Nero

Right, I think we established this earlier in the thread. A tattoo would still work just fine so long as it is visible because a grimoire works primarily as a reference and secondarily as an amplifier. The only problem with a tattoo is giving it enough power for it to have a tangible effect since it would lack the amplification of the inks.

Arcanima works primarily off of pre-drawn geometries, actually. It works like this: the arcanist channels aether through their body (their MP). They visualize the geometric shapes that form that aether into a specific kind of spell, say, Physick. The magic that is shaped by the geometries is then channeled through the grimoire through the ink that's used in its pages and the spell takes effect. The important thing to note is that arcanima primarily works through the arcanist forming mental imagery. However, we're told that the geometries are complex; thus the designs within grimoires are like reference notes or cheat sheets, while the ink used to draw those designs are amplifiers. It's kind of like a traditional wizard's spellbook, only instead of magical phrases and words, it's pretty fractals and circles. The only animations in which an arcanist writes in their grimoire is for summoning, as I recall. I don't remember the exact details behind it, but I'm fairly certain that summoning a carbuncle, and by extension Egis and fairies, does not require editing of a grimoire's contents or composition of arcane glyphs. I believe the initial idea you had is probably pretty accurate: tracing over an existing glyph in order to form a better mental image and thus enact the magic.

While I don't think it's completely impossible, it's certainly impractical for a few reasons. Firstly, the magical inks used to empower arcanist grimoires use metallic bases such as gold and electrum that conduct the flow of aether which, if we follow standard real world logic, would be highly toxic to embed in the skin. What that means isn't that the spell wouldn't work, just that the spell in question wouldn't be able to be enhanced by the ink that is used. You could use ordinary plant-based ink to tattoo the design onto a body, but it would be fairly weak since it lacks the amplification of the inks. Secondly, the designs in arcanist grimoires are more like cheat sheets than anything else. They're one part reference, two parts program so that the arcanist can easily draw the geometry in their head to focus and shape their aether into a spell, because otherwise the geometries are very complex and ostensibly difficult to memorize. If you were to put one of these designs on your body, you would have to place them somewhere that is easy for you to see in order to reference the spell and form the geometry in your head. Having one of these tattoos on your back, for example, would be completely pointless because you wouldn't be able to see the design and thus won't be able to visualize it in a reasonable amount of time. With all of that said, like I stated above, it's not impossible. You could put a geometry for a small spell on the back of your hand, for example. So long as you manage to accurately capture the details of the geometries, you could use it to fire off a few weak spells without the need for a grimoire. It'd also be possible to place a geometry on your forearm, so long as you drew it in a way that you could visualize the design accurately enough for the spell to work. Also, it's suggested that grimoires themselves in addition to the inks used to draw the designs amplify arcane magic, so without metallic inks or the grimoires, a user would have to pour a great deal of their personal aether into the spell in order to make it reasonably powerful. A normal arcanist draws from their store of aether--their MP, basically--and visualizes the design from a reference within the grimoire. The designs within grimoire and the metallic inks used to draw that design shape the aether into the desired spell amplify the effect of the spell as it is cast. An arcanist using tattoos would lack the enhancement of the grimoire, so it'd be pretty draining even for simple spells. So with all of that in mind, it's not impossible or implausible, but it is a bit impractical. An arcanist spell prepared in this manner with body tattoos would be more of an emergency measure or backup weapon than anything else, like a pocket pistol or derringer.

Well, the mileage varies on the subject. Some people are pretty okay with just having someone trip and stumble around Nymian ruins for a bit and bam, scholar soulstone. Others equate finding a scholar's soulstone to winning the Jumbo Cactpot with only three numbers i.e. unlikely enough to be nearly impossible. It's not necessarily completely implausible, but the circumstances around the WoL finding the soulstone are so incredibly waffly that it's hard to place a firm range on the probability of finding a scholar's soulstone, so the perception can differ wildly from person to person. I wouldn't worry about being accepted or not, though. What matters is that scholar isn't implausible--that is, finding a soulstone and thus gaining a fairy has a higher than zero chance of happening--so as long as you write it in a manner that's interesting, nobody who matters will care. With that said, like others above me have said all it requires is, well, tripping and stumbling around Nymian ruins for a bit. My advice on the subject is to constantly bear in mind the difficulty of such a trek while you're writing it. Adversity builds character, and having your character pay a price or suffer an injury or get lost for a long time or otherwise having some kind of negative detriment as a result of the trip makes it more compelling and believable. And make sure you show, don't tell! This kind of situation is perfect for displaying certain traits about your character. If you want us to know he's intelligent, present a puzzle and have him solve it with ease. If you want us to know he's cowardly, have him get freaked out by something small, etc. Basically, imagine an average civilian librarian exploring the Temple of Doom from Indiana Jones, and write something like that.

I'm extremely picky when it comes to choosing who I roleplay with, so for me a backstory's primary function is to help me evaluate how a writer treats their character and a narrative, and the nature of the backstory also helps conceive possible avenues of interaction if I become interested. Thus I can gain a pretty clear idea as to what kind of roleplayer they are and whether or not we'll be able to mesh together reasonably well. Are the events in the backstory consistent? Are those events plausible? Do they respect lore? Is the backstory centered solely around a character's success and their achievements? What, if any, seems to be the central idea behind the character? How extensively does this writer emphasize their character's "special" abilities? How much attention is given to flaws or failures? Are these flaws or failures presented with melodrama or angst? How justified are their character's attitudes towards certain topics? How reliant is their backstory on NPCs? Is this backstory presented as an objective retelling of events in sequence, or as a self-indulgent biography meant to garner awe or sympathy? So yes, backstory is pretty important for me because it helps me decide who I'd like to interact with and also signify who, as roleplayers, I wouldn't get along with very well.

Armory and training room type items would be neat. Wall and floor-mounted weapon racks where you can deposit your spare weapons and they'll be on display in their sheathed forms, mannequins you can equip in similar fashion to retainers to display unused armor sets, indoor training dummies, wooden arrow targets, perhaps a punching bag and glass display cases as well.

Well, if I had to choose one, it'd be obvious.

Depth is death - especially, ironically, if the character is not meant to be killed off. Having that redeemable quality, even if you do not capitalize on it, will cause players to expect that the character will show growth in that direction. Failure to do so can and will lead to angry players because they will feel like they are not having an impact on your own character's behavior. This is a rather deplorable state of affairs we've found ourselves in then, isn't it? A collaborative writing community wherein a villain with depth is potentially seen as a detriment because of players who seek gratification in conflict resolution as opposed to seeking narrative complexity. In all fairness that's something of a false dichotomy, but I personally have never been frustrated by a lack of impact so long as it was justified as to why a character didn't or doesn't change. Certain players will expect growth, true, but growth and the expectation thereof is heavily dependent on context and on whom you are roleplaying with and what kind of story it's intended to be. In that vein, the concept of depth is not applicable to all situations.

