Shuck

I'm sorry, you're totally certain that it was me? And...you're really, really going to pursue this (even going so far as to insist that there was an attack. Which, again, no there wasn't. You can chant that there was, but you haven't defended that point) even after your entire argument was just kind of splayed open? Buddy, if you can't erect a counter-point, don't resort to personal attacks. You don't have to like me. But you don't get to do this. (Nice edit, though! I'm eagerly awaiting your actual counter-point.)

There's one. One person is not "so many". The others spoke their piece, and tottered on about their business. We're starting off on shaky ground, but whatever: Let's mambo. So, you're not saying this is what was said. You're pretty much admitting that you're purposefully misinterpreting the material presented. I mean, I would've stopped here. You can't assume meaning, or attach subtext. You have nothing but the words written to take your message from, and if you can't even do that to reinforce your point, you have no point. You're out of context, which is, again, a willful misinterpretation of the material presented. The rest of the sentence that this was taken from is as follows: This thread was created as an offshoot of another discussion, and this in no way implies that anyone is absolutely inferior. Not even kind of. So, no dice here, unless you're looking to make a fight where there isn't any. "I personally feel-" I mean, the preamble here is enough to destroy this particular point. Again, the only juncture where this becomes an attack is when you're making an effort to misunderstand what's being said. Two for two so far. This is crazy on two counts: 1. It's agreed that idealized characters are less than realistic. By extension, characters that are not so idealized are agreed to be more realistic. That's not some dark secret, that's pretty common knowledge, and the line of thought that any sensible individual would follow. Not so for someone looking to create a problem, though! 2. Again, the author of the post states "to me". It's a statement of a personal opinion, not a denouncement of an individual or group of individuals. Unless...are we seeing a pattern here? 1. You're out of context. Again. Because you've already framed your entire argument on the premise of an intentional misunderstanding. Rest of the sentence: This sentence even gives an out. No semblance of an attack so far. 2. I guess you gave up here? You didn't even attempt to mark this as hostile, you must mentioned that some worlds in the Final Fantasy franchise support hyper-idealized characters. Ok? That's not...really...anything. Basically, unless you're looking to fly your war-flag, and willing to invent a cause to fly it for, there's no attack in that opening post. Ask yourself this: Would you bother with this kind of giant leap of logic if the person you thought was being "attacked" (and they aren't, and have no room to believe they are) didn't agree with you? Because I don't think you would. Yeah, but that's not our fault, not our baggage to carry, and not our issue to heal. That's his issue. Which he brought to the forefront. Don't be passive-aggressive. It helps nothing and nobody anywhere, or at anytime. Back toward the topic, I'd like to pose a pair of related questions: What is it that players who play pretty characters do to mark experiences? Follow up: Why do you prefer this method? On the flip: Same question to those of us who prefer to mess our dudes up a bunch. I'll even start. How I mark experiences: Honestly, it depends on the scenario. A terse argument isn't going to leave much more than a funk for a few days if it's from a source that matters to the character, but a fight where knives are drawn tends to leave a mark. Aside from that, I like to take time and climate into account. Have they been somewhere dry for a long time? What kind of sun does it get? How intense are the storms? All of these things impact skin and hair, almost as much as biological parents and regional culture. Add to that, they tend to do so to the point where you can kind of tell where someone's been by looking at them. Faces that tell stories are wonderful points for interaction. Why I prefer this method: Otherwise, the whole of the character's travels seems trivialized to me. It's kind of like how you can put Superman up against whatever, and you know for a fact that he's going to come out on top. If it's a physical threat? He will punch it until it is no longer a threat. If it isn't something punchable? Still doesn't matter, he's incorruptable. The story only has one ending, and that bores the ever-loving shit out of me.

Aaaaaawwwwwwwwww shit. We are ready to receive.

Really? Ok, that's cool. Let's clear this up: First, could you point out to me where someone was looking down on him? Because for the life of me, I can't find it. Not in any re-reading of the posts to date. Nor can several other people. If you've got your finger on the hot-button, so to speak, let us know where it is. That way, we, as a community, can avoid this pitfall in the future. Now, barring that (as was stated, I just plain don't see where anyone was saying he was bad, and should feel bad), he did say, as you quoted: Basically: Go somewhere else. This passage here says that there is a flood of media for these people to go to, and that we should... Indicating that he was running out of bastions from an encroaching, consuming hostile force. Which he isn't. Because this force doesn't exist. So. When we follow the words themselves, not subtext, not implications, not anything but the words that were written, we're left with this message: I wish you would go to any of the other places you can go to so that I can stay here. Which is not great. If you have any other issues in following this train of thought, feel free to ask.

