Nero

“Purpose,” he repeated softly. The Xaela stared at the runestone for a while longer. As she tucked her bauble back into her breastplate, so too did the runestone vanish into the folds of the ebon black tabard that adorned his armour. Kasrjin glanced at her directly for the first time in their conversation, his shimmering viridian eyes meeting her grey gaze. It was considerably less steely than before, having softened considerably. He exhaled in contemplation. Purpose. A reason for being. It was something that seemed so fleeting to so many people here. He had never had cause to question purpose. He was Khadai, one who was called upon to defend. Purpose was never in doubt or question. Or was it? That was not always true. There was a time where he was in flux. His place in the world uncertain, his direction lost, his efforts apparently meaningless in the face of doubt. Where purpose was questioned. Why had I been placed in this world?, he had thought. Why this, and not another? Another where such anxiety and incertitude did not have a place. Purpose. To feel as if one belonged in the world they had been placed in. It was a doubt that could kill, if one was not careful. He glanced away. “I have not always been Khadai,” he murmured, his voice filled with baritone resonance. “Perhaps you think all of my people to be like stone, unwavering against waves. And at times, they may be.” He shifted his legs, lowering one knee and raising the other. “All are called upon to use the greatest of their skills and knowledge. As Khadai are called to defend, so are Erdegai called to create. And Yerenai called to nurture. But it is not infallible. There are lapses in resolve. This becomes uncertainty. Doubt. A feeling of...lacking purpose, for purpose and function are not identical.” Kasrjin shifted, clearly uncomfortable with his word choice and unsure of whether or not his statements were being received in the way that he intended them. A part of him always disliked talking for this very reason: it was an awkward method of communication filled with nuances and ambiguities. Nonetheless, he pressed on. “There are times where one wonders why they are placed in this world, and not another. Where they belong, if they belong at all. If one’s nature is not conducive to one’s function, but one’s function can override one’s nature, who is this person? What is their...purpose?” He sighed and shook his head to clear the haze from his mind. “All wander,” he repeated. “But to wander and to be lost...they are not one and the same. Lacking purpose only means...one will find it in the future. Regardless of what comes.”

“To undo errors, yes,” Kasrjin nodded, turning his head to face her. He swept away an emerald lock from his face as he did. “To learn from them...no.” He did not feel comfortable saying more on the matter, as a part of him understood that despite their differences, foreign as they were to one another, there was nothing he could say that she had not already said to herself regarding her regrets. He shifted his position as a glisten of a tear crept down to her knee where she had placed her head. His gaze lay fixed to the runestone in his hand, and its myriad meanings that it both held and lacked. Did he regret travelling here here, in a land so far from his own, in a place where isolation’s dark grip clenched his heart every day? Did he regret deeming himself capable of undertaking such a daunting task? It was one thing to be merely alone. It was another to be surrounded by strangers. Where once there had been brilliant colours--his people, with whom he could connect with--he was surrounded by naught but sleet, snow, and dull, gray hues. To be in a world where he was not welcome. Where he did not belong. Every day was a choice to remain. Did he regret it? He did not know. A sigh escaped his face, and sensing that she could not see it, his stoic expression fell for just a moment. Solitude was a tiresome thing. “Why do you wish to aid me?” He asked suddenly, tracing the pattern on the runestone again. A part of him yearned for the burst of warmth that the trinket could no longer provide. He could not help but wonder if her aiding him was some expression of her past regret. But if it was, did he care? Should he? No, he didn't, at least at the moment. He had offered to hear her out on her crisis of faith because he was interested in gaining some insight to the Western continent’s beliefs. The confused frown crossed his face.