Really, there are two separate issues being discussed here. Roleplaying as an antagonist is quite a different subject from roleplaying as a villain, and the frequent mistake I see being made is in believing that "antagonist" and "villain" are interchangeable terms. They're not. With that in mind, I will move forward in my assumption that Emberhair is specifically referring to roleplaying as a villain, not necessarily as an antagonist. You're on the right page as far as communicating OOCly and making sure heated interactions never become personal between two players. That said, it's usually never fun to roleplay with someone who is a dick just for the sake of being a dick, not because that character is unlikeable in a moral sense, but because most characters who are roleplayed as jerkwads are flat, one-dimensional, and boring, with completely arbitrary behaviour and habits that fail to establish any significant consistency. Such characters come across as idols of self-indulgent wish fulfillment, and subsequently fail to be believable as people. This subject would be very easy were we simply talking about a story, but roleplaying is something different. In roleplay, a villainous character is 99% of the time someone you can't get rid of, an obstacle that can never be fully overcome. Thus, in order for interactions with characters who are "bad" in the moral sense to be meaningful and reasonably frequent, there is one absolutely critical thing you must establish, and that's depth. It's the most difficult and most important aspect. Like I said, a character who is a dick just for the sake of being a dick is boring for the same reason that a goody two-shoes Lawful Good hero guy is boring. There needs to be reasoning, motive, and impulse behind their dickish actions. Said reasoning and motive doesn't need to be significant (although that can certainly help), but it does need to be present, even if it's something random, unexplainable, and petty, like "Miqo'te ears really piss him off" or something similar. Why does your character snap? Why does your character constantly mock others? Why does he get sent into fits of rage? Why is he racist? Why is he arrogant? Why is he lazy or flaky? In addition to the above, it's important that your character isn't a dick all the time, unless you fully intend on killing said character off somewhere down the line. It's not as if he needs to spend half the year being Mother Theresa and the other half of the year being Heinrich Himmler, but there need to be certain occasions--even if they're specific or rare occasions--where he can be seen as something other than a complete prat. That's the entire purpose of depth: to demonstrate that a character isn't just an archetype with stock traits (i.e. one-dimensional), but a person, with moods and attitudes and perspectives and opinions that come together to define someone we're supposed to care about. You need to somehow convince your readers that something within this character can be counted as a redeemable quality, even if that single redeemable quality is completely outweighed by the irredeemable ones. Even if you want to keep your villainous character as a complete asshole who will never, ever change his fundamental behaviour, your readers still need a reason to care about what happens to this character and a reason as to why their own characters should interact with your villainous one. If your character is a sociopathic narcissist who frequently robs, steals, and insults others, other characters will have absolutely no reason to interact, and the RP is dead in the water. Depth is absolutely critical if you plan on roleplaying any kind of morally depraved character outside of a Disney villain or the Big Bad Evil Guy of a D&D campaign. In the latter settings, it's perfectly fine to be flat in their evilness because in those cases the villains aren't characters, they're simply plot devices disguised as characters used solely to encourage the growth of the hero and thus their depth is unessential. In RP, however, you want your villainous character to be seen as a person. You want them to be as interesting as they are unlikeable, you want other players to be fascinated by this huge douchebag, you want to give them reasons to continually involve their characters with yours. And to do that, your character needs to have depth.

One thing I feel compelled to bring to attention is that you mention the word "theme" repeatedly in your post and in your premise document, but your definition of theme and the actual narrative definition of theme is different. I personally understand what you mean, but others may not. What you referred to as a "theme"--the void parasite--is actually a central plot element, something to be shared as a collective antagonist across multiple separate interactions. However, it's not a theme. It doesn't pose a persistent ethical question, challenge a certain idea, or represent an overarching attitude or tone towards a particular subject. That said, your intention behind this is to make something akin to a Tarantino movie: a series of seemingly isolated events or interactions that contain one shared plot device that gradually weaves together to form a complete, coherent tapestry of a story created from many individual plot threads coming together. So with that, criticism. The major thing is that your premise is presented quite poorly. It's too long and full of completely unnecessary details that nobody will care about. Let's say hypothetically that I find the central plot element of a hidden void parasite interesting and wanted to start a separate, smaller storyline about discovering one of these parasites, and how me and my companions deal with it. Well, in your doc, it takes six whole paragraphs of inane events for me as a reader to find any information that would help me start this hypothetical storyline. If all I want to do is utilize your idea of a void parasite as an adventure to eventually connect with others, why do I have to care about this guy Eric? Why should I care at all about how his handmaiden and lover died, or about how he started looking for a cure, or what he and his companions went through? Trim the fat. Cut the fluff down to need-to-know information, and remove everything else. Summary: A man, Eric, is infected with a void parasite. He begins to travel through Eorzea looking for a cure. Along the way, he passes black stones that seem harmless but are actually fragments of the parasite he was infected with and threaten all living things in Eorzea by taking over their minds and turning them into deformed voidsent. The origins of the parasite are unknown and if left unchecked could cause untold disaster. There. Four sentences. It presents where the CPE came from, how it spread, why it is a danger that should be dealt with by multiple people, and that it is something to be investigated. I quite frankly couldn't give a single toss of how Eric lost his lover or how he sneaked out of Garlemald or who his friends are or what they did to save him because that information will never, ever be relevant to my own (hypothetical) story of me and my friends venturing forth to deal with this parasite before it spreads, nor will that information ever affect how my characters interact with other characters who may be investigating or pursuing the same things. The other thing is that while good on paper, actually executing this idea and carrying it out is a huge invitation for burnout and a classic example of biting off way more than you can chew. The premise you have presented has heavily suggested a very linear progression of events. There's very few avenues within the separate plots that you presented that allow for player input or creativity. Even if it is ostensibly a nonlinear plot thread, all of these interconnected plot threads will require a central authority. By all means, if you're fully confident that you can juggle multiple interactions like this and have them connect seamlessly, then go for it. Just be careful to make sure that the story does not fully rely on your presence to coordinate the events. To put it in an analogy: something like this works best when you make your own toys and give them to other people to play with however they want, so long as they don't break said toy. Occasionally you'll bring the toys together or swap them out and people will play with said toys together. Any attempt to govern how the toys are played with or who plays with what toy will end in disaster and failure with something as large as this. It's a neat idea, but it could use a lot of work in how its structured.

Hey there, and welcome to the community. Always nice to see someone new taking an interest in this. So let's get right to it! Really, any race and gender of that race can be just about any class as long as you write it in a way that is believable. You can have a Hellsguard Roegadyn conjurer from the shroud, you can have a Hyur Highlander rogue, and yes, you can have a Keeper Arcanist! The key here is plausibility. Eorzea is a very diverse place--with some regions being more tolerant than others--and Limsa Lominsa is noted to be something of a cultural melting pot. Because Limsa Lominsa tends to be open-minded as far as race relations go, provided you're not a kobold or sahagin, it's completely possible to have a Keeper who is from or has visited Limsa Lominsa long enough to learn arcanima. A Keeper in Limsa would certainly be unusual or exotic, but not impossible or unbelievable. This is a wonderfully healthy attitude to have from a literary standpoint. I have high hopes for you! Feel free to ask any questions about anything else you're unsure about.

I'm sure it's been suggested before, but there's a pretty simple solution to this, isn't there? Three tiers: warnings, infractions, and bans. number of warnings in number of weeks results in one infraction. number of infractions in number of months is a temp ban. This way, minor violations like meme posting or overly aggressive behaviour go with warnings that, ultimately, don't contribute to bans, the idea being that a freakish number of total warnings (say, forty or fifty in the span of four months) are required to actually temp ban through them. This also allows moderators to curb certain hostile behaviours without that person actually feeling as if they'd been punished without due. If a person is consistently misbehaving then the system still allows for a ban with enough accumulation. More severe violations result in direct infractions that would operate like our current system. Say for example, ten infractions in four weeks (as is the current policy). Or something similar. Yes, no, maybe?

