, polite smile curled his lips. “Ser Maximilien Vaillancourt, knight and noble son of House Vaillancourt, proudly representing the Order of the Dragoon of the Holy See of Ishgard. I understand that the full title is something of a mouthful, and so ‘my lord’ or ‘Ser Vaillancourt’ will suffice in addressing me, if it pleases you. An honour to meet you both.” The Elezen stood straight, pulling the visor down over his face again, the polite smile vanishing from his face as quickly as it had appeared as if signifying that courtesies were at an end and they were now discussing more serious matters. Khadai, to his credit, returned the bow with one of his own. A pale imitation of the smooth and graceful gesture that Ser Vaillancourt had provided...but a returned courtesy nonetheless. At least he felt that he was improving. Ser Vaillancourt folded his arms, frowning. “So it is truly only the two of you? That is disappointing.” He looked the paladin and the Xaela both up and down, sizing them up. “Dravanian activity has a tendency of increasing in the aftermath of storms, therefore it was necessary to supplement our forces through any means possible. Mercenaries included." He cocked his head at the pair. "Though it is not unheard of for great gifts to arrive in small parcels. Perhaps the two of you will be enough.” He waved a hand from the band of knights to the wagon. “Ser Ismar, please take charge of the supplies, and assist the quartermaster in distribution and requisition, if you would be so kind.” One of the Hyur nodded and leapt handily onto the wagon seat, taking the reins. “Miss Deneith, Ser Khadai, the two of you will be accompanying my squad and I for a time.” “My participation only regards the supplies,” the Au Ra spoke suddenly, not so much speaking as much as emanating from behind the paladin. “If this endeavour is completed, I will depart.” “Nonsense,” the dragoon said with cheery nonchalance. “This endeavour is not completed until you witness the supplies having been delivered to the Convictory. I am appropriating the two of you on a detour, and thus you are obligated to accompany me until your task is done.” Kasrjin paused. It took several minutes for those mental gymnastics to parse in the Au Ra’s mind, but confusing as they were, a part of him pointedly felt that leaving Roen alone under this man’s jurisdiction was not the best idea, and so he mutely nodded his acquiescence. Ser Vaillancourt gestured towards the stake. “As for this...repugnant display, I may have seen similarly crude monuments once or twice during my hunt. Unfortunately, I do not know who may have done it or why.” The Elezen wrinkled his nose. “Ishgardians have a long and proud tradition of sticking pointy objects into dragons, but not in such an unrefined fashion. Though I cannot imagine any others taking the time to construct such a thing.” The beaked visor snapped sharply towards Kasrjin. “I have seen one of your kind before. ‘Au Ra’. I admit that at a glance, it is simple to believe you part of the Horde. Perhaps you recognise the poor miscreant perched atop that stake?” He gestured towards the skull. Kasrjin stared at the dragoon for a few seconds. “Of course,” he responded dryly. To his credit, Ser Vaillancourt returned the sarcasm with naught but a wry smirk. “In any case,” the Elezen continued, “such a fate is tragic for any of the spoken. As you may observe, these fellows are still rather shaken.” The hardened Convictory knights were whispering among each other and frowning at Kasrjin, though they straightened at Ser Vaillencourt’s implied reprimand. “They are mistrustful of you, miss and ser. We must rectify this. If nobility has taught me anything, it is that few things strengthen the bonds of camaraderie more than a hunt. And I must admit, I am more than curious to see you justify the length of that sword, Ser Khadai, and so you and Miss Deneith shall accompany me as we search for our mark.” The visor twisted towards. “Unless you object, miss? Perhaps Ser Tournes has tested your blade on smaller Dravanians, but this morn we hunt a tried and true beast of the ages. Have you the stomach for it?” The Elezen’s mouth curled into a grim, almost bloodthirsty smile. The Gae Bolg mounted upon his back almost rattled in anticipation.

I think OP's question has been sufficiently answered, so this thread will be locked. Further discussion may be continued in PMs, off site, or in another thread.