Wait, why? My thoughts exactly: Big whoop. I'm not entirely sure why you feel the need to defend yourself. Woah, woah, woah. Hang on just a goddamned minute. Not everything Japanese has to do with beautiful lady-boys prancing about in pretty pretty clothing. This is Japanese: This is also Japanese: What you're talking about is a particular subset of pop-culture that has a global market. It's not even uniquely Japanese these days. It's certainly not the only method in which vibrance can be conveyed in character design or personality, and to suggest otherwise would mean a willful ignorance of every. Single. Other. Kind. Of. Media. On. The. Planet. Which I don't think you're trying to display. I mean really, someone with a more realistic take on the circumstances their characters are enduring is excluded from having a character with any semblance of energy? Expecting uniform acceptance of any personal taste in media anywhere is crazy. Also, why would you want that? Why wouldn't you want a bunch of differing opinions to hold discussions with? Why would you want everyone to sit in a circle, and nod their heads in agreement as they took turns talking about shit they liked? That sounds like hell to me. All that being said, I still don't really know why you're on the defensive. Ok, now we finally, after a whole lot of "DON'T TREAD ON ME!!!!" where no one was treading on you, get to the meat of your point. Grand. Personal taste is personal taste. Me? I grew up on those same console JRPG's, and came away from it with a completely different take. Basically: I like Fire Emblem. In Fire Emblem, your choices count for a whole hell of a lot, and nobody is promised a happy ending. In the blink of an eye, shit can go south, and you just kind of have to deal. I'm sure that if the technology was around at the time, the developers would've included scarring and weathering. My character? He spent some time at sea. Salt does some shit to skin. He's been in a few scrapes. Those're gonna leave a mark, because magic isn't gonna fix absolutely everything. If it did, there'd be...y'know, nothing to struggle against. And no fear of death. Just have someone magic it away. He's been poor, and hungry, and wounded, and sick, and a part of hard labor. Those are things that I don't think should be ignored. If no experience leaves a mark, there's no growth. There's no progress. There's a group of static, boring supermen who are always impeccably dressed, and want for nothing anywhere ever. Why should they bother with the scrabbling mortals in the streets? Nothing's ever gonna effect them. On the italicized bit: Is it that way for everyone? I mean...really? It's idealistic and bright for the people living in the slums of Ul'Dah? The busted-up, drunken pirates in Limsa Lominsa? The exiled and hunted Wildlings in Gridania? At the same time that you seem to be claiming that you have your right to do whatever the hell you want (and you do, don't ever think otherwise), you're kind of attempting to shove your lense in front of the eyes of everyone else. Pin down the aesthetic that makes a "Final Fantasy" game. Qualify this statement. Personally, I don't think you can. Everything about the franchise (I can't even call it a series) has shifted over and over again, that I would posit that it doesn't even have a flavor all it's own. ] ...Who's talking about Deadwood and Spartacus here? That shit's just as over-dramatic and romanticized as your preferences. They just throw a ton of consequence free sex and violence on the cake, where as you seem to want...I don't know. I don't really know what you're hammering at, other than "I like pretty, and no one can tell me not to." I mean, no one's telling you not to. No one. At all. Not the original poster. Not anyone in this discussion. Not anyone anywhere. Frankly, I don't think anyone cares enough to tell you not to like pretty things, and commit to that indefensible position, so...y'know. Ok, and this just doesn't make sense. You don't get it anywhere, except for the places you get it? And then the rest of it: Are you seriously pulling the "My way or get out" stance? Because that's insanely toxic and childish. The people who like grit and grime and dirt are just as welcome here as you are. Is their existence bugging you? Are you incapable of sharing space? I choose to believe that you're better than that, but correct me if I'm wrong. There's a lot of those. Like...a ton. Most high-fantasy, to be honest. Wait. They've always been prettier? FFVII was set in a corporate dystopia. One of the "heroes" was a heavy drinking, heavy smoking, greasemonkey airship mechanic who swore at, and fought with his wife on a daily basis. Rewind a ways: FFVI starred Locke. Described directly as a "Trail-worn traveler". In a world that was slowly being ground under the warmachine that was the Empire, with even it's Espers enslaved to the will of churning, smoke-belching machinery. Then a nihilist wrecked the world. Let's have a look outside the Final Fantasy series: Earthbound. I mean, I don't know that I have to say a ton about it, but things god decidedly un-pretty in that series. It got downright terrible, and fucking sad. Valkyria Chronicles is about World War II. C'mon. Largo Potter has a face full of scars. There's overt racism. The Edelweiss looks ramshackle. I could go on and on. Your preference doesn't define a medium. Let's not pretend it does. If people disagreeing with you on a matter of taste hurts your feelings, then...I don't even know, man. I can't wrap my head around why you would feel personally put upon because someone else, someone who hasn't even suggested that you're a bad person or whatever the hell it is you're picking up on, has said that they have a different preference than you. I don't know what you're trying to escape. Is it people in general? Is it differing opinions? Why are you trying to escape that? Seriously, there wasn't even a hint of an attack in that original post, or...any of these posts, but you've taken it upon yourself to start firing shots anyway. You like pretty things. We get it. You could've just as easily said "I like X, and Y is my reasoning", rather than framing yourself as the victim of an attack that never. Even. Took. Place. Nobody said that your way was wrong. Nobody said that you had to do it one way. You were asked for your thoughts on the matter. Just provide that! You don't have to pretend you're being persecuted in order to join a discussion. Just...enough with this. Enough.