They sat in silence for a while longer, the Xaela glancing at the runestone in his hand, though his eyes no longer traced the pattern in contemplation. There was much he had to frame within his head, and it did not feel like a prudent decision to question Roen as to the definition of certain terms or names. And so he pored through her confessions in his mind, putting everything into its place before formulating a response. Ul’dah sounded like a name. A settlement? A nation? It was a location of sorts. Garlemald was the name of the nation of black ones, the Garleans, who had been engaged in a conflict with the Western continent before, from what she had told him at the armory. And it appeared those who were in positions of authority or affluence refused to grant succor to those seeking refuge. She referred to a man, very likely one of those who had been denied, as wanting to change such things violently. And Roen joined with him, in order to…his head tilted slightly as he stared at the runestone. She wished to change his methods? Kasrjin did not know the man in question and likely would not understand the man if the latter were explained to him, but he could at least understand Roen's sentiment. And he was beginning to see from where her regret was stemming from. The failure to change someone or something. To take a risk, and to be left with nothing. Such was this land. It was difficult to tell if it was drowning or thriving on such turmoil. With that, many of the odd things he witnessed began to come together in their own strange way. "And you have come in the hopes of laying your burden to rest in this land," he murmured, more to himself than to her. He did not fully understand her concerns, not yet. But Kasrjin felt that at the least, he could come to comprehend it given time and patience. He could recognize regret, and how she regretted failing to change a man, and to prevent the deaths he was responsible for. That, at least, was a simple enough concept. "Turn back time, and what course of action would you have taken?" He glanced at her from the corner of his shimmering eyes as her composure revealed its cracks.

Kasrjin was not completely sure of what to say. He did offer to hear her out on her loss of faith--in truth, such matters interested him, especially with a people as foreign as those of the Western continent--but it was only now that he truly considered whether or not he had something of substance with which to respond with. It was now that he became increasingly aware of their differences in addition to their similarities. The Brume was a difficult sight to take in when he first laid eyes on it. Basic fortifications lay in ruins, and perfectly usable manpower was permitted to waste away during what he had believed to be a time of total war. It was so incredibly wasteful. And yet, he knew that expressing such a sentiment would earn disdain among the Western continent. He did not understand why such was so--after all, if Ishgard was embroiled in a war, then its objective must be victory, and did it not make sense to devote all available resources to achieving that objective?--and the Xaela was not entirely sure he would ever comprehend such. At times, Kasrjin could glance at Roen and sense some odd manner of kinship. At other times, he was met with nothing but befuddlement and confusion, and a peculiar sense of restraint that seized him whenever he was about to express his confusion on certain subjects. It was a contrast. They coincided at the oddest junctures, and parted ways at others, and there seemed to be little rhyme or reason to it. “All wander,” he repeated, speaking slowly, his rumbling voice having lowered into a smooth baritone utterance. “Certainty is a...privilege to have. But with certainty comes lack of perspective, as well. All believe in a path that is set for them. All learn to leave the path and wander.” Kasrjin was very careful in selecting his words so as to avoid ambiguity on his intent. He was also, perhaps ironically, uncertain of whether or not anything he was saying possessed value. But one thing he had definitely learned was that the Western continent habitually assigned value to that which seemingly did not have any. It was odd. He carefully considered her words again. Her tone sounded forlorn...perhaps regretful. But her words did not appear to express or even imply such sentiment, at least to him. This, too, was a confusing nuance of their communication. He would take a risk and make an assumption. “You...possess regret?” He questioned in a soft tone that could almost be called timid. “You wished for things to change, and made an effort. But things did not.” A pause. “And you assume….responsibility for such.”

You've got some fantastic pieces! I really enjoy how clean and bold your lines are.

They appeared to coincide at the oddest junctures. That was not the answer he had expected. He’d expected….well, Kasrjin wasn’t entirely sure what kind of response he was expecting. She was a combatant engaged in a war; it would not make sense if she were fleeing one conflict by hiding in another. Maybe he was expecting her to have a mission, like him, but if she did then this lack of conviction would be unexplainable. There was still so little that he knew about the Western continent, despite Tsanai’s best efforts to educate him. His eyes were closed, and his breathing slowed in contemplation before formulating a reply. “All beings are lost in some form,” he rumbled quietly. “All wander.” The Xaela shifted slightly, somewhat uncomfortable with his sparse response. His face fell, the barest expression of loneliness and...understanding, too, crossing his face, a hand reaching into the tabard, clasping the runestone again. Kasrjin's eyes flickered open as he pulled the runestone out of the folds of his tabard, tracing the pattern again. His emerald eyes flashed in the low light of the cellar. “All wander.”

