Zhavi

Maaaaan. . . I should uh.... I should hit 50. HOW'S THAT FOR NOT SEEING CONTENT?!

The cut had crusted over; its edges were red and slightly puffy. Zhi cocked an eyebrow at Flit, eyes and mouth flat. "Naw, I'm a rock what don't feel pain."

There was a certain risk in going to a place like Scuttlebutt, even if it was on this side of sunset. It was beloved of the city's worst, and that wasn't particularly good when it came to keeping her own hide safely intact in one piece. Whatever. There were few times when Zhi could be said to not care. Dice in her hands, cards between her fingers, nose to the air and forcing herself to appear relaxed: she was as close to not caring as she'd ever been. Somewhere between paddling to shore and settling her debts, and seeing that thrice-damned wanted poster, something inside of her had shorted out. She was so rutting tired of all the shit she had to shovel. While true, it wasn't no use to bitch and moan about it, there was a line at which she just shut down. She was toeing that line. Zhi wanted to get high. Craved it, needed it, burned with the desire to go find Jager and steal whatever pretty things he kept locked away in overly ornate boxes. Naw, we ain't gonna do that jes now. . . A few bells had passed by the time she realized the familiar scent on the salt-stinking air belonged to Flit. Good lad. She waited until she was knocked out of the present game (up twenty, and she wasn't going to go spend it on smokes, not yet, not today, just a little bit longer) before she grumbled out her excuses and left the table. There were too many ears in Scuttlebutt, even so late at night. It was a hive of gossip and rumors; you were stupid if you said anything of import to yourself while you were there. Zhi passed Flit as she left the traveling gambling den and its crew of scrags. She didn't acknowledge him, but she knew he'd follow. Her fingers cautioned silence until they were a spire away, deep into territory that was claimed by a baron, as neutral as it could have been so long as you didn't make trouble or try to edge in on profits, whatever those might be. "Things went sour. I ran. I kept meself livin' -- an' a sight better'n yerself. Y'still wet behind th'ears, or are ye gonna grow yerself a pair?"

Zhi ducked her head in a nod, turned halfway towards him, and just looked at him. Her expression was slowly crumbling, exposing a piteousness that she'd not previously shown him. She hugged herself a little harder and looked down at the ground. She hadn't moved a step further in or around the room. She just stood there: an awkward guest, tension writ into the stiff lines of her body.

Zhi turned away from him. How far was it safe to push him? With that tone of voice. . . She waited, silent, for him to make the next move. Sometimes, rarely, there was strategy in silence. Even she could admit that.