First, I want to thank the various recommendations coming from a number of voices in here. You make my blackened, armored heart flutter. Really, and truly. Well, shudder. It's more of an engine than a heart. Whatever, don't bind me with your labels. Anyway, let's get the realness in here: 1. Revenge on Bahamut isn't something that we're totally, and fully focussed on. That being said, Isaac isn't about to let the big lizard slide. He's just not the only fish in the angry tempest sea, know what I mean? 2. We are dark, but not like..."dark". The way I've been putting it is this: We stick to an honesty of circumstance that isn't necessarily present in a lot of lighter fare. We're dirty. We're hungry. And it gets really, really messy over here. 3. Uther's right in that magic isn't entirely absent. But it's weird, borderline heretical magic. 4. You should talk to me further. I'll throw you a PM.

I'll hit you up via PM.

New tab. New info. No new post smell, though.

What makes you think I've rented out a lecture hall? PM's are pretty one-on-one. Also, the "be faster" bit was obviously a joke. It's absurd humor. See, because that can't possibly be the only determining factor. That's what makes it funny. Anyway, I just genuinely enjoy answering questions and offering advice. That's why I contacted as many as I did. Is that honestly a problem? If so, please, just let me know. There's some pros to this, sure. But there's a big, glaring con as well: Picking someone similar to you when it comes to roleplaying sensibilities is dandy for actually playing, but not as great for learning. It doesn't offer a fresh perspective, simply because you'll agree far, far too often. The student, for my experience, just doesn't gain as much from those interactions, and the teacher is never forced to re-evaluate their method or their message, which leads to stagnation. There's my thoughts on that. I don't see a problem with this. (Hint: This is a facetious statement.) So, I say to the other Mentors: Stop letting me run train on you, and grab some of these people who are just sitting here, and have been for a little while, with no one to teach them. Seriously.

[align=center][/align] Pinned to the Free Company Recruitment boards in Limsa Lominsa is the above image, and the following letter. "A rallying cry. Isn't that how these announcements go? Messages of hope, and adventure, or coy prodding at illicit deeds done to nobody, for nobody, in the middle of nowhere? What is it you'd like me to say, as you scribble? That I need their best, and brightest? Their most dedicated, honest, and trustworthy? Should I appeal to the dregs and cutthroats and lowlives? How would you like me to lie this time? Would your pen glide so comfortably if I were to say that our goal is not to achieve victory, but to inflict defeat in your attempt to liberate a nation of imperialist murderers that believed all lands should be Ala Mhigo? Should I tell them I care deeply for Othard? Really, what lie would you have me tell? Will you write and publish my every word? Will you write that retrieving me from my quiet and cold up north is a sign of desperation? Will you write that I've come to save no one? It's a heavy notion for a pen to bear, no doubt. Take to the fields, wave no banners, do nothing and mean nothing but harm. Burn farms. Burn homesteads. Camps, barracks, supply lines, support staff. Would it be considered a saleable message if I were to say that there is no cost too high, as defeat means an absolute reduction to zero? Should I ask them how many times Isaac Jacobi must be proven correct before measures are taken to ensure not just a continued way of life, but a continuation of life at all? Make something up, if you find my message lacking. Tell them something beautiful and stirring." Dictated, but not read. Clementine Whittaker

Wait, I missed one? Door's open to you over here. My door is always open. Always.