He did not respond immediately, though he did release the runestone and bring his hand out again to rest on his raised knee. He did not glance at her as she sat next to him, but instead kept his gaze fixed to the wall. “It is a familiar place,” he said, not precisely answering the question. “I do not concern myself with thoughts of what the appropriate course of action would be.” Kasrjin glanced up at the ceiling again, as if expecting another pulse. It seemed that he and the stern woman have been spending a disproportionate amount of time in one another’s presence, although he noted that she seemed to grow less and less stern the more they spoke. He was not nearly egotistical enough to claim that it was his influence, but the mere possibility was...flattering. Perhaps they might reconcile yet. “You do not originate from here either,” the Xaela noted sagely, glancing at her from the corner of his eye briefly before returning his gaze to the wall. “You are not a combatant in service to the city, and you speak as one who has not been in this location for long.” He did not say, but it was evident in the manner she carried herself, and the way she spoke on things he mentioned seeing within the city. Her gaze, too, was one of an outsider. And there were times where she wore a forlorn gaze on her expression….much like his own. An expression they adopted when they believed none were nearby to observe it. They appeared to coincide at the oddest junctions. He wondered what Tsanai would have said about it. “Do you seek refuge?” he asked, fingers beginning to lightly tap on the metal knee guard. The Western continent was a land of conflict like any other, and so it would not surprise Kasrjin at such a reason.

My personal preference is that all voices in a work are to be written from an in-universe perspective, and that includes the voice of an omniscient third person narrator. While I understand that using modern equivalents in analogies can be preferable since it's easier to form an image with a familiar equivalent to reference from, I personally find it incredibly jarring when a sudden real-world reference is made. So I do my best to simply describe it e.g. a "batter's stance" would be "so-and-so hefts the weapon over one shoulder, grasping the hilt/shaft/haft with both hands, feet spaced somewhat apart in preparation for a mighty swing" or some such nonsense. I'll completely admit that it's not very concise and can potentially be confusing to readers, but I prefer it that way.

I typically have all of my game sounds turned off and so don't always see when I get sent tells. This makes it awkward because I'll be off crafting or doing daily quests or some such and end up looking like I completely ignored someone when really I am just awful at paying attention.

Outside the ramshackle structure, the blizzard intensified, wailing winds sweeping snow across the forlorn landscape in a fearsome howl. Shutters rattled and the worn boards of the building audibly creaked and groaned in mournful protest as they feebly resisted the gales that smashed against the structure. The cellar of the abandoned house was thankfully dug deep enough that the scream of the winter storm above had been reduced to a wispy lamentation that only occasionally made its unwelcome presence known with a sharp whistle and a creak of the aged support beams that had been driven into the cellar. At times, a startled warble would escape one of the chocobos resting in the stables upstairs, but otherwise all was quiet. The Xaela had taken to seating himself against one of the corners of the empty wall, leaning against the slate-coloured bricks, with one knee raised and the other leg outstretched against the stone floor. The brass-coloured sabatons would clink at times whenever he shifted his position, while the blued steel of his sword rested in its harness at his side. His eyes were closed, but Kasrjin’s mind was very much awake. Another pulse in such a short interval of time. And just like last time, it felt so...foreign. So there was something that possessed attributes similar to what he was seeking present here. And it had become….active? It was impossible to tell. About the only thing he was certain of was that it existed. Where he could find it or even what it was...those were questions that were beyond him. His eyes fluttered open to reveal a viridian sheen. The blizzard had not yet relented, and so it would appear that he would have to remain here for a while longer. A hand slipped into the folds of his tabard to grasp the cold runestone. He’d shed his gauntlets, allowing an idle finger to trace along the elaborate pattern that reminded him of how far he was. The fringes of emerald green that lined his bangs were swept away with a hand that was equal parts irritation and idle habit. A sigh escaped his lips. It would be but a while longer. Roen did not appear to object much to his sudden and apparently random burst of motion suddenly interrupting their discussion on the nature of written languages, but a part of him did hope that she would not ask too many questions. He still did not feel equipped to answer what concerns she might have. He glanced up as the wind howled again. A while longer.

