ChewableMorphine

Remove Miqo'bab ocW3fBqPQkU

Oh I've settled Flynt being Josh Keaton for the longest time, (Destroyman, Young Ocelot, might know him better in The Amazing Spider-Man cartoons) fM_SsWNkRz4 fMEDw3bAiQg

Actually, something even closer to Flynt would be Big Bull in Anarchy Reigns (remember that game? Me neither.), but I hardly recognized it much of a fighter. It still works, though. KlB6R_o-8Ss

I feel like I've been summoned to this thread. Anyway, considering how Flynt's both a marauder and a ninja, we can play the groove rules here like SNK v Capcom. For Ninja Flynt, most definitely he'll play projectiles and hard hitting mediums into ultras. Best character who'd fit the bill would be DIO in Heritage for The Future. I could only wish to be ICly do timestops and roadrollers lmfao. bK8m0L7wo5M For Marauder Flynt there's no doubt about it he'd play like Shadow Labrys from Persona 4 Arena/Ultimax, obviously replace Asterius with like, I'dunno, one-handed punches. Flynt tends to vary between hand to hand and using the axe. -VQ-9EqnF6g However, if we're talking about 3D fighters, NINFlynt: Sweet soviet Krav Maga dCnRQb2i1Ow WARFlynt: Corny as it is, Astaroth fights as Flynt would; grapples and heavies. Qeo45oqDJwM

Just going to leave this here.

(snip) EDIT: Scratch that, forgot I had plans that day.

[align=center]One Man[/align] [align=center]One Plan[/align] [align=center]50 Miqo'te[/align]

May as well bump my own thread with some quality content. Orenji Kharn Gospel Gestalt Undyne, Orenji, Jenivieve, and Vyse /gposeing Flynt Reddard Vyse Gilder

Flynt Reddard for the Rising Claws. He really drew the short straw this time.

1. Flynt thinks you look like a sucker. Always a man of the dice, should Flynt see a somewhat slow-looking or otherwise exploitable person, it's almost instantaneous that he makes a wager. 2. Flynt is lost. Flynt isn't smart. He has been known to get lost in the most wild of locales, babbling incoherently and trying to rationalize his misplacement. He'd eventually surrender to his common sense and ask for directions. 3. Flynt is waiting. Being patient is something Flynt is bad at, and will often seek some form of distraction to keep his mind off of the wait, this often means making conversation with the nearest person. 4. Advertising. Flynt's a showman, likes to keep appearances, so it's not uncommon he'll shout out to some group of people about the latest front in the Sky Piracy trend, the Rising Skies Skyworks and Inn. Though eventually Flynt'll wind down and just bring it up in passive conversation when one-on-one. 5. Flynt finds you attractive. There really doesn't need much of an explanation here. Of course he'll try to be suave on anybody who's easy on the eyes.

Prepare for underwhelming revelation: Flynt -> flint -> a rock, also a really plain midwestern farmer name. Reddard -> Red (Favorite color) + Eddard (Stark, despite me not even liking GoT, I just liked his name a lot.)

"Yes! Good, alright. Well, after you finish that there delicious goodness, what would you like to do? You don't seem to have a great grasp on our culture, at least that what I think." he nodded eagerly, glad that P'rita showed interest in him. It was a good sign, for a shameless playboy, the feelings were still very much so there. He's simple, but not heartless. "Surely you've wanted to at least try something local? Ah, how could I forget... you're not a crowd person, me neither-- That's a lie." he fumbled helplessly. "Sorry about all this, usually it's easier to woo a woman into bed than actually go on dates. Pathetic, right?" he chuckled, he had no problem admitting his faults. In his eyes, it's easier to accept flaws by wearing them on your sleeve than hiding them away in the dark recesses of your personality. "Really though, I mean it. Let's do something. Do you like to swi-- I can't swim... U-Uh..." he came at a loss. Flynt was at his wit's end, trying to come up with some civil, decent topics for discussion; activities that aren't attending gaudy parties, causing civil unrest, or drinking until he forgets all the antics he had performed the morning after. Maturity was hard, something he needed P'rita for. Growing up is integral for a twenty-something trying to live a life of swagger and profits, garnished by infamy and extravagant notoriety. Flynt just muttered random ideas, shutting himself down after each and every one, thinking they're not up to par or something along those lines. [align=center]"I'm stumped."[/align]