In regarding the point above, the key here is examples. A general policy when writing rules is that you can never be too specific--or, if you prefer more insulting language, that they should be written in a way that accommodates the lowest common denominator--because someone somewhere will make an incorrect assumption. Clear, definite examples that encompass the variety of threads in which low-effort content is permissible/not permissible would remove any of the ambiguity that the rules may fail to address. With the vagueness of the rules swept away, people who receive minor infractions will ideally fall into three categories: (1) People who don't think before posting despite being aware of the rules (2) People who haven't read the rules and are unaware of them (3) People who don't care about the rules In cases (1) and (2), the warning system suits it just fine and prevents further future cases. I hesitate in advocating for the idea of infractions that accumulate to a ban for something that is relatively minor in comparison to flaming, harassment, blatant slurs etc. but regardless, making the user aware of their breach in site rules one way or another is enough to stop it. People who are (3) are going to get banned by their own actions sooner or later anyway. Like Hammersmith above pointed out, it's a similar argument to, say, gun control: there's no point in making guns illegal because criminals will break the law to obtain them anyway. That said, it's also important to note just how vital proper communication is, especially in regards to moderator vs. user. This entire brouhaha, like most brouhahas do, came out of the two things that cause 99% of all human conflict: kneejerk reaction and miscommunication. Someone receiving an infraction for an inflammatory post should be made aware that the infraction was given in regards to their language and tone inciting flaming, not because their opinion differed from the topic at hand. I highly doubt anyone on the moderation team is banging a drum for censorship, but when communication isn't effective, people get the wrong idea before they start crying out ignorant "free speech" platitudes. In the end, I don't particularly have a problem with the moderation in regards to warnings, infractions, and the policies thereof. This is a privately run board that has no obligation--and indeed, should not have any--to guaranteeing the freedoms of its users. I've yet to see an issue where someone was warned or banned for the nature of their opinion as opposed to how they presented it. So long as that doesn't become an issue, and as long as efforts are made to remove any incertitude from the possibilities of how the rules are interpreted things seem dandy.

The problem is context, and the reading thereof. Are image macros, gifs, and other "meme" inserts without substance completely banned from the RPC? Past evidence and precedence points to the answer being "no". In addition, the rules do not explicitly ban the usage of image macros, gifs, memes, etc. Please correct me if I'm wrong. Image macros and gif posts without substance are appropriate in certain situations. The "Describe your relationship with a gif" thread was cited as an environment in which low-effort posting--that is, the posting of images with minimal content--is appropriate. Conversely, discussion threads and question topics are circumstances in which the same low-effort posting--posts that lack in content that fail to add to the topic or discussion--is inappropriate. Low-effort posts that do not contribute to the topic or derail the topic are not allowed, as per the rules. These are the posts that receive a warning. The post that was responsible for starting this thread is cited as an example of a post that did not meaningfully contribute in any fashion to the thread at hand, and was thus in breach of site rules regarding off-topic posts and images. So, we've established three important facts: (1) Image macros, .gifs, and memes without substance are not explicitly banned from the RPC. (2) Image macros, .gifs, and memes without substance are permitted to be posted within the appropriate unambiguous contexts. Examples: joke threads, image threads. (3) Image macros, .gifs, and memes without meaningful substance are not permitted in all other contexts except for those that are clearly defined by (2). So what's the problem? In Bryn's case above, her thread should have been read as being (2), that is, a lighthearted "fun" and "joke" thread in which image macros, .gifs, and memes should be considered appropriate and not in breach of the sites rules. The problem is that it wasn't. Bryn's thread was unambiguous in its intentions, tone, and environment, and thus, in accordance with (2), image macros, .gifs, and meme posts that lack in content should have been permitted. However, the context of the thread was misread, and thus a private warning was issued. The problem with the warning was not the action of warning itself, but what the action implied: "There are no longer any appropriate topics or situations in which image macros, .gifs, and meme posts without substance will be permitted . Thus, the rules are being incorrectly enforced, and as a result I am concerned about the possible abuse of enforcement in the future." In summary: By requesting more substance in a post that required none, a judgment that is considered inconsistent with the rules of the RPC was made. To resolve this, either the rules should be made completely unambiguous regarding low-effort posting and the banning thereof, with appropriate examples, or the judgment should be acknowledged as inconsistent with the rules it was intended to follow [edit] AND/OR the environments in which low-effort posting is permitted need to be clearly defined.

If Bryn's the standard of a "real woman", that'd explain why so many men are willing to be single.