Now Au Ra can be even hornier!

Thank lordy for Australian VPNs. Now to spend the next nine hours creating a character.

I wholeheartedly regret letting our thread and potential storyline (incidentally my first RP on this website and FFXIV at all in general) fall to the wayside because you're amazingly cool and a very compelling writer and one day I will have the cajones to think of a good premise with which to rekindle some interactions with.

This user has received a warning under Section 7 - Commercial Advertising. Joking aside, open-world RP that is like the Quicksand but not AT the Quicksand can be kind of tricky. All three of the Adventurer's Guilds in all three cities tend to have at least a bit of activity. Grindstone is the progenitor for a lot of player connections, and failing that, you can occasionally catch some stuff happening in Ishgard.

When I select a name for a character, I have exactly two factors in mind: if the name is phonetically pleasing, and aesthetically pleasing. So it has to sound good when being mentioned and look good on text. Rarely do I ever assign a name that has any inherent or relevant meaning--at the risk of sounding pretentious, I would rather the names grow into their own meaning as a representation of the character and having the character define the name, rather than having the name define the character.

Please keep your posts relevant to the topic at hand. Discussions or disputes regarding the usage of certain terms or labels should be taken offsite or to private messages unless they directly address the original poster's topic in a civil, non-provocative manner. Only you can prevent thread nuking.

"Welcome back, my Lord Theron." It was a grand hall, illuminated by an auspicious, jewelled chandelier upon a brilliant white marbled floor. A line of Ishgardian knights, their azure shields proudly emblazoned with the insignia of House Theron's kingfisher, stood at rapt attention with polished blades at their sides. Retainers and adventurers alike stood behind the line of knights, nodding their heads in near reverence. Gold lined the rosewood walls, portraits of his forefathers valiantly displayed with impeccable taste that compelled the eye to grant respect. The Azure Dragoon stood atop one of the ambitiously sized banisters, his stern stance nonetheless one of approval, drachen armour gleaming with hidden admiration. At the head of the hall were his visitors: the members of the Heavens' Ward, no, the Archbishop himself, come to honour true nobility! If only. Constantin gave a polite, if somewhat curt nod to the maid and the manservant both. The former provided a modest curtsy, the latter a low bow. The nobleman withheld his sigh--never let the subordinates see the doubt of the leader. of course--but the expression escaped his features in the form of his tired eyes glancing low towards his feet. The marbled floor was present, but was noticeably aged and lacked in brilliant lustre, made only more apparent by the dull grey hue that the marble utilized. The only knight present was a suit of elaborate and clean but well-worn armour attached to an equally antediluvian mannequin that audibly creaked with protest when the breeze from the front door intruded upon its person. The gold leaf that had once patterned the rosewood walls had been sold off, leaving naught but a pattern of pockmarks to signify the once affluent existence of opulence. The Azure Dragoon was unsurprisingly absent, likely busy sticking pointy ends into Dravanians. He did not deign to give thought to what the Archbishop could be doing instead of entertaining him. The nobleman let forth an exhausted exhalation, removing his heavy winter coat and passing off to his manservant, who dutifully took the cumbersome garment with stiff, well-practised civility. The Elezen maid gave a low nod of her head in deference. Platinum coloured hair poked out from beneath the lace headpiece in a neat bob cut, and her eyes were demurely and pointedly cast upon the floor. "Was milord