"Knives are knives. Could be made of wood for all I care, the user decides its lethal capacity." "However, I can sure as hell admit that they're pretty. Tough stuff." he affirmed. This got him nowhere, evidently. What to do now? How can you get a name out of that? Flynt tried to keep conversation, he didn't feel for dessert, for really the treat sat right in front of him. Corny, he knows. "Order, I'll just be having a glass of... I don't know. Something sweet.", he waved back for the waiter, placing his order for a glass of cider. "Are you-- You doing anything after this? Got somewhere to be?" he asked, trying to sound normal about it. Probably didn't work. Subtlety is the better part of valor, but valor is a virtue Flynt has a severe deficit of. "N-not that we'd do anything! That'd be absurd. I just uh, want to know more. Get that damn name of yours." he jeered, clearly unimpressed about having to stoop to a state of desperation. How annoying. He had her so close, so damn close to getting her, but she had to pull the gimmicks out of a hat. Typical. Flynt was drawn into her trap, reluctantly. In his most irritated state, he inadvertently amplifies the feelings of interest and wonder toward P'rita-- Whoever she may be. It takes a special type of woman to trigger these kinds of stirrings. A physical attraction finally met with some mental stimuli, it was great, really. Truly a partner to cherish, at least when he finally overcomes this name game.

"I-- Yeah..." he fumbled, examining the foreign blade before seeing the waiter leave. Peculiar fellow. Flynt found no suspicion about him, not like he had any to begin with. His eyes found P'rita walking back to the table, greeting her with a smile and a nod. "Mostly pastries. Cheesecakes, fudge, flan. Missed you, by the by." he quipped, trying to be coy. His mind was to preoccupied with figuring it all out, though he did soon after cave to inquiry. "So... What's with the fancy stabber? Seems custom made. Nice stuff. Don't see this kind of stuff out of Doma or Abalathia. Tough metals from them there regions, yeah". That should suffice. He held the tang up to the sunlight, examining the intricate metallurgy put into its creation. "Matches the owner, in a way. Sharp. Useful. I want it." he snickered, knowing full-well now he's just trying to get on P'rita's good side while she's still in her happy-go-lucky state. What kind of a dinner date ends with just a hug and a kiss anyway? This is a Reddard date, it ends with a bang. No pun intended. Again. At the very least, he didn't plan on parting until he has her; he's waited too damn long between meetings anyway, so why bother letting her go? In a mix between interrogation and flirtation, Flynt masterfully weaved his words to both mine for information and soften up the Miqo'te in a fell swoop. Dusk began to on the couple's evening dinner, servicemen all around the restaurant preparing the torches and candles strewn about the patio deck. Flynt had a feeling things were going for the better, he just couldn't wipe that smug look of satisfaction off his face.

"Why is all that people think about have to be outward? I mean really, who cares. If they want the affection, I find fancy in them, and wouldn't mind being in a relationship with a shameless debauchee, so be it. If I feel like a woman with fairer skin, I'll get one. But right now, I want that one. She's got more going on for her than a tight rear, thankfully." he spoke, his tone as casual as ever. He was candid with the waiter, a heart to heart between two working men. "Hey now, you took her name, yeah? You wouldn't happen to be able to repeat it for me? I think she's just toying with me about it all, she must've had some sort of identification? Throw me a bone here, lad, I'll tip you extra." he joked, nudging the man's suit with an elbow with a big grin. "You heard her. She's wife material, ah? You wouldn't cockblock a gent like me, huh?" he teased some more, subtle pleading undertones lined his questions. Sure, he was joking around, but he liked what he heard. She's a keeper. No pun intended. "Listen, take this here five hundred or so, save it for a vacation. I'll double it if you can get me a name." he winked, slipping a bank note for five hundred gil, signed with a false account name into his apron. The money was real, the identity? Not quite. Unless you think Franklin Suddonim is a real name. "I'll be right here. Get it quicker and I'll get another fiver under that there grand." he ensured, really trying to get the man going.