Contrary to the popular beliefs of some, moving around to evade detection was just about the worst way to evade detection. Every motion is noticed by someone, and even the most carefully hidden shadow will sooner or later fail to go unnoticed. Every road that's walked on and every word that's spoken signifies the existence of one more person who's seen or heard you pass by. Such were the thoughts crossing the pirate's mind when he awoke, surrounded by crates and darkness, the cold stone of the floor making its unwelcome presence known to his rattled bones. The interior of the Aleport warehouse was as mundane as a warehouse could get, and calling Nero's accommodations shoddy would be calling a Sahagin a fairly decent swimmer. The warehouse was completely devoid of light, save for two windows above the large rectangular doorway that allowed for the occasional intrusion of sunlight. Nero pawed his left hand around him in the darkness until he felt the rough steel of the oil lantern he'd managed to preserve. A squeaky swing of the hinges and some concentration lead to a small spark emerging from the his fingertips. That tiny flame was the best he could do--the silver scepter that had served as his focus had been lost in the raid. It was with no small measure of amusement that Nero noted the practicality of Vail's advice even as he struggled to sit up, wincing from his recent injuries. Several moons of successfully hiding from his worst enemies by cowering in his estate was, in the end, punctuated by an attack by brigands on the caravan he was travelling with during a rainy night on his way to Aleport. There was safety in numbers, generally speaking, but numbers--and a wagon full of goods--also attracted the kind of attention that was belligerent, greedy, and rhymed with "andit". Of course, whether or not they were truly simple outlaws was a question that would remain forever unanswered. They wore no insignia and dressed in black clothing and were far more organised than the standard grounded raider that typically made up caravan attacks in La Noscea. Calling them assassins might be paranoid, but calling them anything else was probably quite naive. In either case, Nero found that it was an appropriately contrived ending. He had little idea as to the full extent of his enemies, yet it seems at least one was merely waiting for him to emerge into the public eye. He raised his right hand to rub his face, only to wince as pain shot through his shoulder. Nero's tattered linen robe still had holes from the bullets, and to the pirate's dismay he found that he still could not raise his right arm above his chest too much without the joint and collarbone screaming in protest. The crude stitches he'd managed to apply across the gash on the side of his abdomen were only barely holding together and were oozing sticky blood and pus. A brief inspection of his forehead with his left hand found that the ugly swelling above his eye hadn't ceased, though thankfully he still had some measure of clear vision. The ratty cloth canvas that served as a blanket was peppered with dry bloodstains, and an audible groan escaped from Nero's lips as he sat up against the large box. Despite his rather horrid condition, the thought of seeking aid didn't cross his mind even once; Aleport lacked conjurers and he dare not risk another attack from his black-clothed friends showing his face again before his ship arrived. The orange glow of the lantern did little to alleviate the gloomy atmosphere, the struggle of the flame inside the vessel only accentuated the grim situation he'd found himself in. Nero had been squatting in this warehouse for more than two days now. The first day, when he'd managed to somehow stagger into Aleport without succumbing to his injuries, he'd spent every waking minute cursing the delay. A ship was to arrive here, bound for Sharlayan and then to Othard, only to be stalled by a sudden tempest. By the second day of inhabiting the unused warehouse, his curses had surrendered to cold silence, and today naught was there to comfort him but resigned acceptance. The malaise that had set upon him the previous day was still present. Something was likely infected, but at this point Nero lacked the means or the funds to seek medicine, and every second he spent in public was another chance for his old friends in black to finish what they started. He felt his life's fluids leaking out of the various wounds on his body, and the longer he stayed awake, the dizzier he felt, just like yesterday. "What a way to go, eh laddie?" A voice called to him in the darkness. Nero glared at it with his good eye. Emerging from the oppressive gloom was a Hyur, a Midlander. The newcomer's face still held some youthful vitality, yet it was also aged, the skin creasing against the lines of his jaws, his cheeks somewhat gaunt. The eyes were guarded by long locks of fiery orange hair the shade of hot coals, each pupil gleaming sharply with intellect and wit yet holding a a bitter and steely edge. A sharply trimmed beard adorned an equally sharp jawline, the same warm hue as his hair. The Hyur's jewelry, his amulets and earrings, jingled with amusement at each motion he made, and those accessories matched the man's clothing in gaudiness; a pure white shirt with red trim, embroidered with elaborate golden patterns, silken black trousers, and boots of fine velvet. The Midlander--grinning suavely to show off an array of sharp, almost carnivorous teeth--pulled up a box and plopped himself down on it, his various ornaments chiming in a cacophony of acknowledgement. The newcomer crossed one leg over the other, resting his hands on his knees. It was an incredible contrast that was struck between the two men: one confident and flashy, dressed in noble finery and infinitely arrogant, the other clad in little more than rags, despondent and resentful. The Midlander gave Nero a cursory inspection before clicking his tongue and shaking his head sadly. "You know, I could have sworn I raised you to be a bit better than this." He rummaged around in his pockets until he pulled out an elaborate smoking pipe made of ebon wood and gleaming nacre, spinning it around in his meaty fingers. Nero's response was a disdainful snort. He groaned as he adjusted his position, leaning his back against a large box. "Back again, huh? You know, they say that children are living proof of their parents' limitations. I wonder if that's more of an insult to me or to you." Vail gave a puff of the pipe in his hands, though no flame was lit. "Do they really say that? Though, you're not really my brat, so I suppose that at it's only a half insult to me at most." He spun the pipe in his hands again, flashing that crooked smirk that had once been so familiar. Nero's chest rose and fell with rhythmic breathing as he slumped against the crate, eyeing the man sitting on the crate. "I should probably tell you that your advice is garbage, by the way. I've heard more helpful adages from rocks and talking oranges." The man on the crate gave a slight not of agreement, creasing his face in amusement. "Could be. Or you just didn't follow it well enough. And you're talking to oranges now? Ye gods, I always called you a friendless bastard, but I didn't think you were that friendless." "Stuff it, old man." Vail raised the pipe to indicate towards Nero's head, an eyebrow rising with interest. "So uh, your hair? You do that yourself? Missed dear old pops so much that you needed to keep a constant reminder?" "Contrast is more effective at drawing attention when you're making deals. I needed to be someone less boring than you, which admittedly wasn't difficult." The pipe stopped spinning in his fingers as Vail feigned a wounded expression. "Boring!? I was many things, but boring was definitely not it." There was another pause and another whiff of the empty vessel. "You didn't answer my question." Nero sighed. "No, I didn't do it myself. There was some Elezen, an Aesthetician in Limsa Lominsa who was more than happy to charge me my weight in gil for it." Vail said nothing in response, merely grinning in amusement. The conversation died quickly for a time. "So, you look pretty beat up," Vail casually observed. "I'm so glad that your nine-odd years of being dead haven't robbed you of your ability to observe the obvious," Nero responded dryly. As quickly as it was broken, the silence returned, enveloping the warehouse like a blanket. "You afraid of death?" the man on the crate asked. "No," Nero murmured, shooting his adoptive father an annoyed glance. "After all, you came back from it enough to mess with my head for a few days. It can't be that bad. Or effective." "True," Vail conceded. "Yet something tells me that you're afraid of something, lad. You afraid of dying? If not death itself." "No," Nero echoed. The older gentleman spread his arms. "Then educate me. What is it that you're fearing in these last few moments of your life?" "That's awfully fatalistic of you to say, isn't it? 'Never say die'." the pirate muttered to himself. Nero tried to inhale deeply, only to exhale sharply as a jabbing pain made its presence known in his lungs. It seemed the bullet was still lodged somewhere uncomfortable. A frustrated grunt forced itself through his lips. "If you must know, it's impossible to fear dying when your entire life has been naught but one slow death." A pair of warm hazel eyes threatened to roll themselves right out of their sockets. "Must you be so dramatic, boy?" "Probably not, but I've no idea if I'm going to die tomorrow or eighty years from now. That's the exciting part of life, isn't it? That uncertainty." Nero's response garnered no reaction. A much larger, bulkier frame emerged from the darkness to stand behind Vail. Ashen blonde hair, skin tinted a minty green, and a stern demeanor came with it. "So, lad, ye been shot an' abused mightily thus far," Daegsatz whistled as the Roegadyn gazed throughout the dark confines of the warehouse. "This'n all be worth it?" Nero snorted, wincing as he did. "What kind of question is that?" "Th' question ye be askin' yerself all this time, lad," the Roegadyn said. "The question we're asking you now," Vail affirmed, the crooked smirk flashing across his face again. Nero sighed and rubbed his head. The amount of visitors was increasing lately and he wasn't sure that he liked it all that much. "I don't know, I think my injuries are worth a couple thousand gil at the very least. The amount of people who would pay to see me half-dead like this is astronomical. You could send them all to Ishgard and they'd win their war with the dragons through sheer numbers alone." He met Vail's smirk with his own weak trademark. "But was it worth it, in the end?" The voices blended together, making it unclear who was asking. Not that it mattered. "Nothing ever ends," Nero grunted. "As for your stupid question, 'worth' is relative. If you mean to ask me 'was it worth it' in the sense of 'did I achieve my goal', then no, none of this was worth it. I didn't even come close to accomplishing what I set out to do. And so, in conclusion, my life of twenty-nine some odd cycles or so is--was--pretty much worthless." "And yet," once again the pipe was set on its adventure of rotation on Vail's fingers, "knowing this from the start, knowing that your chances of succeeding were close to zero, you set out to accomplish it anyway. You killed many people for it. Women. Children. Abandoned by your crew and your ship. You even got my first mate killed, somehow, which is something I'd been trying to do for years." He tapped a finger affectionately against the Roegadyn's arm. The pair of them received a baleful scowl. "So, was it worth it?" Nero sighed again, his exhalation giving way to coughing. "We all need a little self-delusion. A lot of self delusion. It's how all of us get by in life. We tell ourselves 'yes I am making a difference' and 'yes I did the right thing', blissfully ignoring how insignificant our lives are and how resistant to meaningful change this world is. That said, I probably deluded myself into thinking it was worth it. Changing Ul'dah, making things better." Though he couldn't see it--the orange flame barely extended past his wrist--Nero lifted his left hand and stared at where his palm would be in the darkness. "They say that that intelligence eventually leads to desire, and desire leads to the two most tragic things that can ever happen in a mortal life. The first tragic thing is not being able to obtain what you want. The second tragic thing is obtaining what you want." "So then laddie, which o' them tragedies be yers?" Another snort blasted itself from Nero's nose. "Well, let me answer that by saying this: the good guys have won a triumphant victory, and everyone in Ul'dah still managed to lose. And the funniest part about that is that it'll happen again. It'll keep happening." The pirate sighed, lolling his head to the side, careful to keep away the sizable bump on his forehead away from the crate he was leaning against. His vision had begun to dim, though perhaps it was a trick of the lack of light. "So in conclusion, no. It wasn't worth it. Nothing is worth it. Nothing is worth anything. When I came at the crossroads, I should have stopped and simply turned the other way." Vail uncrossed and recrossed his legs, an index finger tapping his beard thoughtfully. "The boy I knew would have never been content with that life of apathy." "Of course not, but that life would have at least given me ample time to think of a theatrical suicide. Blaze of glory or something, instead of rotting in a warehouse having to entertain you two figments of my imagination, waiting for that idiotic paladin to swagger in here and be unable to kill me because of her stupid morals. Again." "Ye ev'r consid'r that she might be right, lad? That there be another way o' doin' all this without..." Two thick arms the size of tree trunks raised themselves to indicate the warehouse. "Without doin' all o' this?" Nero raised his left hand in a mocking proclamation. "Then let her and her goody-goody friends take care of it. If there really was another way, they wouldn't need people like me to show them that there was no other way." He left his hand fall to his side as he muttered to himself. "Twats." His venomous statement gave way to stillness as his inquisitive companions slunk away and faded into the blackness. There was no way to tell the time save by approximating the position of the sunlight that filtered through the dull windows of the warehouse, but the pirate was barely registering the sunlight at all, much less using it to track time. His eyes were half closed and he barely registered his erstwhile guardians re-materializing into existence. "So then, lad, what are you afraid of? You know me, always spouting off proverbs and the like. Judge a man by what he fears." Vail wagged the mouthpiece of the pipe towards the slumping pirate. "Judgement time." Nero glared at the wagging smoking pipe. He attempted to inhale deeply, only to fall short of breath once again. "I'm pretty damn scared of being expected to live, I'll tell you that much." "Oho? That bad, eh?" "Oh, I'm absolutely aware of how I sound. I'm just some whinging adolescent thinking his entire future is over because he isn't allowed to go pork the vacant-eyed bimbo with the big rack who lives across the street." "Hah!" The man on the crate leaned back as he barked out a guffaw. "Ain't no woman