Then how are we to answer the question posed at all? My mistake. I meant to only write "discussions". Offering an opinion that utilizes the above that also gives feedback to the OP's question is fine. Debating about the aforementioned nature of opinion and alleged subjectivity of lore bending, while tangentially related, should be taken to a different topic, to PMs, or offsite..

Beyond extremely minor technical gripes--I am not sure "dole" is the correct word to use where you used it--the premise of your character is simple and good, which I approve of. Simplicity is often overlooked but is something I find far preferable to convoluted and overelaborate backstories (ironically enough). Off the top of my head, here are some questions and observations to help you add to it, if you wish. Feel free to take or ignore them as you will! -She was at odds with her clan but the actual reasons beyond simple personality conflict are unclear to the reader. Assuming that her reasons for not meshing with her clan aren't meant to be ambiguous, does she have a problem with authority, or just the authority of her clan at the time? Did she have a personal distaste for one or more particular members of the clan? Are there any notable conflicts in her past? -She clearly appreciates individual freedom over a rigid lifestyle, but does this philosophy extend to others or just to herself (i.e. would she try to free slaves if given the opportunity with risk appropriately factored)? Does she have a reason or other external driving factor for why she feels this way or is it something merely intrinsic in her personality? -Her name isn't a typical Seeker name. Is there a story behind her name? Was she given it, or did she choose it herself? -What skills has she learned, how did she learn them, and why? (Necessity, interest, "just for the hell of it", etc.) -How has her being raised in a traditional Seeker clan affected her world view and opinions, if at all? For example, does she have an aversion to things that remind her of said clan? -Does she have any other notable hobbies outside of her "Likes"? I can see her playing pranks fairly easily.

Please try to keep replies relevant to the topic. Discussions addressing the nature of opinion and the acceptability of lore bending/breaking should be taken off-site or to an appropriate thread.

He stopped, turning around to glance at the stake to stare at the corpse and the skull. His nerves calmed, his mind having returned to some measure of objectivity. This was the third of such happenings that he had encountered. It was clear it was meant to be a message of sorts from the way it was planted on the trail. His own people had a habit of destroying what they could of the black ones’ weapons and armour that they could not scrap or salvage and leaving the piles at the edges of the mountains, so the practise was not unfamiliar. “What is the intention?” Kasrjin questioned. A warning? For whom? Or what? For Au Ra like him? It was confusing. Perhaps it was a totem of sorts. It was barbaric, but not particularly unusual for errant knights to have dressed the corpse of their enemy to celebrate their victory. The Xaela wrinkled his nose at the idea of practising such uncivilized habits. “It is...odd,” he admitted, though he said little more. His hand demanded that he reach for his sword out of instinct. It was obvious that this series of killings had some kind of implicit threat behind them. But what that was? He did not know. Perhaps even more disconcertingly, he did not know if it was his place to investigate. Though his gauntleted hand was only just hovering above the handle of his sword, it clasped the hilt of the weapon almost immediately upon hearing steps crunch in the snow. Rounding the bluff that was opposite of the grisly stake was a group of knights, armed with bows and lances and armoured in tarnished chainmail. It was a mix of Hyur and Elezen, though the apparent leader of the group was easily distinguished by the difference in dress and armament. The Elezen held a severe expression that was visible even beneath the beaked draconian visor. His elaborate armour was adorned in black scales, arranged beneath trimmed plates of deep violet. Affixed to the leader’s back was an impressive-looking lance, adorned with a familiar pattern and flanged with elaborate wings. They froze as they saw Kasrjin. So too, did he freeze, though he was quick to remove his hand from the hilt of his sword. Discourse first. The leader glanced between the Au Ra and the wagon before clicking his tongue. “And to think, we had set about to venture forth to seek our errant supplies.” The dragoon’s visor turned towards the paladin standing near the wagon. “Do I have the pleasure of assuming that you are the sellsword…” A pause and a glance towards the Au Ra. “Sellswords responsible for supplying the Convictory this morn?” The Convictory knights behind him were noticeably tense, some of them having clearly never seen an Au Ra before. Kasrjin stepped back in an effort not to present himself as a threat, standing somewhat behind the front of the wagon. He had stiffened in wariness as well, but at the least his arms lay rigid at his sides. The dragoon glanced at a few of the knights behind him, jabbing an arm out. “Ser Sarrasin, Ser Porter. If you would be so kind, take your squads north and east respectively. If our mark appears, we will need eyes on it wherever we can. Watch the Black Iron Bridge and the Coerthas River.” Two of the Convictory knights gave a brief salute--arms stamped against their chests--before gesturing to others. What had once been a large armed mob had dissipated to the dragoon and a handful of other armoured individuals. The draconian visor turned to the grisly totem with the aevis and the skull, shaking his head. “I did not expect to see another. And so close to the Convictory, as well. How barbaric.” His visored gaze shot towards the Au Ra who had shuffled behind the wagon. “I would be correct in assuming this is not your handiwork, no?” And to the paladin. “Nor yours?” A brief pause before he spoke again before either could answer. “I suspected not.” A wave of the hand. “Explain your delay. Besides the blizzard.” Though Kasrjin could not see the Elezen’s eyes, he felt them sweeping the wagon. “Why are there only two of you? As I recall, Ser Tournes promised a band to help us reinforce our perimeter for a time.”