Nothing felt more irritating than a challenge. Nothing comes for free nowadays, does it. Of course it had to be something as cliche as 'guess my true name', as if digging up some legal documents or asking a close friend for the answer wasn't the simplest way to go about things. He knew she was trying to get a foothold by making him flop about looking for answers as if it ultimately mattered. He really didn't care. Flynt gets what he wants, and won't resort to playing by the rules to get it. The good Major shook his head, rolling his eyes, giving her the satisfaction of compliance. Sure, he'll do it, and he'll retain his dignity all the same. Humoring the woman was the idea of the date, why be a stuck up prick about it? It was hard to take a challenge in which the magnitude of success and failure was so severe so seriously when the challenger is mewling like a kit over basic seafood. Her sudden generosity didn't help much neither, albeit well-received. It was a shitty knife he was handed by the server, the finely crafted knife P'rita lent over was much better. It severed the well-singed meat by the bare muscle and meat, a single draw of the edge across the slab was well enough to cut it up and leave it soaking in the bloody puddle of garnish, oils, and hemoglobin. Flynt felt out of place with the combat knife in hand, using a full-fledged weapon at the dinner table is usually something your parents told you not to do. But its not like it mattered all to horribly, a playboy and a refugee are out to dinner in the same world where the economic powerhouse of the country is run by a pink midget and a beefcake warlord actively being undermined by the goddamn lollipop guild. "...It's probably some sort of dip made up of some of the local produce. Summerford, maybe. Beats me." he shrugged, setting down the sizable blade to grasp his seventy gil bottle of water, taking swigs after every morsel consumed by the voracious meat connoisseur. Wine would be an ideal pair, but Flynt is under the constant worry that he won't control himself while drunk, he was tiny, a lightweight. Better not risk it. "Well, you seem so sure that if I find your name and see to my rightful claim that you are some sort of big catch. All I see is a pretty face and a good talker. Sell me on why I should take time and effort out of my life to want to find something likely buried in the archives of some immigration office-- which would cost me a fortune to get into, by the by. Give me some incentive, what can you do that others can't?" He had faith in P'rita, surely a worthy investment, but it still never dawned to him that something so contrived as a 'hidden' name would be worth it. Determination? Like hell Flynt would put unnecessary effort into something he has hardly any knowledge of. Like betting for a mystery prize, why go all in without knowing what you're getting? It's a fool's errand. He wants foundation to base his investigation; something to sell him. What could possibly intrigue the capricious Hyena into putting this much effort into a simple challenge? Was she an exceptional cook? A goddess in bed? Rich beyond measure? Secretly famous? Immensely powerful? What is there to gain?

He let out a tired sigh, expecting a reply like that. "Idiot.", he parroted to himself. He's heard worse, but it still didn't feel great. "In my defense, I think a mature figure is much needed in my life; I see somebody with much under their belt in you. I hadn't really known all to much from empiric knowledge: age." he trailed on. "Yeah. Just crack open the shell with the butt of your knife, if you were served with a small mallet or vice, use that-- But, seriously." he went on some more, feeling that he didn't quite make his point clear enough. "I do want to call it quits sooner than later, but my love life is not like most. I've come to terms with that. I do, however, want you. Simple and clear." he stated flatly, cutting the crap and stating his mind. "Age really doesn't matter, well-- Yes, it does, but that's contextually sensitive. I find you attractive, no? I do, therefore I wish to pursue." he clarified, leaning over to cut up the slab of meat on his plate with a serrated steak knife obviously worn by the wooden grip, it's seen many overpriced meals be cut into morsels before. What an experienced knife. If you really want to dig into it, though, I guess it's that very same mundane ideology that attracts Flynt to P'rita in the first place. [align=center] It's a shabby knife, sure, but it'll get the job done, as long as it is taken care of.[/align]