Be. Faster. Honestly, I'm just snatching up the indecisive ones/stragglers, and I cannot be stopped. But yeah, my roster's full for the time being. We'll get a few cranked back out there, and then I'll take more. Give it like a week and a half, tops. Hear that? You have a exactly 5.25 days from right now to accumulate students. Otherwise, my legion will eclipse yours, and the thunderous cacophony of our march will drown out your cries and pleas for mercy.

Good. Hit me up via PM. Or e-mail. My Skype info is available on request.

Get. In. You're both mine as well. You too. Straggler.

Part 2: Too idealistic to be at peace. Interlude: Beneath the weight of doubt. My recovery took time. About a year and a moon, to be precise. Time enough for me to realize that I had nearly forgotten how to put pen to paper. Normally, I would be scouting locations to set up camp around sunset. Instead, I sat. Alone. In a rather plush, and tastefully decorated room, staring at an empty piece of drafting paper. Hard as I tried, I could not will my hand to scrawl the equation for calculating the necessary tensile strength for a series of support struts. My mind raced, and strained, and eventually gave up. Had I so fully become a murderous vagabond? I found myself looking again and again at my arms and armor. Still in a state of ruin and discord. I would have been appalled at such a sight. I should still harbor disgust, looking upon it. Upon my negligence. But there was nothing. Not even despair at the very portrait of how far I had fallen. "Perhaps if I set my hands to something more tangible", I thought. "Perhaps that would clear my mind." I took what materials I had. That blackened meteoric iron that had saved my life over and over. My traveling coat, that I had worked, sweat, and bled through enough for many lifetimes. My ruined axe. I packed them as well as I could, and half-drug the lot of it to the forge. There were no familiar faces there, save the owners. We had never spoken much, and I don't believe they knew who I was. I was unlikely to be able to answer if they deigned to ask. All the same, I stripped the metal available to me of it's fittings. There was not enough here to simply mend my armor. Not enough in my pockets to buy what I needed to re-forge it. Not enough time to go chasing shooting stars, or hunting for pieces of Dalamud. Ah, but what armor that might make. The very material that caged a being capable of ruining a world. I began smelting the metal none the less. Working the billows was comforting in it's tiring repetition. In, count two, then out. Repeat ten times. Then reduce to count one. Repeat as deemed necessary. If no one's told you yet, meteor iron is incredibly hard to work with. It contains a great deal of nickel, which resists forming. This is a metal that takes patience, and a kind of obsession with perfection in circumstance and shaping that is almost entirely unheard of within the ranks of these workmen. Funny. I could easily recall my metallurgy, but I couldn't find the numbers. But still, I had a task that I could accomplish before me. As the lumps turned to liquid, what I might do with it took shape in my mind. I scrounged about, one hand still working the billows, for my traveling coat. Poor, dull thing. Never designed for the things I put it through. No, it was more for parades. For speeches. For regimented marching drills. But it had proven that it could be more than what it was meant for. The apathetic numbness of before had finally yielded to something. Pain. Misplaced, but real none the less. It had proven it could be something other than what it was made for, but it was something far worse. Far uglier. It wasn't until I felt a cold wind that I noticed I'd been lost with this thought long enough for the fire to die down. As quickly as I could, it built it back up, checking and re-checking my precious bit of workable metal to be sure I hadn't already ruined it. Nickel attracts sulfur, you know. Spoils the whole thing, makes it brittle. By now, it was time to add the steel. It would have to have a high carbon content. Something preferably 1.5% by weight. I left the billows in the care of a bored workman, and handed him a fistful of gil for his trouble. My questioning lead me nowhere, and so I resolved to simply make some myself. Iron was in high supply, as were lumps of coal, and dark matter. No one would notice a few ingots and lumps missing here or there. And so I returned to the smeltery, and began the process of creating high-carbon steel. The reasoning for this, of course, is to add hardness to the thing you're making. Otherwise, meteor iron, even the high quality sort, doesn't hold shape, much less an edge. For my purposes, I would go lightly with it's addition. Too much, and it would become impossible to shape. Too little, and the meteor iron would stick to it's tendency to fracture. Well into the night, I worked my metal. Plotting my application. I would have just enough to form a series of small, rectangular plates. Plates to lay upon my old coat, and fix to it's surface. It would not simply languish, broken and battered. I refused to pack it away, and never look on it again. It would not be discarded. I would make it into something not entirely divorced from what it was, but infinitely more fit for what it could be. I would need rivets, rear plates