in the world worth dying for, much less living for, laddie." "What shall the warrior do when all of his foes are dead? What shall the doctor do when all illness has sped away from this world? What shall the merchant do when wealth loses all value? Silly premises, perhaps, but the answer is the same. A life without meaning is a very special kind of death, reserved for punishing the most heinous of crimes." Another sigh. "So, yes, I suppose you can say I'm pretty afraid of death. I'm afraid of dying. Just not in the traditional sense." "But my dear child, are you not condemning yourself to such an existence this very second?" A third silhouette emerged to accompany the warm voice, a Highlander woman. Hastily applied makeup did its best to mask bruises and scars and once voluptuous figure had shrunk due to hunger and been wrapped in a scantily-designed dress meant for "easy access". She wore no other clothing besides the tattered dress, not even shoes. Nero dare not look at her face, but he could see the blood leaking from her forehead. Nero exhaled. "Well, you're not wrong. Believe it or not, I'm not completely fatalistic. As long as one lives and breathes--okay, bad example with me, given the..." he was tempted to tap himself in the chest to make a point but thought better of it. "But still--one can one day find his purpose and rekindle his desire to live again." "And yet, even knowin' this, ye be 'appy ta condemn yerself ta death. Th' traditional kind." The Roegadyn rumbled. "Yeah, because I know better by now. I said that life is an opportunity to find a purpose. I never said my life held that same kind of opportunity. I'm not exactly keen on pushing the boulder up the hill just to see it roll all the way back down the other side. Trust me, I've done that a few times. That boulder can go plough itself." Nero spat. "The purpose of life is to have the freedom to seek its own purpose, laddie. You deny such a purpose. What's the measure of your life then, boy? What were you put here to do? What is your reason?" The Midlander murmured. "Was," Nero corrected himself. "I'm fairly certain that I'll be dead soon." He grunted again as he adjusted his position against the boxes. "To get back to your question, who knows? Maybe my purpose was to be arrogant, believe I knew better, and proceed to make a complete ass of myself in front of everyone who claimed to care about Ul'dah. Maybe my purpose was to be the hack of a villain of some terrible story and make all of the good guys look good in comparison. Really, at this point, I couldn't care less." "But what about atonement?" The Highlander hummed. "What about atonement?" "P'raps th' purpose o' all o' this'n be ta see yer own misguided cynicism fail, an' ta be giv'n th' chance ta redeem yerself." "Brilliant," Nero scoffed. "Turns out the only reason I was born was so I can posture myself in front of some self-righteous group of bastards and whores and spend the rest of my life trying to convince myself that living in destitute misery is actually a very enviable existence." "And now you're contradicting yourself. I could have sworn you weren't this stupid when you were crying on my ship. You demand justice for yourself and those souls you claim to sympathise with, and yet when the same demand of justice is made to you, you balk and refuse. Remind me never to strike a deal with you. You'd just run away from it." Vail raised an eyebrow sharply. "It's not as if you hate the idea of atonement. Not completely, anyway. If you did, you wouldn't have sabotaged Randolph's machine, and you wouldn't have told the paladin where to find you." "That's called 'cutting my losses', old man. Something you failed to understand, which ended up getting you killed," the pirate responded disdainfully. "My plan would have never succeeded at that point. Merlwyb demolished the plans for the Rhotano League, so my collaborators are out of funding and are at each other's throats, and my support in Ul'dah is non-existent. The least I could do is wipe that stain of my past off the map." Now it was Nero's turn to sigh, pointedly ignoring the point that had been brought up about the paladin. "Even so, it seems nobody around here has ever been truly understanding the point I've been trying to make," Nero muttered bitterly. "Every bleeding heart shitelord and their mother going around screaming at me, 'the women and children, the women and children!'. The only thing that is worse than being forced to die is being forced to live." "And so you were believe you were doing them a favour?" The woman's voice asked kindly, lacking any edge of judgment. "I was saving them from a slow death. A life of misery, to be dominated by nothing but thoughts of how to survive the next day, the next hour...like I said, that is a very special kind of death. The kind of death that all of those arrogant fools are all too happy to subject them to." "Yet ye be speak'n as if ye yerself not be engagin' in th' exact same imposition o' perspective that they are. Ye believe that they be forcin' a life o' misery. Yerself be forcin' an unwillin' death. Neither side be askin' those people who are bein' forced." "Seeking morality in a situation like this is pointless. You either win, and you're right, or you lose, and you're wrong. Trying to gain the moral high ground is like trying to climb up a tree with all of your limbs cut off," the pirate breathed. "There is no justice, no righteousness, no good or evil in this. There are results, or the lack thereof, and nothing more." "Boy, did you not start this crusade because of your morality? Because you believed your way to be right?" "I believe my way to be preferable." "But if someone had come along while you struggled on the streets, and told you they were doing you a favour by making you die for their cause, would you have accepted it?" The woman breathed the gentle, understanding sigh of a parent. Nero paused, hesitating as his eye caught a rivulet of blood running down the woman's silhouette. "Regardless of what they told me their cause was, I wouldn't have accepted it. I would think they were lying or stupid or both." His voice trembled somewhat. "But if I did end up dying, I wouldn't have begrudged them." "Ye would 'ave struggled ta live til yer own life be taken. That not be a contradiction o' what ye be sayin' 'fore, ye reckon?" "I didn't struggle because I want to. I struggled to live because it was instinct. Self-preservation. That cruel gift that allows mortal lives to endure the very worst of the world beyond all hope and doubt." The pause in the air was palpable. "So, really," Vail, ever eager to overthrow a lull in the dialogue, examined his pipe as he ceased its spinning, the elaborate frame frozen around his thumb and index finger. "None of this was worth it then, eh, boy? Wasn't worth the killing, wasn't worth Satz, wasn't worth the Forte, wasn't worth them nasty injuries, and at the end of it all, one way or another you'll be dead. Literally dead, or living a life without meaning and thus better off dead." Nero froze. "The reason you did all of this, the reason why you were so willing to kill is because you reject a life ruled by instinct, a life that lacks all meaning except survival, and you call that a fate crueler than death. And yet, even as you rejected it, you hated yourself for accepting it as well, for without it you would never have had the option of rejecting it in the first place. Thus armed with this hypocrisy, you set about your plan with the intention of forcing everyone to reject that self-preservation whether they wanted to or not." Slowly, disdainfully, the pipe resumed its twirl. The crew of the Second Forte emerged led by Garalt, his square jaw narrowly set in reluctant determination. "Ye be denyin' 'em their right as mortals ta struggle ta preserve themselves in a world that be cruel an' unusual. An' in doin' so, ye be managin' ta convince yerself that 'cause o' yer own experiences, such a thing be permissible, even if'n ye be considerin' it a necessary evil. Ye projected yerself an' yer choices onto them, an' called it a favour." Daegsatz folded his arms, his face wrinkled with sadness, his body soon glowing with the flames that threatened to engulf him. Another group stepped forward; Dunesfolk Lalafell with sword wounds, some with spears skewered right through them, Brass Blades with scorched armor and sailors bloated from the sea. "Adair..." Fiora's silhouette stepped forward and crouched down to his level. He still couldn't force himself to look at her, for he knew what he would saw; a shattered skull, the blood seeping against the pavement. The Highlander woman reached out her arms to touch his houlders, her skin taut, her muscles weak and spindly. "In many cases, life is much worse than death. Death is itself a mercy, an instantaneous moment of pain soon to be flooded by the unending peace of oblivion. Life is often several moments of prolonged agony, stretched to a hundred years. And yet, that anguish, that torturous existence, that conflict and struggle is what assigns meaning to life. It is what differentiates living a life and dying a death. Without that struggle, without that bout of misery and torment...by taking that away, you remove life's meaning, and thus condemn all to the very death that you yourself fear." Nero's breath shortened. His hands were shaking. He felt dizzy. He could see the blood, the blood from her skull, the blood that splashed on the walls and the pavement drip down and seep between his fingers. "Not all is lost. You can still be saved." The scantily clad Highlander woman, for an instant, vanished, and was replaced by a similarly slender form clad in armor, grey eyes scrutinizing him with a soft naivete. And just like that, it broke. What snapped inside of him was cold but soundless, like a glacial sheet snapping in the void. With a cry that was as ferocious as it was despairing, Nero swung his right arm. In an instant, the warm voice, the spindly arms, and the oozing blood vanished. He ignored the screaming of nerves in his shoulder at the motion, and he struggled to stand. He could not even stand up straight; it was all Nero could do to lean against the boxes in a facsimile of defiance. "Ah," Nero said disdainfully, the volume of his voice raising. "So deep down, you're one of those people. An idealist. Let me tell you something. Love doesn't feed an empty stomach. Honor doesn't keep you warm at night. Courage doesn't heal your scars or soothe your bruises. A life of agony is a life of meaning? Don't make me laugh. That is a delusion, a weak justification made by those who've never had to worry about going hungry or freezing on the wooden planks that serve as your bed. You insist on 'salvation' and 'the right way' without understanding that every single second of your inaction is a complete and utter failure of that ideal. The only people who ever had the grounds to condemn me are people who have lived exactly like me. The people who continue to live exactly as I did. People who spend every waking minute of their consciousness facing starvation and fear and hopeless expanses of an empty future." The Highlander woman appeared again, a few feet away from him. Nero found his gaze panicking, attempting desperately to avert themselves, but his willpower won over. With a shaking of his head and his body trembling, he forced himself to look straight at her. At the exposed bits of brain and bone that had been smashed against the wall, the eye that had popped out of its socket, the jaw hanging loose and unhinged like a snake's. She still had a sad expression on the half of her face that was still intact, and every second he forced himself to stare was another second he felt his consciousness evaporating. "So you think you're righteous, do you? You said it yourself. A torturous existence is the only existence that has meaning. You can vilify me for robbing those lives of their worth and their purpose, but don't think for a second that you are any better than me for damning those same lives into unending squalor. Do you want me to tell you why you think that way? It's because you think you're better. You had money, you had power. You never went to bed wondering if you would wake up with another dead sibling, or a dead parent. You never waded through garbage wondering if you could find something to eat today. You ran away. You took your money and your wealth, and after building yourself a golden platform, set about calling yourself righteous, insisting that there was meaning in struggle." At this point, it wasn't clear if he was speaking to his illusionary audience or to himself. The flames crawled up Daegsatz' broad form, lapping at his chest and soon enough, covering his shoulders and head, the latter of which casually lolled off of its body as it disintegrated wordlessly into ash. The Lalafell slowly began to fall over, one by one, and sink into the ground. "'Women and children, women and children', they said! How could you kill women and children? Because it was necessary. I've killed men, women, children a plenty. Sometimes by my own hand, sometimes with a pen or a shout of a command, and I'd kill a thousand more if that's what it takes to see my vision through. To carve a better place for those souls denied every opportunity at happiness. To leave Ul'dah a better place than I found it. This is me. This is who I will always be. I did what I did because someone had to." Like that day, the crew retreated. Garalt shook his head as the shadows enveloped him. Nero felt his strength leaving him, his voice growing hoarse. "There was--is--no room for hope in Ul'dah. There is no...no way. No atonement. Not for the deaths of hundreds, maybe even thousands of people. It's impossible to justify a single one of those deaths. So I will do what I must. I'll build a better future. A future that saves as many of those other lives as possible. A future without that meaningless struggle against the depravity and greed of others. To fight for that future, that is my only salvation!" The silence persisted for what felt like years. The images of those people had completely faded away, swallowed by the empty, inky blackness of Nero's mind. He was breathing heavily now, searing pain shooting up his chest with every expansion of his lungs. Cold sweat enveloped his feverish face, and his vision had begun to shift out of focus as he swayed unsteadily on his feet. Only Vail was left. The pipe had vanished from his hands completely. His fingers were folded together as he stared the haggard pirate down. Though Nero himself was not sitting on it, he could feel Vail's seat on the box become uncomfortable and unwelcome. Vail again flashed that crooked, audacious smirk. "So then, does that mean you regret it?" A violent plume of icy shards, uncontrolled and undisciplined, as wild as the hand that shot it came screaming towards the darkness and plunged through Vail, whistling as the jagged, haphazard forms effortlessly pierced through his silhouette and crashing somewhere against the wall. Violet smoke flowed from the haphazardly conjured slivers as they disintegrated, leaving cold gashes at their point of impact. Nero limped to the box where his adoptive father had been arrogantly sitting. The light from the tiny flame in the oil lamp had grown dimmer, leaving naught but defiant rays of sunshine. He sat down on the box with a thud, scowling into the darkness with disgust. "Grow up."