"Crayfish, sure... Alright. I'm paying, so you know. I came into some wealth, working my ass off. Not like I spend it on myself anyhow, so I insist." he stated coolly, absent in thought, but present nonetheless. "You look fine, very fine. I know it's not your thing, but so long as you're in Eorzea, I suggest you get used to the style of dress. You look nice, anywa-- I'm repeating myself." he cut himself off. Flynt waved over a server, allowing the couple to place their orders, Flynt simply ordered a glass of overly expensive water and an overglorified steak; the most pretentious of dishes: the filet mignon. He had the gil, he had even less of a damn to give about it neither. Nodding off the waiter with a grateful smile, he returned to his somber, more honest demeanor. "Tell me," he mused, "You're really strung up on me, aren't you.". He leaned back against his seat, twiddling his thumbs, finding comfort in P'rita's presence. "You do Know that I'm not one for a single woman. I can't, it's simply not in my interests. Of course, I am not implying you need compete with somebody else for my attention." "It's just a matter of your own comfort. I'm interested, you're interested, everything is hunky-dory, right? It feels wrong to advance without you aware that you are not the only one. Ah, rest assured, you won't be pushed aside, neither. My love is indefinite, it chooses no favorites. Unorthodox? Yes. Healthy? Well, I try to accommodate the individual wants and needs of my lovers." The explanation ran on, he was honest about it all. It really would be a shame to go on with any romantic advances without both sides on common ground; after all, that's the fine line between being a booty call and a love interest. "Call me a tramp, a playboy, whatever you find most fitting. I simply cannot confide in a single one, easy as that.", he concluded after a long-winded proposition. "What say you?", he asked with a genuine smile, seeing out of his peripheral vision that the food was near completion, being placed on silver platters.

"The job is fine. I've been doing what I've been doing for months on end; being a waste of space." he replied dryly, the tone of dissatisfaction prevalent in his commentary. "Playing dress-up to get a few laughs, play the fool, anger some of the regulars. It's all so monotonous, tried cooking up my own personal ring of entertainment, but even then, you never really feel proud of what you do. Well, at least I don't. I just do what keeps me happy for the moment at hand. Past already happened, future can be dealt with as it comes. What about yourself? You look spiffy." he smiled, releasing the tense grip on his leg, leaning back into his seat with both hands balled on his lap. Something wasn't right about him, he felt a touch more on-edge, something was plaguing him, but even he doesn't know what. A result of cumulative fights, physical and verbal, led him to feel rather trigger-sensitive; the sight of P'rita, despite not one of his more regular confidants, cohorts, or concubines, eased his nerves some. She's yet to piss him off, and doubts she ever will. She had that motherly feel to her, despite the shockingly young appearance. Flynt thinks to himself if that's weird, seeing an older woman. "N-Nah..." he accidentally vocalized, trying to rationalize in his mind, slipping out audibly rather than internally.

After a long day of shamelessly making a damn fool of himself, it came to be for the good Flynt Reddard to go to Flynt Beddard. Making his way through the Gate of Nald after a heart-to-fist with the Grindstone, sure he got rid of it once and for all; that goddamn bird flew down from the high heavens, delivering what may as well could have been a message from the Twelve saying 'Go fuck yourself.'. Thankfully, Flynt was beaten and bruised well into sanity for the next few hours, taking the note from the chocobo chick's talons. Opening it up, he first felt threatened. "What do I owe?", was the first thing that sprung to mind, but really, after some healthy dosage of common sense, he figured that he was being asked out. Alright. Cool. Shooing the bird off, he proceeded to his room in the Quicksand, which reeked of urine, bodily fluids, and daddy issues as per usual. From there he awaited the day, which in literary context, was the next one, go figure. Flynt didn't feel the need to dress over-the-top, the Major was simply going to another PR stunt to boost his ego. Dressed in a black coatee, topped with a striped bowtie, accented by riding pants and spurred leather boots; Flynt looked like he came back from a chocobo race, drinking with peabodies and gamblers staking their hard earned cash on wealthy pricks with too much gil than what they're worth. Regardless, he was sharp. Just what he needed. The Hyena marched off, nose up high, to the city's central aetherite, taking the rift to Limsa Lominsa, another subsequent warp to the Culinary Guild on the upper decks of the portside city. From there, he took a seat at one of the vacant tables, unsure who he's going to see, for the letter did not quite specify. He kept his chin propped up on a bent hand, the other staying firm on the stiletto on his pant-leg, half-expecting a bag to come over his head, half-expecting an adoring fan to come waltzing in to court him. [align=center]All he could do was wait.[/align]

On the side of the most recently bumped posts, it read 'A Seeker, a Keeper, and a Xaela..." and I was hoping you were gonna make a 'x walked into a bar' joke. I am sad. You made me sad.