This is something I am curious to know people's opinions about. In the scope of an MMORPG's story and game world, do you prefer being "The Chosen One", being a nameless cog in the machine, or somewhere in between? Personally, I've always found being considered the sole protagonist in the game world a little ridiculous. I'm specifically reminded of a brief moment I had in The Elder Scrolls Online where the Big Story Intro NPC gives some tirade about how my character is the sole hope to save the world, only for me to pop into a ship with about a hundred other armed and similarly dressed wahoos who were presumably chosen for the same task. Guild Wars 2 had this same problem as well, where after being told "YOU are the ONLY ONE who can STOP THEM" or some such nonsense, you pop out of cutscene land and smack dab into a crazed mob filled with other people who are also conveniently the ONLY ONES who can STOP THEM. With that said, while I always find the trend of being the Chosen One in a game world populated by literally nothing else but other Chosen Ones and NPCs ridiculous, I will note that in no way does it significantly impede a game's ability to tell a good story. Star Wars: The Old Republic is a decent example of this, because even if there are a thousand other Grand Champions of the Great Hunt or Cipher Nines or Emperor's Wraths, I still liked the stories for the various classes and found them pretty compelling. In FFXIV specifically, being the sole Warrior of Light in a game world populated by nothing but other Warriors of Light is a bit jarring to me and at times makes the story a tad absurd (I always think of the trials that require 8 people but the story treating you as if you defeated the big bad all by yourself and just poignantly ignoring the seven other people with you) but while it does affect my sense of self in the narrative, it doesn't really negatively impact the narrative as a whole. Then you have games on the other end of the spectrum in MMOs like World of Warcraft, where you can be wielding weapons of legend and powerful enough to single-handedly defeat demigods in seconds and yet the player is consistently treated as less than an accessory to the various characters with little to no acknowledgement to the player character's contribution. Thrall is of course credited with the defeat of Deathwing because that rampaging horde of twenty-five loot crazed raiders were fairly non-essential, yeah? Well, probably.