The rest of the night was incredibly productive, so long as you counted productivity as getting blind drunk and doing things in alleyways that would make any well-adjusted person retch. Brindle found her in the morning, tucked away into one of the hidey-holes he knew about, snoring and generally smelling like she'd raided a brewery, only with fouler additives tossed into the mix. He got a few kicks in before she roused, still inebriated and with more to spare. She had a bottle to her lips (she'd fallen asleep with it clasped to her chest; it accounted for the smell since half of what had been left had dribbled out) before Brindle had the chance to start speaking. Disgust wrinkled up his nose as he watched her, distracted from his original intent. "Already?" Her eyes were bloodshot as she stared him down. Unfortunately for her, she was far too lame a sight for her usual tactics to have much effect. He shrugged and presented a scrap of paper. She squinted at it, and took another gulp. "Whazzat?" "Jacks put coin on yer head." The bottle slipped in her fingers. She almost dropped it; reflexes honed by years of drinking saved it. "Jacks what?" Brindle turned the paper around to look at it. Since he could read only marginally better than she, Zhi cold only assume he was highly enjoying himself. Scrag. "Th'name 'Melodia' ringin' yer bells, boss?" "Sonuva ship's whore, that--" The ranting carried on for awhile. _______________ Zhi didn't make it to Her Highness. The day passed, and she skulked. The day was for daytrippers. The night was for keepers. Streetrunners didn't get pinned with bounties. Not generally. They kept to the underside of things. They were facilitators. They kept their noses to the ground, their ears open, and slid around just outside of everyone's immediate attention. They weren't worth the effort, even as they curried favors and cultivated connections. They were sly, sneaky bastards. Streetrunners didn't get caught. Scrags got caught. Flit would either figure it out or he wouldn't. He'd either sulk and get over it, or he'd keep up his murderous little shitstorm and piss on her memory. Her Highness might be neutral territory, but it was also one of her frequent haunts, and there was one real entrance and exit. Any number of idiots could be waiting for her, the sort looking to curry favor with jacks. The sort that three thousand gil meant food and shelter for a moon. It wasn't exactly the sort of attention she wanted to bring to herself so soon off the dock; she'd be a laughingstock to get caught up in hunters. More than she already was. Shit. It wasn't until sunset that Zhi walked the streets, climbed spires, trotted over rooftops and ran over and around the city. She'd said Her Highness, she made her way to Scuttlebutt, after a few careful questions of those she knew wouldn't bother with such a bounty. The snickering got under her skin, but she only showed her own self-deprecation. Okay, and maybe a little irritation. Only a little. She wound up at the edge of the open-air gambling den, no drinks or smokes to keep her company. She was on edge. A hat had been donned, covering her ears; her tail had been wrapped up under a wide sash. She'd dressed the part of a skinny boy. Listening was made more difficult by the hat, but it was necessary; she gleaned what she could, playing a few rounds here and there -- she kept herself even, neither winning too much or losing too often. Flit either would find her, or she'd find him again, in his shitty, smelly apartment with his blade between them. Fun times.

Herding cats.

"Little shit!" Zhi was moving. Her legs flexed, and she'd hopped backwards up into the window sill. The bottle of wine arced and clattered to the floor, cracking as it hit. "T'morrow, I'll be at Her Highness." One step backwards, and she was off the side of the building. She caught the lip of the window, and was scaling down. Her voice drifted up behind her. "Less y'think ye can catch me, y'wet -- " the rest of the sentence was garbled by her rapid descent.

She flinched back from the cut. Three, two, one . . . it started to sting. Not a lot, but enough for her to know that it'd be a bitch later. Pissed and afraid. That just pissed her off more. She let him see the edges of that complex whorl of emotion, her impatience and her uncertainty. It beat letting him know he'd managed to rile her. "Is it worth me time, or do I walk an' save meself wasted breath?"

Of all the -- Zhi backed up against the window, a thrill of fear spiking through her. So. He wasn't just throwing tantrums now, he was throwing them with sharp steel to make his point. She tossed her head, ears going back, and fought to keep herself from spitting at his feet. She kept her saliva to herself. Barely. She also just barely managed to keep the haughtiness, and the scorn out of her voice. She didn't like groveling, not by any stretch, and she was less in a mood than usual to perform the necessities that kept her breathing. Rutting Nald'thal, again. Her voice was level when she spoke. She'd a last shred of dignity to her, yet. Best not spend it before she had to. "Either ye hold steady and deal like a man," she almost rolled her eyes again, resisted, "or I'll leave ye t'yer gladhapping an' not darken yer door again. Yer own choice."

Zhi hopped to the side as the blade clattered, unselfconscious about her twitchiness. Reflexes kept you alive; weren't no shame in moving. Her grin remained in place, however, and she stooped to pick it up. She observed it as he spoke, and when he did -- she laughed. Delighted, hooting laughter, as if they were trading humorous anecdotes over a pint. Like they had, at one point in time. Time, yeah, that was always the problem. She rolled her eyes. "Don't be a gadabout, or craven. Ye knew what ye were signing up fer when ye treaded water wi' me, an' if ye claim innocence then I'll claim ye a lackwit." The dagger was nice, especially for him. She didn't know what that meant. Yet. "Now, ye gonna cry or are ye gonna get over yer blimmin' self? I don't do tantrums, flittermouse. Never have." He always had been a loose cannon. Too bad she needed him.