successful in making his petitions?" Constantin exhaled and rubbed his brown, pulling off his feathered cap before running a hand through his neatly trimmed mane of ash grey hair. Though he'd only just returned back to the modest estate, he began pacing in a circle nonetheless, idly placing the cap on the small bust of Saint Reinette that had been carved out of the top of the newel. "Durendaire has no interest in diluting their standing by accepting a vassal house, Haillenarte is unsubtly suspicious of our intentions, Fortemps lacks the adequate resources to properly sustain us in any meaningful capacity, and Dzemael simply denied me entrance." A frown crossed the Hyur's worn face. "No. We cannot rely on the High Houses to buoy us in this storm." A haze of equal parts indignation and resentment crept across the nobleman's countenance. Their palatial estate, high amongst the Pillars, had been gutted and sold in order to settle the high costs of war and ambition, and so the House of Theron had moved to their ancestral home on a much lower level, closer to the Foundation, the dwelling not being nearly as noble or dignified as the label "ancestral home" would imply. It was actually generously large and rather extravagant by the standards of the commoners who had resided in it, but it was not nearly as grandiose or flamboyant as a typical Ishgardian noble would be used to. The manservant, another Elezen, proffered a low bow, the heavy coat folded neatly in his arms. "Sers Alasdair and Ismay have taken the young master for practise in the Proving Grounds, as you requested." "Am I correct in assuming that Astidien did not particularly agree with my choice of activities?" Constantin said glumly, before waving a hand. "Actually, do not answer that, Al. I believe I know his attitude to such things well enough." The manservant, Alamenain simply bowed again. "To his credit, Master Astidien did not outwardly protest." His tone was as dry as it was respectful. "And my daughter?" Constantin shot a weary glance to the maid this time. "I suspected that my arrival was too quiet for a reason. What say you, Amianne?" Another stiff curtsy, her platinum. "I brought milady Leila the musical material, as you requested. She flew into a fury worthy of Halone herself and has locked herself in her room. I estimate that her current demeanour has lowered from acrimonious and violent to merely resentful and brooding." Amianne's tone matched Alamenain's in an almost robotic fashion. The twins were less like individuals and more like a single person who happened to be split into two bodies. Another sigh as the aged Hyur pinched the bridge of his nose. He knew that he shouldn't try to control his children in such a way, but what else was he to do? This had nothing to do with his ambitions or the house name or anything so lofty--as much as Leila would disagree--but it was growing increasingly difficult to secure a promising future considering the state of things. The advent of the Gates of Judgment opening meant that outside influence had upset the careful ecosystem of the aristocracy. The High Houses may have no worries about their place in such turbulent waters, but smaller houses like those of Constantin Theron had been forced to make concessions to adapt to the drastic changes that had occurred. Constantin felt a certain kind of reprehensible fear grip his stomach. The fear of becoming middle class. He could hardly think the phrase without visibly shuddering. Another sigh. "Thank you for your services. Amianne, Alamenain, please rest. I will attend to my children." The manservant bowed. "Ser Ismay claimed that the young master would not be out for more than three bells." Constantin provided a wry grin, mostly to himself than to his servants, as he strode up the staircase, ever aware of his daughter's fiery temper. "Then I suppose that provides me with ample time to recover from any injuries I may suffer." -- To Be Continued ((I'll, uh...finish my other writing works eventually. Probably.))