The fresh snow was easily parted with the Xaela’s long strides, and the chocobos warbled their appreciation. Kasrjin walked in an odd zig-zag pattern, each lengthy step reaching a different side of the trail. At times, he would withdraw the sword from the harness on his back and slap a particularly intrusive snowdrift with the flat of the blade, scattering flakes of white dust off to the side. It was a simple task, and did little to draw Kasrjin’s mind away from things. His motions became somewhat stiff and robotic as they did whenever his thoughts drifted to a subject other than the task at hand. His eyes were only barely focused on clearing the trail, but there were noticeable moments where the swing of the blade wobbled in its direction or only managed to dig a hole in the snowdrifts rather than clear the powder away. He could hear the wheels creak and groan along frozen dirt and soil, the wagon bumping and jostling it and its occupants--cargo and all--whenever a rough patch of the road rudely presented itself in their path. At times the chocobo could be heard furiously beating its wings--both to clear the snow that had gathered on it and to maintain some warmth in the placid chill--in short, staccato-like bursts. The gray skies above flickered with light, an idle ray occasionally piercing through before being stifled by the stormy veil. Ahead of him, the trail sloped down as it retreated from the plateau. His shimmering emerald eyes flashed between the ground and the sky, examining the former for objects as small as pebbles and above for the wings of dragons. It was a simple exercise, one meant to calm the mind by distracting it, ironically enough. Focus on one’s surroundings utterly. Perception was the greatest trick of the mind, though this time around it did little to calm his disquiet. His face was as placid as an untouched pool, holding firm in its stern countenance. If only the demeanour of his mind could be so steadfast. There had been an odd discomfort surrounding him since he had arrived to this land of snow and mountains. It came with every sunrise and every sunset. The world’s acknowledgement that he had spent another day where he did not belong. The mere cycle of the sun across the sky was alien to him, he who was used to not seeing the sun for half a moon at a time, before seeing only the sun and nothing else for the next half. There was a peculiarly consistent irregularity, one that had strangely seemed to assure him that he was where he was supposed to be. But here, it was not so kind. Though the exact occasions were different, every cycle was predictable. The sun rose, and the sun fell. At times it was obscured by cloud cover or storms, but the rays that managed to filter themselves through the sky always made it obvious. The regularity of it was unnerving to him. Amidst the tundra and glacial mountains, the sun seemed to have a life and whimsy of its own, coming and going as it pleased. An entity beyond control that seemed to encourage all who were warmed by it that they, too, possessed life and whimsy they could use as they see fit. But on the Western continent, it was not so. The sun rose out of obligation, and set because it was bidden to. The cycle cast its stifling judgment on Kasrjin, too, or so he felt. He rose when the sun rose, for it was expected. And so too did he rest when the sun fell, for he felt that that was expected as well. In this land, it was hard for him to tell if the sun was the tyrant or merely victim to another’s system. With every dawn did his arms feel pulled by obligation, and with every dusk were his legs collapsed at the knees by the same. The land that insisted that he submit or be banished. A hand slipped inside the tabard. A brief moment of panic came with his failure to initially find the runestone, followed by an uncharacteristically powerful sense of relief that washed over him as his gloved hands clasped the trinket. Isolation held a dark grasp, but there were few things crueler than being made painfully aware of its empty talons in his heart. The Xaela paused in his tracks. His eyes flickered in the light. He saw the wings, first, before his eyes rested on the jaws full of serrated teeth that hung slack. The plate-like obsidian scales, dull in hue like tarnished metal. The club-like tail. An aevis had been impaled on a large wooden stake, speared right through its chest. Text was crudely engraved on the surface of the stake, though he could not decipher them. Names? A declaration of victory? Or defeat? He did not know. A hatchet lay crudely buried in the aevis’ skull, and the eyes of the beast had been pulled, leaving hollow and empty sockets to regard all those unfortunate enough to pass by. A crude picture of a dragon’s skull being impaled with a lance had been cut into the aevis’ flank with a knife, the scales having been methodically peeled off like one had been skinning livestock. At the top of the stake was a polished humanoid skull. The horns had been hacked off, but the remnants remained. A hand instinctively reached for the sword. His hand stopped with a shiver. So did he. He did not belong here. Inhale. Exhale. Kasrjin continued walking. Their destination was not far.