Their leader's response was swift, measured, and calm, a clear contrast to the image of the raging berserker that he tried to propagate. "Start putting gunners in the upper floors and break open those windows. We're starting early. The gunners will shoot anyone they see; the rest of us don't move until the streets are cleared." Lights were lit and shouts began to resonate from within the building. The tense air that had been occupying the hall for the past week now had exploded into a frenzy. Several bandits armed with muskets retreated into the upper floors. Scythe jerked a thumb to a slender female Miqo'te, cocking his head at the tunnel that had been dug into the floor of the house. "I'jhimei, your group will cause a distraction in the Sapphire Exchange to draw them off. Aim for the merchants, burn or destroy any goods you can get your hands on. As soon as Blades arrive, get back here and demolish the tunnel." The Miqo'te in question nodded quickly and silently gestured with her hand, the group descending down the pit that lead to the tunnels. The Highlander turned his attention to a rather timid looking Midlander sitting on the hull of the dreadnought. "Start the dreadnought!" The Midlander shot him a gaze of surprise. "Are you sure? He said it'd only run for a few hours...and if we start it now, we won't be able to turn it off!" Scythe's response was a guttural snarl. The Midlander quickly went to work without protest and gestured to his colleague, and the two of them dove into the hatch of the dreadnought, closing it with a loud clunk. It was all falling apart. The pirate must have betrayed them; it was the only possibility. The Brass Blades didn't care enough to sweep bandits out of the lane and the Sultansworn lacked the resources or justification to do it. Their benefactor was the only one who knew the details of what they would accomplish here. It was an organized attack, and it seemed the attackers knew exactly where in the Lane they were. Scythe knew it was always a distinct possibility; Limsans were all the same. It didn't matter, anyway. If he were to be honest with himself, Scythe was glad that this happened. That agonized waiting would come to an end. The revolution would start now, and nobody in Ul'dah had the firepower to stop the dreadnought. The bandits were now scrambling for their arms and armor as the rest of them that hadn't left for the windows or the Sapphire Avenue Exchange began to assemble in the main hall, their breathing haggard with terror or excitement, faces universally painted with anxiety. Some of the more experienced veterans from Ala Mhigo were silent, grim expressions crossing their faces. They checked loaded muskets, pistols, grabbed swords and shields, spears and axes, donning haphazardly constructed leather cuirasses and chainmail. "Get ready! They've probably got archers. We're going to use the dreadnought for cover!" Scythe snapped a glare at the machine as he brandished his wicked falchion. "Start the damn thing!" The dreadnought in question was an ugly thing; a blocky, angular mass of segmented steel plates, roughly twenty-five fulms in length and rectangular in shape, and had no wheels or visible propulsion system to speak of. A magitek cannon had been mounted to the top with a front plate to shield the gunner as they stood on the hull of the vehicle. Its front gave way to sloping armor with a viewport slit, and the plates were evenly spaced and layered in such a way as to afford the most overall protection from all angles of attack. The rear of the dreadnought contained a row of jutting, horizontal plates, which was the dreadnought's radiator. "We're proceeding with the plan as normal," Scythe bellowed as the dreadnought roared to life, its hull beginning to hover about a fulm in the air, the radiator of the machine beginning to glow a calm cerulean blue. Even with the din, the telltale lightning-like cracks of musketfire began to permeate the air above them, and the Highlander had to shout to make himself be heard. "Javelin and Tusk will take the dreadnought to Hustings strip to remove the Sultana. The timetable's been moved up, so we've no idea if the other members of the Syndicate will be present." "What about Raubahn?" One of the Hellsguard rumbled. Scythe waved an idle hand. "If he gets in your way, kill him, but otherwise don't bother. Once the streets are clear, the dreadnought will break down the wall and make its way there. The rest of us are going to break through into the Ruby Road Exchange. The people we have near the gates will shut it. Search and destroy! We will remove the corrupt rulers who are content to ignore us, and--" The hatch of the dreadnought clunked open, and the Midlander emerged. His face was covered in soot and a blue fog began to emerge from within the hatch. He was coughing and struggled to breathe. "Boss!" He hacked out. "The dreadnought, it--" At the same time, the engine of the dreadnought ceased its smooth, loud humming, and gave way to a sickening series of clang! clang! clang!, like a house's weight in pots and pans had been caught in a tornado. Scythe's expression morphed from determination to one of surprise...and fear. "Get it under control! What's happening!?" The light of the radiator began to flicker and flash and the steel plates of the machine began to buckle and leak a sickening azure light. Scythe and his compatriots could only cover their ears and stare in bewilderment at the sudden reaction of the machine as the clang! clang! clang! of its engines surrendered into a horrifyingly loud grinding. The sound of steel being stretched taut to its breaking point pierced the ears of all nearby, and the metal screamed a shrill whine as the grinding of the engine gradually slowed and stopped. And then the world exploded. -- What was once an unassuming row of idle houses, boarded up and abandoned in Pearl Lane, became something very different. A brilliant sky-blue light briefly shone from the windows that the musketeers were peeking out of, and eventually give way to a massive, explosive gust of smoke and hot air that propelled the unfortunate gunners out of the windows and onto the ground below with a sickening crack. A brilliant gout of cerulean fire blasted apart the boards over the aperture and sent the door, frame and all, flying out into the streets, and the boom that resulted was audible through the entire city. The impact shook the houses down to its foundations as the shingled ceiling collapsed, the poorly maintained wooden walls igniting rapidly in flames and following the ceiling's descent. The adjacent houses managed to avoid a similar fate, though their ceilings too collapsed from the shockwave and the floors of the second story groaned in protest, threatening to crush those unfortunate enough to be beneath them. The rubble and debris buried the tunnels, masking the cries of terror of those trapped within. Flaming, ashen cadavers emerged from the door screaming agonized cries, their forms engulfed in blue liquid that ate through their skin and bones even as it blazed relentlessly, before falling over and being overcome by the silence of death. Even more still managed to stumble out, covered in soot and burns, before succumbing mercifully quickly to the wounds. And then, as the flames settled, the wooden frame of the houses creaking as they were consumed by the swiftly cooling inferno, there was naught but silence.