Hey, welcome to the community. Balmung is the #1 server for FFXIV roleplayers, yes, so if in-game RP seems like something you'd like to do, I recommend moving. It's also not particularly slacking on PvE either (content lull aside) and there are plenty of groups and FCs to join up with. You can find a decent amount of open-world RP happening in certain hubs, mostly being the inns and taverns. It looks like you have a fairly solid character concept to start with, though I understand perfectly that it's a work-in-progress. If you have any concerns or questions about your character or getting started, feel free to ask around.

One thing that's been pretty heavily implied in previous posts but not directly stated is the importance of misdirection. Setting up a twist isn't just about foreshadowing something and leaving everything in the dark for a reveal, it's about compelling the audience to first establish their own reasonable conclusion, and then directly subverting them. To put it in a metaphor, it's the difference between gradually turning on the lights in a dark room (a mystery but not a twist), and letting the your friend turn on the lights in his room without him knowing that you replaced actually all the bulbs with blacklights (twist). The reason why the twist in the Sixth Sense is compelling is because the audience is, based on information given to them on the movie, given reasonable grounds to firmly believe the premise that Bruce Willis is alive, and the audience has no overtly obvious reason to believe that this premise is untrue, even though it is hinted at. That said, misdirection is a thing that is very easy to mishandle and can cause complete clunkiness in narrative flow. As stated before, it is very difficult to have a twist work when it so blatantly undermines the premise of the plot a la The Village, as opposed to one that uses the established premise in an unexpected but plausible way a la The Sixth Sense. Let's use another metaphor. The premise is "Bob eats a fruit". The fruit is revealed to be a banana. This is no twist, because the audience has no reason to firmly believe that the fruit in question isn't a banana. The premise is "Bob eats an orange-coloured fruit," The fruit is revealed to be a strawberry. This is a terrible use of misdirection because the reveal makes no sense in relation to the conclusion that the audience will logically reach (i.e. that Bob is eating an orange). The premise is "Bob eats an orange-coloured fruit." The fruit is revealed to be a tomato. This is a "twist" because the audience reaches a logical, fairly straightforward conclusion (that the fruit is an orange) and have no reason to believe that it isn't true (it is described as orange-coloured and as a fruit), but the conclusion (tomatoes are fruits and can be orange coloured) is reasonable within the established premise. Silly metaphors aside, essentially when you foreshadow, it has to have two sides. One for misdirection, and the other for the actual twist.

This is pretty much how I view soulstones. They're sort of like personalized bicycles. Using someone else's soulstone requires relearning how to ride the bicycle from the ground up, even if you already know how to ride your own bicycle. This..bicycle metaphor isn't really working, but you know.

It varies. I usually try to RP as the class I main, but at times that can be difficult. Nero I had intended to roleplay as a thaumaturge, but then I fell into monk for raiding so I tossed in some bits about him knowing boxing. Kas is ostensibly a dark knight in the sense of using two-handed swords, but in-game since I don't raid I basically play whatever my whimsy is.

I'm actually a little apprehensive in how my storylines or characters are received, despite the number of views the threads seem to get on the RPC. Mostly this is because I get little to no direct feedback or the feedback I hear is secondhand from people apparently less intimidating than me. So I will spend absurd amounts of time editing something or go back to a post that happened months ago and change something because yeesh, I think about some random people reading a typo and thinking the whole post is ruined or something.

Having a roleplayer crush would require actually involving myself in the community or something. No way. Joking aside, I don't think I've ever really had anything of the sort. At least, not to the point where I felt like I couldn't or shouldn't approach them. All of the roleplay I have kind of just...happened, or came from people who approached me. That said, it's probably good to mention that I basically never do walk-up, spontaneous, or public channel open roleplay. I'm so jaded that China could claim me as a historical artifact and these avenues of interaction have little to no quality control save for the simultaneously loveable and dreaded, reprehensible mechanic of the retcon. At the risk of revealing my incredible ego, I have been told by others before about being the subject of a crush of this sort, but the names are usually withheld from me and I've not been contacted directly by anyone new in more than a year on this forum.

Seems like a concept with a lot of room for comedy. Has he considered investing in a catapult or other projectile launcher to close distance between himself and the object of his anger?