The encampment, with stakes. He was familiar with it; he’d passed by and above it several times, though he’d been too apprehensive to approach it. It was tucked rather handily against a sharp cliff, providing an ample amount of cover from dragons ahead. There were a fair number of combatants occupying it at any one time, all dressed in similar suits of chain-linked armour, and so from that Kasrjin could infer that they belonged to an organized group. The stakes were a curious addition, as well. The Xaela had done his best to examine them from a distance to see if there was any correlation between the stacks surrounding the encampment and those that had been used to impale Au Ra in the wilderness, but it was impossible to say. A frown crossed his face, and he agilely leapt off the roof, kneeling as his sabatons impacted with the fresh snow drifts. The position of the Convictory beneath the cliffs ensured that the smoke from their constant campfires dispersed in such a way that the camp could not be easily located from a distance or from above--a cunning strategic advantage for warriors who fought dragons--but it also made it difficult to locate unless one already knew where it was relative to their own position. Kasrjin stepped around the house until he was standing next to Roen, glancing down at the slight frame of the woman. A very small part of his mind noted that it indeed continued to be somewhat endearing. “I am comfortable to navigating without landmarks,” he said, a hint of confidence in his voice. “Such conveniences are lacking among mountains and glaciers.” He was not on par with the Nayantai, to be sure, but the Xaela was still oddly proud of his ability to navigate the wilderness. A pang to what pride he possessed did remind him of how many times he’d gotten lost in Ishgard, however. And the forest where he had met Edda. He was mostly comfortable navigating without landmarks. “I am familiar with this ‘Convictory’. There are...knights. Who battle dragons.” Kasrjin glanced rather apprehensively at the wagon and the chocobos. “If we are to be their supply line, this delay may be fatal.” The frown on his face deepened and he scratched the back of his head. With the cloud cover above, he could not tell how long it had been since the blizzard had started and when exactly in the day it had ended. The sun was obscured by the gray veil above, though it was reasonably light enough for him to see in the distance. “Provide a direction,” the Xaela said tersely, before striding in front of the wagon in preparation. While he was not lacking in confidence as to the birds’ ability to clear snow, it was more of a force of habit for him to take point and walk in front so as to clear the snow for those behind. Even a wagon. It would be for Roen as well. He would not want her to be buried amidst an errant drift.

I suppose "plot RP" would best describe what I typically involve myself in, but it's also not necessarily what I am most interested. In a sense, the "type" of RP is totally arbitrary to me because any "type" of RP works so long as it's set up as a platform for character progression. Slice of life, epic plots, DnD-style...all of those are fun to me as long as the characters within them display the potential for change or development, OR act as foils for others to change and compare to. I am most having fun with RP not when certain events or types of events happen, but when those events spur my or others' characters to progress in whatever arc they might have. Obviously, not every character has to nor should they force character progression for its own sake. If the character(s) are in a pretty decent spot, then the focus can switch to something else like the plot or the slice-of-life events or whatever, and forcing progression that doesn't fit or is hamfisted or comes from nowhere can be just as if not more awkward than having a perpetually static character who never seems to be fazed or affected by anything in the long-term. But plot RP is what I engage in the most because having a series of external events that force characters to react is the easiest way to induce progression.

“If you require my company, I shall grant it.” Though his expression was his typical taciturn mask that belied one who was unburdened by complexities, his tone was just barely lighter than his usually severe rumbling. One might almost have called it teasing...though given his deadpan expression, only the Xaela could say for certain. Once more, he checked the straps and buckles of his armour, and with that done, stepped towards a part of the abandoned house where a section of the roof was lower towards the frozen ground. Clearing some of the snow from his path, the Xaela stepped back some before breaking into a loping run, leaping onto the edge of the roof with surprising coeurl-like grace and pulling himself atop the creaking shingles with a grunt. He was careful in his step as he climbed as high onto the roof as he could, freezing in his tracks whenever a particularly ominous creak shadowed his steps as the metal sabatons clanked against the worn ceramics. There was no fog or any other inclement weather hindering his vision, thus his view from atop the house on the hill gave him an advantageous vista of the area. The view made him think. Kasrjin did know that his objective existed, this much was true. However, all other aspects of it were totally unknown to him, save for its relevance to the Correspondence. He did not know what it was or where he might find it or even what it would do once he returned with it. It was meant to prevent some sort of decay within Kaarad-El, and deny such a process from occurring once again. How it would do this, he could not say. Was it a form of energy? An object? Information? Both? None? Perhaps it was visible right now, just beyond his sight, buried in the snow...but he simply could not identify it. That was a disheartening thought. He shook his head, thumbing the hilt of the sword strapped to his back, as if checking that his bladed companion was still present. Those would be questions that would be answered on their own, on factors outside of his control. “I am not familiar with the name of our destination. The ‘Convictory’. Describe it.” Luckily, the sun had not managed to pierce through the veil of clouds above, and so he did not have to worry about the glare off of the snow. Emerald eyes scanned the horizon.