Note the following: I know you mentioned that you didn't have much knowledge on lore. I'm not super strict on lore adherence, so bend the lore however you feel like. That said, some of my notes will be directed to lore adherence or the lack thereof, and that certain players may avoid you depending on how plausible your character is. If that bothers you, feel free to ignore these pointers as you wish. First off, consider taking this test and seeing how your character scores. An important thing to note is this: your roleplaying character shouldn't be tied into what you have accomplished in-game. Generally speaking, your roleplaying character isn't the protagonist or the hero, your character is a smaller part of a much bigger setting. If you want to roleplay as the protagonist and hero, then that is acceptable so long as you understand and accept the implications as well. Where does your character's name come from? Naming conventions for Au Ra haven't been released yet, but it's highly unlikely that the a mundane Western name would be common from a foreign race originating in Othard. Was he raised somewhere else? Is he Raen? Xaela? How might his heritage have affected how he operates within his chosen profession? Why is he an Au Ra? What age is he? A very common mistake for inexperienced roleplayers is to make very broad assumptions in how long it takes to master a skill. Excelling at a skill enough to be called a "master" should take a wealth of experience and, for magical arts, many years of study, and to label your character as a "prodigy" in these fields is classic Mary Sue material. How has he had the time to adequately learn combat arts and magical arts? Where did he find the soulstone to learn summoning, and how did he survive the tempering process in order to learn it? How long has he spent as an acolyte to learn Thaumaturgy? How long had he spent as an arcanist? If he's also an experienced trader, then how did he have the time to consistently practice these skills enough to be combat-effective with them? Essentially, you need to trim the fat. Don't tie your character's abilities to everything you have levelled in-game. When you are assigning him abilities or skills, think about why he has those skills, and what purpose they serve in defining him as a person. Show, don't tell. Don't just "tell" people that he's "above average in intelligence", that does nothing. If he's a businessman, merely mentioning that he is wealthy and successful is generally enough to give the general idea that he is keen. Otherwise, don't mention his intelligence as part of his backstory, demonstrate it through interactions or stories. Other people and characters will, on their own, determine whether or not he is intelligent. BZZZZZT Like I said, lore bending and lore breaking is, in and of itself, perfectly fine, as long as you're aware that many people will avoid you or refuse to roleplay with you as a result. If that's acceptable for you, then play however you feel! That said, having been directly involved with storyline events or storyline characters is a huge Mary Sue red flag. We're talking "The Japanese are bombing Pearl Harbor, Mr. President" levels of red flag. The only one who'd successfully fought the primals and worked directly with the scions is the "main character", that is, the Warrior of Light. Again, it's acceptable for you to roleplay as the WoL as long as you accept other roleplayers avoiding you. I'm not even going to bother asking how one wins a fight with a Primal "diplomatically" unless it consists of defeating Titan at Monopoly or something. See my point above about mastering abilities and the amount of time it takes. How does being at sea relate to him being good at these abilities? How has he had the time to adequately learn these abilities enough to be called "skilled"? What, specifically, is he skilled at? And again, how has he had the time to master these skills while also, apparently, being a skilled melee combatant, marksman, and magic user? The internet has robbed me of my ability to distinguish satire so this honestly confuses me. What form of healing magic? Is this tied into him being an arcanist? Why is this worth mentioning? How does this tie into his character? Okay, this isn't all that unreasonable so long as you adequately explain how he managed to do this. Is he a skilled negotiator? A diplomat? Has he traded with the beast tribes for years, long enough for them to trust him with commerce? Moogles are invisible unless they choose to reveal themselves, so how did he manage to associate with them on a large scale? Elaborate. Simply telling me this does nothing to describe who your character is. How is this a "con"? This is just an experience. If I stub my toe on a coffee table, is that somehow a detriment to my personality? BZZZZZT See my above point about tying your character into story events. Your character should be completely separated from in-game mechanics. Trauma? Trauma where? From what? Is this actual, legitimate psychological trauma, the kind that has a lasting effect on someone's psyche and damages them on a consistent basis, or the five minute disposable "oh no I accidentally rear-ended someone on the freeway" brand of trauma? Is this an actual addiction with observable, negative effects on him? Where does it come from? Have his relationships been affected by his addiction? --- Okay, so here are some notes for you to use. First things first: listing your character in terms of "pros" and "cons" isn't an unworkable method but is generally very inflexible and very poor at defining who your character is. When you're writing your character, simply thinking "how is he good" and "how is he bad" is an incredibly narrow mindset when it comes to, essentially, defining another person. Your character is defined by his character; that is, the central element is his personality. How does he react to certain things? How does he handle failure? What makes him laugh? What makes him angry? Is he talkative? Silent? What kind of person is he? Is he stoic? Serious? Lighthearted? Cocky? How are these elements tied into his past? Was he inspired to be one way or another? Does he refuse to act a certain way? Why? In addition, character "flaws" need to be actual flaws. They need to be things that will actually damage him or impede his progress in overcoming obstacles, and should present a meaningful challenge to himself and his relationships with others. If he's prideful, then demonstrate or think of an occasion where his pride lead to him failing. Perhaps he gambled everything on an investment and refused to drop out, leading to him being in debt or losing most of his money. Tying into the above, things like "trauma" or "addiction" are not terms to be thrown around lightly unless they are clearly used as exaggeration or jest. How does his "trauma" affect him? Is he actually affected by it, or is it something used just to make the character look edgy and cool for surviving it? What implications does trauma have? Does he suffer from flashbacks or nightmares? How does this affect how he deals with other people? Similarly, "addiction". How has his addiction damaged himself or his businesses or his relationships with other people? If he's suffering from withdrawal, does it seriously affect him? How? Is this a major obstacle in who he is? In the end, the lesson is this: a character is built through adversity. A character who is the hero who wins and succeeds all the time is just a boring self-insert power fantasy. It's the characters who struggle with themselves and with others, the characters who try their damndest yet still fail that compel people. So, as you write your character, constantly ask yourself the five "W"s of narrative structure: who, what, where, when, and most importantly, why. Who is he? Who is important to him? Who does he hate? What does he do? What does he want to do? What got in his way? Where did he learn things? Where does he want to go? Where are his priorities? When did he learn his skills? When did parts of his past happen? When is he going to advance his ambitions? Why is he the person he is? Why does he want to do a certain thing or things? Why should other characters take him seriously? I wish you luck.