Doooo theyyyy? Zhi's more likely to do that whole ram into you with her shoulder when she walks past with an 'oops, did I do that?' and a horrendous leer. :3 Welcommmeee! Kitties always welcome. Always. For sho. Check out the artisan house start up a thread and offer your services! Someone's likely to bite, creativity is always adored here. Until it's not. But you'd have to be pretty gross to have your creativity be unloved. If you have any questions, ask away. The community here is excellent and pretty friendly.

Ehehe, I think Scurvy Dogs might suit a bunch of ne'er-do-wells better than those looking to clean up the streets. <3 Dogberry. You're pretty rad.

Zhi wrinkled her nose and slipped inside. Gods, when had she last heard that? She smirked. All too often. "Y'got any more o' that?" She nodded down to the fragments of glass, the splattered liquid. "Ain't had no drink in half a moon, an' me thirst is right powerful enough t'topple even a roegadyn. Fancy?" She didn't move further into the room. It didn't matter whether or not Flit spooked her; even the most bumbling idiot occasionally struck true. "Or are ye still a helpless squallin' babe cryin' fer his mam?" She looked him up and down, a wicked grin splitting her lips. "Can't say as I'm impressed, flittermouse."

Too overprotective? That was a thing? Of all the responses Zhi had envisioned this man having to her little stunt, telling her his room wasn't safe enough (seas drown her, but what a rutting stupid thing to say!) had not even occurred to her. Who said that? She dipped her head, bit her lip -- hide her surprise, hide her irritation -- and wrapped her arms around herself. Her tail was nearly pressed between her legs, ears back: misery personified. "I don't want t'leave," she whispered, glancing around before settling on the door behind him. Begging. Was she reduced to begging? Seriously? Whatever it took. "Please don't m-make me leave. Not yet. Please?"

Shit! Zhi had forgotten about the healing potential in arcanists. In but a few moments, her imaginings of a few days spent convalescing in his home until his guard was lowered were completely wrecked. New plan. Hiding out still worked; the fear from receiving such a harsh warning would count for a lot. She hoped. Everything improved in seconds, and though she flinched back from him and his power, she unconsciously straightened as pain dimmed and disappeared. Magic had always intrigued and repulsed her; she still didn't look down as it fixed her damaged body. "P-please let me stay. Jes a few suns, I swear, I jes --" she cringed. "I can't." She was staring at his feet. She was wringing her hands. Nald'thal, ye ruttin' bloody bastard, tip it me own way!

Wait but it finally got all dirty and stuff.... (<3 for any and all Limsa rp!)

I'm bendy mcbenderson when it comes to lore. Especially when it comes to Limsa's horrendous in-game representation and lack of cutesy little rp nooks. *shakes fist* I'm of the opinion that nothing is ever perfect when it comes to lore. You stick to what is set in stone, and do your best where things get fuzzy. Ask advice when you see a need, but most of all have fun.

Adrenaline kicked her in the gut. Zhi was suddenly at mercy to it, the reality of Lalataru's seriousness clawing at her -- and the knowledge that she was about to willingly commit herself to a closed room she hadn't the chance to scope. She might die inside. The nervous grin that threatened to spread across the breadth of her face was only just kept at bay; she kept her eyes downcast and let her lips tremble with the effort of keeping her face straight. The pain that resulted from the strain helped. Her movements were ginger, economical: they evinced pain though she strove to keep it to a minimum. Distrusting gutterborn wouldn't show any more weakness then they had to. Joz would be hurting in other ways from the need to darken Lalataru's door. "I didn't have -- I didn't have nowhere else t'turn," she started, tongue tripping over her nervousness, and Joz's, and the need to ensure he pity her in the right ways. "Ain't meant t'trespass, Master Lolotaru, but -- nnf!" She clipped her shin on the edge of the door on her way in. She hadn't meant to -- damned fool, she -- but the pain blossoming over tender bruises was useful to her. She hobbled further inside, biting her tongue against cursewords she wasn't sure Lolotaru could appreciate. At the least, her eyes were watering again. She let the liquid tremble over her lower eyelids, hoping he'd see.