Now pruned to an unsightly excuse of a Hyur, Flynt thought it was about damn time to go. His wandering would lead him to the rocky cliff of Outer La Noscea, where lo and behold, the bird came fluttering down. Again. It seems every couple hours the little avian has something to give, enjoyable, sure, but still rather immersion-breaking. Would you want to be assaulted by a miniature chocobo in a funny hat, whipping questions at you like some sort of fantasy paparazzi? Didn't think so. Thankfully, Flynt was a filthy attention whore, and viewed every letter as an ego boost. Reading the note, he felt... Less than stellar. Insulted, almost. Without much hesitation at all, the answer was clear as day: [align=center]"Ít's a͠ ͠bl͢o͠od͜y̸ p̧o̡me̢g̛ra͢n͜ate,͜ d̸o y͘ou ta͝k͡é ͡me ̵f̡o̢r ̢şo҉me ͠s͡o͠r̡t of ͘f̕o̷ol?"[/align] His penmanship was a slipshod, conveying the near-reflexive answer with his penstrokes alone. By the density of Thal's left testicle has Flynt ever been so insulted, such a mundane question, read less as a riddle than a test of his wit; something that needs little testing, to be frank. He sat at Overlook, drumming his fingers over his bent knee as he sat on the airship landing, waiting for what she had to say now, if she could control the situation without inadvertently angering the straightforward gentleman.

Over some several hours into his bar-lounging, the good Major thought to himself the time-old revelation of: [align=center]"This is stupid."[/align] Tossing his heels off the oaken tabletop of the Aleport tavern, he meanders back off into the wild. Heading northbound for a refreshing dip in Camp Bronze Lake's springs, it was a few yalms near Memeroon's outpost where a small black bird came fluttering down with another damn note. Nabbing the letter and slip-shoddily unfurling it from it's bindings he braced himself and began reading it;"What does one do for fun?" - P'rita. Oh, joy, this one's a bit more on the nose, now isn't it? What does one do for fun? You'd assume fun was subjective, my pleasure is your displeasure and vice versa. Then you look at it from a literal perspective of hedonism, to seek pleasure; isn't that fun on it's own? Oh... There it is again, the tell tale notation of when he's thinking too hard on mundane queries: [align=center]"...This is stupid."[/align] Regardless, he fed the annoying little courier more snacks from his bag as he thought over the question on Memeroon's Ferry across Bronze Lake. Looking over the Wanderer's Palace, he found some respite in the visuals, easing his thoughts to a more reasonable pace. He produced a fountain pen from his satchel, taking the note and flipping it over to a blank space, proceeding to pen down: [align=center]"One finds talking with Two to be an enjoyable pass-time, Four and Five are rather rude, and Three is really just a good listener, not much to commit to."[/align] Like hell he was going to going to give her that honesty she wanted, not that easily, at least. She ambled into Flynt's territory, where answers are scarce and questions are made. In due time, perhaps, but for now, Flynt took pride in his work of ambiguity (and subsequent ignorance through his farce). With a smile, he handed the note back to the messenger, waving it off into wherever it damn so felt like going. Off to Camp Bronze Lake, now, to arbitrarily idle in the springs until somebody tells him to leave or he finds means to move his lazy ass from a comfortable perch in the springs. Such is life for a man like Flynt. He found a fondness to P'rita, through pity perhaps? Maybe her dedicated want of knowledge pertaining to the Hyena was flattering, thus sparking some interest? Regardless, he waited for the next letter in silence, only the sound of rushing water and rolling thunder to stimulate his senses.

On a long, pointless walk down the fields of La Noscea, the good Major ambled for something to do. Heckling passers-by can only provide so much entertainment, he needed food, the hungry bastard. Nearing the walled gates of Aleport, a small Chocobo fluttered down to him, bearing a message; "Write your favorite food and send it back to me. -P'rita". Flynt eyed the note, finding such absurdity in it's meaning that he felt the need to meet it with his unique brand of wit. He led the little bird to tail him into one of the few bars the bargemen have for respite on their long travels. Taking the note and flipping it over, he scribbled: [align=center]"Your favorite food."[/align] Feeling proud of his work, he settled over a meal of marmot and ale, despite his harsh distaste for the drink. At this point, he was too smug to give a damn, giving the bird some of the bread placed on the small dish by the main course and shooing it off with a pat over the head and a note in possession. Perfect, ingenious, he's outdone himself; the perfect reply. Though honestly, it wasn't phenomenal, to Flynt it was. He kicked up his heels and let the time fly by, tipping the barkeep handsomely to assure nobody will bother the eccentric loiterer, biding his time.