Lodestone sniping is not permitted as under Section 4 - Attitude and Tone. Keep the discussion and your responses civil or this thread will have to be locked. The report button exists. Don't add to the flames.

He returned her challenge with a somewhat confused tilt of his head, before checking over his equipment once more and heading up the stairs in long strides. Kasrjin wasn’t sure of how long had passed since they had first retreated into this building for respite from the storm. The Xaela breathed deeply of the frigid air as he pushed open the double doors that had served as an aegis from the blizzard. There was still a slight wind--stronger than a breeze but not quite the howling gales that had battered the area during the storm--but the snowfall had settled and, as expected, the landscape had been altered, though not drastically. Snowdrifts had visibly congregated but not enough to fully mask familiar trails, and one advantage of the storms is that it drove all but dragons and the hardiest of beasts into shelters, and they would be slow to emerge, at least for a time. Kasrjin’s black tabard rippled with the wind across his brass-coloured armour, eyes shimmering as they surveyed the landscape. Their discussion lay in the back of his mind, perhaps distractingly so. For some reason, Roen’s hand on his came to mind. Why did she enact such a gesture? What was the intention, the message behind such a thing? Perhaps he was merely overthinking, but the Xaela could tell that his presence was helping her find her faith. And resolve. Though he himself may waver on those things at times, and though he may not fully understand why it was that she found such….comfort in cooperating with him, it was encouraging to see her spirits lifted. Exactly why, he could not say. He stepped back inside the building as the paladin had begun to prepare the warbling chocobos for travel. “We can navigate,” Kasrjin spoke softly. “If we depart early, we may take advantage of clear lands before the beasts return to their prowl.” Two gauntleted fingers rested on his chin in thought--a gesture he had picked up from the denizens of the Western continent. Admittedly, the Xaela felt somewhat ridiculous mirroring the gesture, and so he ceased it quickly in a manner one could almost call sheepish. “What is the destination?”

She was right. He glanced up at the ceiling. The gales seemed to calm considerably, such that the floor above no longer rattled and the whistling had ceased seeping through the stone. Though the winds had not fully settled, it would appear that the storm had indeed passed. He remained sitting for some time before standing. He slipped the runestone back into the tabard, patting it briefly as if to make sure it did not vanish. The sword was slipped into its holster, and he pulled the gauntlets onto his hands, fastening the straps and buckles with remarkable speed. Trust? Was that his concern? No. It was simply...difficult to consider his own loneliness. To speak of it. It was a new sensation. He had never been in such a circumstance that forced him to reconsider his place. What he was expected to do. He let forth a breath, having relaxed considerably since being able to stand. Kasrjin glanced at Roen again, a small smile creasing her face. Though their discussion had been treading on unknown territory before, his own expression ceased in its austerity and became...neutral. Comfortable. Despite this, they seem to have come to an understanding. “Then you have found a purpose,” he murmured in observation. “And some of your resolve.” He glanced at the ceiling again. “This land...it is odd. It is another world. In such a setting, it is difficult to keep hold of one’s resolve, surrounded by what they do not know.” The Xaela regarded the paladin again, emerald eyes sharp in examining her. “Find the familiar, and you may find determination to see the next sun.” He returned her grin with a very small, slight one of his own, cracking through his usual severity like a ray of light filtering through a broken window. He adjusted his armour and the position of the sword on his back, as if checking that everything was in its place. Following this was a series of stretches to work out the kinks in his joints from having been immobile for an unknown amount of time. His eyes flashed towards the stairway to the ground floor before he looked at Roen again. “Do you require assistance in your endeavour?” The Xaela raised a hand upward to the stables where the chocobos were resting, their warbling having calmed in the aftermath of the storm. “The storm alters the terrain. An extra sword may not go unused.”