"Women and children".

The way I have all of my characters--past, present, and future--is thus: competent and experienced enough to defeat most NPCs and mooks, not well-trained or specialized enough to defeat combat-oriented player characters. This way my character can still fight in RP if he needs to but he will also typically have an IC reason to avoid the aggrandizing cafeteria foodfight that is freeform PC vs. PC combat. Other than that, the "powers" I assign to them are more or less completely arbitrary, usually for backstory reasons. Example: I needed a reason for Nero to stay in Ul'dah for an extended period of time before returning to Limsa without being in significant danger in his backstory. Solution: have him study the basics of thaumaturgy. The thaumaturgy skill itself pretty much has zero impact on his character.

I'm a very firm believer in the idea that anyone who goes on the Internet has an obligation to become their own filter. Ignore the bits you don't like, pick out the parts that you do. If you see something you don't like, pay it no mind and move on, which is exactly what I do. Powerplayers, absurd lore breakers, people ICly calling my character out for bullshit reasons, whatever you can think of. They are perfectly free to play whatever character they want however they'd like, in the same way that I am perfectly free to retcon them out of existence for my own convenience and sanity. You could make the reasonable argument that this is exceptionally close-minded of me, and that by doing this I am removing the arguably most intriguing part of online role play--that is, new situations emerging and new characters spontaneously making themselves known, forcing me to adapt and improvise. You wouldn't be wrong. That said, I'm a working adult. I consider my time to be quite valuable. I have better things to do than wasting seconds of my life acknowledging or dismissing the latest half-primal son of Bahamut or Alphinaud's ex-boyfriend or the secret black ops assassin of the Scions whose name is only written in the margins of discarded middle school lab notebooks or outdated issues of The Punisher. At one point I used to be more than willing to give people the benefit of the doubt and to roll with the punches--however, years and years on the Internet has taught me that there is absolutely no quality control, and that if you give an inch of exception, people will gleefully take a mile. So at the most, I'll humour them with one or two superficial sentences of affirmation or vaguely apathetic brushing-off and then continue on my merry way.

The waiting was agony. Charged emotions permeated the air like a fog. Fear, pride, anxiety, anger, and even excitement amalgamated together in Pearl Lane. Everyone who resided in that slum knew that something was coming, but only some knew exactly what that something was. The streets were too quiet--the prevalent bandit gangs had begun to clear off of the streets for the day, and naught but beggars, peddlers, and the occasional Brass Blade patrol wandering through made their presence known. The sun shone brilliantly as it passed its zenith, casting menacing shadows across the pavement as men and women alike began to filter inside the once-abandoned buildings. The safe house, too, was devoid of conversation, but it was not empty, nor was it silent. Guns were loaded, swords sharpened, heads counted. There was a Highlander sitting on an intimidating rectangular structure inside the safe house, wordlessly cleaning a wicked, serrated falchion. He was dressed in naught but sack cloth trousers and boots, his bronze chest was thick and marked with scars. He'd shaven his ash-blonde beard, and his unkempt hair still sported the blood red highlights that marked who he was, and in his eyes a sharp clarity, tempered by withheld rage. This is the man who would change everything. He raised his head. After a quick check, everyone would be sent back out to the streets again to maintain the illusion of normalcy. It was gratifying to see that many of the faces he saw he recognised as former enemies--gangsters, bandits, crooks of all sorts, coerced or persuaded into joining under his banner. Miqo'te, Ala Mhigans, the Hellsguard brothers who'd stood by him...he could see the looks on their faces: apprehension, terror, and disquiet, but also hope, eagerness, and determination. Some of them knew what their actions meant for this city. Some didn't care. It would only be a few more suns. A few more suns, just enough time for the Blades to be distracted and the Sworn to be absent. Scythe didn't trust the pirate as far as he could throw him, but at this point, it didn't matter. The people of Ul'dah were given the tools, and they would make good use of them, and to rush a plan such as this was to invite certain destruction. The Highlander raised his head. An affirmative, indistinct shout was heard, and gradually the bandits began to filter back into the streets. The safe house was again quiet save for the shnk of an oil stone running across the edge of a blade. Just a few more suns.

Wow this thing really works well

obligatory anyway yoshi p is a pretty cool dude, eh successfully reboots mmos and doesnt afraid of anything is that meme still relevant please tell me it is

I'd like to go on record as saying that acknowledging inflammatory posts or strawman arguments--such as in my own post above--does more harm than good. Shining light on a bad flower does nothing but help it grow, in a manner of speaking. I'm not exactly good at leading by example. This I recognise. In the future when such posts are made, I strongly encourage everyone to do their best to simply ignore it, regardless of its content. Escalating a situation like I just did helps no one, and if your intention is to "get back" at a person or "put them in their place", then apathy, especially on a wide scale, is a far more effective expression of disdain than the most hateful vitriol. When bombs are being dropped left and right, do as the British did: keep calm and carry on.