The paths Zhi had tread the past few moons had kept her out of the heart of the city, and it took some readjusting as she paced its streets. One of her holes had been jacked, and she wrote it off with a scowl and a glare for the boy -- "What?" being his own sullen response, some of the steel returned -- but eventually the gear and loot they carried was delivered into the proper drop locations. Or eager hands. The boy was licking his lips as Zhi counted up the coin, shifted out his pay, and handed it to him. But before he could leave, she shook free a few more coins and held them out expectantly. "Brindle." He looked back, eyed the coin as if it bared fangs. He looked at her the same way. It made her smile. "Watch. Gad. Stay off yer new buddy. Make contact, an' I'll be knowin', an' ye won't like what I make o' it, understand?" He shifted, and glared. He spat between them, but took the coin. She was losing him. Circumstances being what they were, she hadn't been able to cut him loose like she'd intended. She'd pay for that, more than she already had. "Fondle a sheep, Zhio," he muttered. She didn't offer him anything more but a cheshire grin, hiding her surprise at the old affection. It felt cheap coming from him, now. The old apartment was but a street over from where Zhi parted ways with Brindle, and she moved quick over it. She'd put on some small padding of muscle, and she put it to good use as she scaled the building and peered inside the old room. She snorted to smell him in there; idiot had stayed put while she'd been gone. Lucky he hadn't gotten himself killed, the way things looked. Her Keeper eyes picked over the room, over him, and scorn rose up in her throat. It was mirrored in her voice. "Ye smell worse'n a bilge filled wi' a moon's worth o' gadabouts' shit, y'beggared churl."

(this post takes place after Control and Art of Shamelessness) So much could change in five days' time. And change, in Zhavi's experience, was almost always a bad thing; Nald'thal being as keen to tip the scales as he was on the side not to her favor. That sometimes they did go in her favor was more a product of his ever-present cruelty than any indication of kindness. The gods were never kind. Fair, maybe. Just, certainly, sometimes. Hard-edged indifference, however, with dashes of spite and hatred was more their thing. That was what she knew. She'd wrapped herself up in a tatty cloak, had flicked her crooked and tender nose twice to provoke tears and pain (and oh, gods, had she sworn up a blistering streak for that necessity), and had settled herself outside of Lalataru's door. She looked pathetic. More than usual, she looked like one of the wretched that clung to the skirts of the city, occasionally shaken off into the drink to no one's pity. Jager'd tossed her room a day after he'd beaten her all to hell. Rather, what little there was to toss. What small valuables she'd to her name (the books, mostly) had been given over to Jager. Then she'd gone down into hiding, avoiding contact with all who knew her. For four days she'd been out of Styrmsthal's way. He'd have been to her room. He'd have seen the damage. He'd have told Lalataru, who should be back. If he wasn't, well, she'd be right proper fucked, and would have to adjust her plans. In the meantime, she waited: body bruised, scabbed, and miserable. Her right eye was still swollen to all hell, and her face a right mottled mess. She favored her right hip, and contusions marked her head to toe. If ever there was a young woman who might elicit sympathy out of a kind-hearted and protective man, well. . .it probably wasn't Zhi. But she could, maybe, come close. Hopefully.

Oof. I hope things turn out well for you. I had circumstances affecting my emotional state and what time I had, and taking a break to deal with them really, really helped. RP should be fun. If it becomes more of an obligation than a stress relief (especially considering your financial situation), then it's time to take a break to take care of you. I hope all gets better, or (at the very minimum), more easily manageable -- emotionally, physically, and financially.

angst angst angst!