He flinched as her hand touched his. For an instant his gaze was drawn to her face, a small smile across her face. What crossed his mind was conflict. His eyes were drawn to her one moment and pulled away the next. The Xaela glanced away, though he did not pull his hand from hers. Not immediately. “...it is only to be used for the sake of identifying oneself among other Khadai,” he said, his tone now tired. The blizzard seemed to relent just a tad, as if courteously sensing the mood. “Else, Khadai is who I am.” He did not want to admit it, but for a single second when his attention was pulled towards her, he saw someone else. Representative. Of a world he did not belong in. He knew the risks, going on this venture. There would be no others with him, for they would be sent across the world. The West. The East. North. South. Others, like him, braving not just dangers and unfamiliar lands, but isolation, loneliness, and...a certain heartache as well. To save those people with whom he felt he belonged, and were now so far away that they may as well be naught but memories, figments of the imagination. Resolve. Patience. Determination. These were virtues. And with them, he had endured many a long day and solemn nights on the Western continent, this land he did not know. This land he could not partake in. A different world. Searching for something he did not know and could not locate. He was certain that it existed, but beyond that? Where it lay? If he could find it within this lifetime? Would it be that his purpose was meaningless, that he was to live out his days in this land, endlessly searching for what would allow him to return to where he felt he belonged? There was a dark place in his mind, of fear. Fear of forgetting. What it felt like to be in one’s role, certain of one’s place, and to know all others felt that same certainty. Solidarity. He pulled his hand away, his gaze fixed to the wall again. One hand reached up to rest against the crossguard of the blade leaning against his shoulder. The other clasped the runestone in his tabard. He closed his eyes, and breathed.

He was not completely sure how to respond. In truth, he had never thought about it. What he was before. Before Kasrjin Khadai. There were moments were discussing his past were necessary, but he had never considered it to be him. Who he was in his previous role was another person, living in another time, in another life, so defined by his role was he, and the subject was treated as such. It was like being asked who a stranger was, or to describe a face he'd never seen before. “What were you before?” That was what Roen asked. Kasrjin was not sure. Was that him? Or was it truly someone else? Did he know? Did it matter? “His...my...responsibilities were different,” he said evasively, glancing away. How could he even begin to explain it? Would she understand? Could she? Somehow, it was a reminder. That he didn’t belong. In this place, this continent, perhaps this world. There was no place. Not for him. His tone became clinical, the subject deflecting to her earlier inquiries. “One’s inclinations are considered when it is to be determined what role they shall take,” the Xaela explained, shifting his position again. He felt uncomfortable in his own skin, in this frigid air, in this space. Who was he before? Did that person have a place? Did he? It was a struggle to maintain clarity. “Placing one who does not wish to function within a certain role is inefficient. An artisan who does not wish to create or imagine shall not be an artisan, even if their personal skill places them as one.” A pause. “And one who does not wish to fight, but is willing to despite that wish, is capable of being Khadai.” “My resolve,” he murmured. “There are times where it is possessed by certainty. And other times by doubt.” Kasrjin looked distracted, the Xaela now glancing off into the upper corner of the cellar as the blizzard continued. “It matters not.”

I think we've already established that age is not the issue, considering that "modern" swear words have been around just as long as most of the rest of the language. Personal Flavoring may be an issue, but age is not. That is incredibly debatable as there is a marked difference between when a word was first used and when it can be said to have entered common parlance with a relatively consistent definition. It is one thing to say that "fuck" was first used in the 14th century, and another thing entirely to say that its usage could be considered as a common swear in the same time period. "Fuck", to use it as an example, was commonly used to inappropriately refer to fornication from its inception. Its status as a "swear"--as an insulting word or adjective meant to offend or as an extreme expression--wasn't common until the mid-nineteenth century, so it can certainly be called anachronistic from certain points of view. But I digress. To briefly reiterate on the topic, whether or not people use such swears is up to them, but I personally will never see appropriate reason or circumstance for myself to use language that feels markedly out of place.

Using "modern--modern in the sense that it is commonly used in every-day language--swears in what is ostensibly a high fantasy setting is, to me, as wildly out of place as speaking early modern English in Star Wars. It's not that I mind profanity--anyone who's spoken to me on voice is probably aware that I swear more than most--but it's anachronistic and immersion breaking to me. I'm certain that there are at least a few reasons with which to justify the usage, but it feels wrong and jarring to me.