that I could fashion from steel, a few yards of leather, and padding. Now, I had reached a fever pitch. A possessed man's pace. With the glow of my fire serving as my only light, I flit from station to station, taking what I could get my ash-blackened fingers on. I would answer for these missing materials later, if ever. Carefully, I poured the metal into the forms. Four ilms by two ilms. With a borrowed doming hammer, I made use of my years of combat. Each swing brought me to a time when I could barely shape copper. When a boy's hands trembled with fatigue after making his first bronze pipe. When those same hands clasped over a nearly lost eye after snapping his first piece of wrought iron. This metal that, in my first attempt to shape, gave me no quarter and endless frustration now bent to me as if it were clay. The fires of excitement, of...not anger, but a kind of gripping, furious exhilaration had all but burnt away the pity and pain. As I set the plates to cool, I realized I still had iron. And carbon. With a touch of chromium for the weather, I gave my garment back the sleeves I had torn from it in the shape of manica. Thicker than would be advised, but flexible enough to allow a range of movement that was indistinguishable from full to me. The sun rose as the meteor iron plates were finally cool enough to touch. I set them carefully, domed outward to fit more comfortably around my chest and waist. I fixed them with rivets to their rear plating. I lined my coat with leather and linen padding. It was a heavy thing, to be certain. And the fittings for my manica needed to be adjusted several times before I was content. But I was content. As I moved, testing the fit of my creation, I tried to think on what had driven me to make it at all. My contribution to reconstruction... And here I had spent an entire night doing this, rather than simply penning out: Tensile Strength =F/A (N/mm2), and asking for a survey of the ground this was to be built upon. Chapter 1: Play with matches (if you think you need to play with matches). Were the reconstruction efforts worth recording day by day, this log would span the seas, end to end. Happily, most days were uneventful. We would wake early, refine resources, submit plans and suggestions, so on and so forth. Things like decentralization of standing structures were common foci of the various discussions. So common, in fact, that I felt little need to add my voice. I kept myself busy in the off-hours by volunteering my time to the forge and shipyards. An agreed upon method for me to pay my debt to the Lominsan people, after injuring members of the Maelstrom, and stealing materials. Unfortunately, not much of the local social climate had changed. So long as no one was looking, and you were certain you would be able to get away with whatever you were doing, not much was considered to be taboo. These were not the first drunken brawls, stabbings or robberies I had witnessed, but given the state of the city two years into it's recovery, these habits just seemed...inappropriate. Now, I had never harbored any contempt for the law, nor did I have any particular need to rail against it. Such notions are carried by stupid young men and women who have been dealt a sour hand, or by equally stunted older individuals who believe that their time spent in this world exempts them from following it's rules. However, one does tend to adapt to, and eventually accept an environment when fully immersed. As a point of fact: I firmly believe that there was no crew more fully immersed in the Lominsan "culture" than the Misericorde. We lied, we cheated, we stole. On occasion? We killed. All with the blessings of the Thalassocracy, provided we exclusively targeted other crews that were inconvenient to them. None the less, I found myself chafed, having to witness these events occur time and again as I made my way back to my quarters. More often than not at the hands of the Bloody Executioners, with whom I had sailed for a short time, and the League of Lost Bastards. But I had never been the heroic sort. Instead of taking any real action, I busied myself with another project. My axe was truly ruined, and so would be scrapped and salvaged to reforge my sword. This was a project that I had embarked upon shortly after my travels began. I bore witness to a great many feats performed by the wandering swordsmen that used to dot the landscape, cutting down rabbits and beetles with weapons that burned and crackled with their channeled Aetheric might. Being entirely magically inept, I could never hope to reproduce those dazzling displays on my own, and so I had hoped to match them with technology. The initial attempts were bulky and inefficient. Modified Garlean magitek harnesses, and I'll admit that I had little idea as to how their power sources worked. The whole of the machine I'd lashed to myself was used to power the functions of the blade. A blade which was prone to breaking and malfunctioning, and burning my hand. Pulling the weapon apart, I found myself confused by my past attempts. I had used iron wiring, rather than copper. More than likely due to the cost of materials. Perhaps due to the oxidization and corrosion that copper tends to exhibit when exposed to less-than-ideal environments. This was the first thing I would have to fix. A silver alloy would solve the