I think, then, that there is an acknowledged difference between those players engaging in storytelling, and those engaging in predatory or . . .hmm, socially unacceptable behavior that promotes victimization. In which case, I don't think anyone in the thread is encouraging the ooc side of things where people do ic things for personal ooc reasons (ie, pushing a character to do something not because it's something the character would do, but because the player wants it to happen no matter what); none of that is okay, in my book, because real people wind up getting hurt or victimized. But, yes, there are some rpers who do push boundaries and write questionable material either to push themselves or try out some form of writing (after all, there are plenty of rpers who use rp as a means to practice in the hopes of one day writing something more serious). I agree that they're more likely a minority, however, and honestly I wouldn't be comfortable writing really questionable stuff with people outside of people I've rped with for a long time and have gotten to know oocly for just that reason -- I don't want it to be used as a means of, well, getting someone off. But, to me, there is a level of squeamishness that I tend to avoid no matter the age of the character, where things go from legitimate attempt to use situation to further story or character development to sheer gratuity. At that point (and I agree, the threshold is lower the younger the character is), to me, it is pointless to write because it has utterly no point beyond the gratuity, and that's where things get dangerous. But, all of that said, everyone's level of comfort is different, and, you know, the point of a community is to be able to air your opinions -- especially where you fear something is going on that is detrimental to the community. So, I don't think you should feel like people think you're inciting a witchhunt. You're genuinely concerned, and should be applauded for speaking up on a matter you feel is important. (and, just to be clear on my own end, I'm speaking from the angle of emotionally and physically immature characters (children or teenagers) being written by two adults. I tend to avoid writing anything really awful with people I know are young because there is (usually!) mental and emotional immaturity, and I do believe some things should wait. I know a young man who lied on another site I am on about his age in order to be allowed in, as there is an age limit of 16. While we forbade him to participate in anything questionable until he turned 18, stuff happened as it so often does. He was only 14 or 15 when he joined, and unfortunately he got taken advantage of by a 19 year old girl who, though the age difference wasn't that great, still manipulated and hurt him and some other of our male writers -- unbeknownst to the staff, this kid was getting threats from other guys on site to stay away from her, and it was just this huge cluster. As he told me, he thought he was old enough/mature enough to handle it -- and he wasn't. That's the problem, and where predation becomes such a huge deal)

This debate kinda makes me think of Karen Marie Moning's (she writes varying levels of smut, with her more recent books focusing more on story over smut, but still.... yeah, people read it for the romance/smut) response to the outcry over her latest series, featuring a 14 year old protagonist. When asked, she said that yes, the character will end up having steamy sex with one of the immortal hunks in the story before she turns 18. The outcry was immediate and vicious, to which she replied (and I am very loosely paraphrasing): teenagers have sex. Get over it. Yeah, I did see the discussion about literary value in novels over smut written between two individuals earlier, but there is no need for things to necessarily be explicit or venture into the whole legality thing. I, for one, think it is much more tasteful for it to be addressed as growth for the character, rather than always having to be some grotesque caricature of passion for the sole purpose of avoiding, as saefinn put it, an idea about the age of consent. I do remember discussing, with a rp partner on another site, the prospect of tossing our two male teenage characters (though, mine is 19 and hers .... 17? I think?) into a situation with a prostitute, where the scene planned would be so awkward and horrific in its embarrassing qualities that others would cringe out of reading it (with the prostitute in question being a horror in her own right, aesthetically speaking :3 ). Which is, to me, the main fun I have writing teenagers: awkward, awful, embarrassing. Complete with, you know, never being able to maintain eye contact with the other person ever again. And in that there isn't any need to be explicit. But it does build character, and it is possible to be tasteful and focus on the characters/plot over . . . using the scene as a way to get your rocks off. Which I am not advocating. Then again, like I've said before, I really like writing about imperfections. I was never one for perfect romances, anyways, and youth gives you that chance to evoke a sense of gawkiness and shame that is, somehow, permissible and forgivable while being occasionally endearing (assuming you manage to avoid the whole annoying twat thing, of which I have run afoul more than once). ...but who am I kidding. I just want people to remember something particularly embarrassing about their teenage years and cringe away from the writing in acute self-loathing. <3