The vindthurs made one final roar of pain before the edge of blued steel flashed once across the voidsent's throat. A crimson cascade sprayed from the wound with an instantaneous, guttural spurt, smearing the snow around the Xaela's feet in gore. He let out an exhale and let the sword in his hands go slack, his lungs burning from the exertion and the sting of the Highlands' frigid air. Kasrjin's breathing came in onerous, heavy pants. He felt a layer of sweat coating his skin, cooled by the occasional sharp breeze that brought equal parts relief discomfort. The tip of his blade made a light crunch as it fell upon the snow, suddenly feeling too heavy to wield. His gauntlets trembled ever so slightly against the wrapped leather handle of the sword. As the ogre gurgled, its great mass toppled into the snow, and almost immediately the azure corpse of the voidsent began to be peppered by argent flakes that drifted from the sky. Not far behind the Au Ra lay another dismembered ogre, its wounds scattering its form in a similar fashion. Kasrjin allowed his legs to go slack, and he took in controlled, measured breaths to restore his stamina from the extended battle. His sable hair, tied into a rough ponytail, was unkempt and tousled from the motion. A small trickle of blood crept down the corner of his lips from when a tail swing had caught the end of his jaw. He adjusted his position, laying the sword down beside him and sitting down in the snow that stuck to the black and gold tabard he wore over his Ishgardian armour, legs crossed and hands upon his knees. Now that the adrenaline was beginning to fade away from him, the thoughts of combat had been replaced with the familiar sensations of isolation and...something else. His hands still quivered in the gauntlets, and it was not because of the battle. Kasrjin's hunt had brought him to the far corners of the Highlands, among the blasted field of a great conflict long past. The frozen corpses of knights and dragons were scattered amidst rubble and ordinance. Flags had stiffened, devoid of whatever glory they were meant to bring, fluttering forlornly in the snow. Weapons and cadavers alike had been claimed by the frost, abandoned atop the cliffs. Broken cannons lay crumbled, the heads and wings of greater dragons reaching skyward in an eternal roar. Maroon patterns caked the icy stone of the battlefield. Spears and arrows stood as monuments to the strife. Inhale. Exhale. He could feel his breath waver with the exhale, and he did his best to ignore it. A hand reached to one of the pouches in his belt, grasping the polished surface of the runestone. No warmth came. After some time, Kasrjin could feel the air's chill begin to creep upon his heated skin, and he stood up and stepped over to the corpse of the ogre. He pulled a strap away from a small leather sheath that lay at his side, and pulled from it a steel hatchet he had recently purchased with his new funds. From another sheath he withdrew the tiger tooth knife, its edge and point still gleaming amidst the snow, and the Xaela set to work, solemnly swinging the hatchet to hack the horns off of his deceased foe. A part of him hoped for the work to occupy the confines of his mind and drive away the demons of solitude. It was almost desperate for it, but every other swing brought a different face to mind, and another reminder...that he was not where he should be. Additional blood occasionally oozed from the wound as the hatchet bit deep into the ogre's leathery skin to reach the hardened horns. Kasrjin grew steadily aware of the increasing force with which the hatchet impacted against the horns. His fingers would tense and and relax in a frustrating dance, the strength behind the swings growing in equal measure to the ghosts of doubt and loneliness that ate away at his mind. And then he felt it. The Au Ra had raised the hatchet in the air when it froze. His heart seemed to pause in its beat, and though it was only for a single, instantaneous flash of brilliance, a myriad pattern of indescribable colours and tones rang in his ears and swept across his vision. The Correspondence was unmistakeable in its signature, and the abruptness of the pulse seemed to send Kasrjin into shock. It was undoubtedly familiar...but also not so. It was cold, and detached. Stiff and rigid. All at once, a reminder of what should have been, and a reminder of what could not be. It was a friendly warning and a hostile lesson and a bitter reprimand, all at once, crashing through his mind. His teeth grit together as the pulse shot past him and evaporated, as quickly as it had come. The hatchet fell from his hands as he nearly collapsed off to his knees, the brass-coloured plates of his sabatons crashing into the snow. He allowed his breath to escape from him in unsteady, trembling rhythms. He ignored the brisk sensation of cold metal on his skin as his left hand held his head, covering his eyes, his lips shaking as an unnatural sounding laugh shivered its way out of his lungs. It spilled from him in uncontrolled waves. His right arm instinctively reached out to keep him from burying his face into the snow, burying himself in this foreign land so far removed from comfort and contentment. The bellowing that he forced out of his lungs shivered and shuddered, an expression of everything he had felt. What he was looking for was present. Somewhere. Something to halt a regression. And yet that knowledge brought no relief. So he laughed. At fear and faith, he laughed. At purpose and privilege, he laughed. At duty and desire, he laughed. A single, clear bead of his amusement fell and was claimed by the snow. The silver wire fixed to his horn chimed. A familiar, feminine voice emitted softly from the pearl within its indentation. "Khadai. I have something for you. If you are near Falcon's Nest, can you meet me there?" It was the stern woman, Roen. The Xaela recovered his composure remarkably quickly, his display of turmoil being placed beneath a glassy, placid expression of tranquillity with machine-like efficiency. He stood from the snow, hand placed against the linkpearl fixture, Kasrjin's voice rumbling from his lungs where the unnatural laughter had been. "Yes," was all he said. Inhale. Exhale. He planted a foot firmly against the dead ogre's skull, and the hatchet was raised into the air once again.