oxidizing issue. It would cost a touch more, but I was not above melting down a few coins. I wouldn't need much, after all. The rest of the materials were easy to repurpose. The focussing arrays that would sit along the guard were still the best I would be able to do without considerable time for further research and development. Re-wiring was simple enough. The blade itself was easy to form, though I did lament the loss of a great deal of the metal from my axe. Simply no good to reforge. There is, contrary to popular belief, such a thing as "too pure" when it comes to metal. I tossed my weapon and it's reinforced housing panels in the cooling pool while I set to work on a prototype defensive system I had been meaning to test. Nothing that would be terribly pretty. A few emitters crudely fixed to the outside of a scutum that had been tossed in the scrap pile, exposed wiring leading from the bundle I'd spooled around the shield's grips so that my harness, trimmed down as it was, could make contact and power them. In theory, they should have produced an aetheric eddy that would catch, redirect, and potentially neutralize incoming kinetic forces. Extend the life of the shields used, and provide some kind of easily accessible defense against the arcane for your average soldier or guard. With that assembled, my blade cooled and at the very least, slightly improved upon, I wrapped, sheathed, hung, and otherwise obscured my personal projects. I suppose the fear of being branded a traitor to the land had never truly left me. I decided to detour down to the lower levels of the city, across the nearly complete bridges, minding the gaps of course. There was just enough coin left for a about a fortnight's worth of food from the Bismarck. I hadn't left the islands, but I had managed to find a crowd, and fade into it. Of course, it helped that there wasn't someone parading about, playing songs, and telling stories of how I was a ten-fulm tall immortal made of Darksteel. On the other hand, it did bring a kind of excitement to life than this more average existence I had chosen provided. Watching Mr. Allard attempt to subdue fifteen members of the Kraken Arms at once was always a thrill. Being called upon to "negotiate" cessations of hostilities as my crew's Captain was also a highlight I found myself missing. As I waited in line, wondering once more if the choices I had made were anywhere near the heading of "correct", a voice rang out. "Mr. Jacobi!" Naturally, when someone addresses you, you turn to face them. I recognized this scarred visage staring back at me. Another midlander. Burnt over the right side of his face, remnants of a tattoo poking over the scar. Broad. Fit. He was one of the guards we had found in the early days after Dalamud's descent. "I don't mean to be curt, but would you mind stating your business? Rather tired, and looking forward to getting home, you see." Even my most practiced smile wasn't quite enough to stir this man. He gripped something tightly in his right hand. A cylinder. Brushed metal. Indentation on the top. "Sir, it is not just my business I am here to address. It is the shared business of the realm." By now, he had the crowd's attention. They began to move away from me, anticipating an arrest, no doubt. Their shadows obscured what he was holding from further examination. That's the trouble with these hung, gas lanterns at these arbitrary angles. Poor clarity with objects in motion. I waited for him to continue. "You, and your heretical ilk have brought nothing but ruin upon us!" He threw something at my feet. One of my old harnesses. Taken from our disused holds, now that our period of desperation had long since passed. "These things you've made. That you've taken from Garlemald's monsters. They profane the very order of nature, and you would think yourself wise enough to employ them? To what end, "Captain"?" He spat the word from his mouth. Behind him were two others. Not guards. Hired hands, more like. He was not acting with the official sanction of the city-state. They'd likely taken a look at this hunk of metal, and deemed it junk. I'd never been thankful for ignorance before, but the world has ways of surprising. But this man, he knew just enough to condemn. "And what of your secret fortifications? Hm? Have you breathed a word of them to anyone yet? As you promised us you would!?" He was waiting for a reaction. That much was clear. I had made no such promise, but his rhetoric was winning support. He held the cylinder high. It was one of my explosives. White phosphorus, above a powdered mixture of sulfur, coal, and saltpeter. The catalyst was a crystal shard toward the top, just under the indentation. One needed only to depress the top, and slide their thumb to grind the crystal against a layer of coarse stone. The friction causes the crystal to react, which exposes the white phosphorus to heat. The pyrophoric properties of the white phosphorus would set off the powder, which would then hurl shards of metal, and burning, caustic powder over a rather large area. "Tell them. Tell them now, or I will show them. Tell them what this machine is. Tell them what you held in secret." I raised a hand, and attempted to assuage his temper. "I'll ask that you put that canister down. For your sake, and for your men's. I don't think you fully gra-" He tightened his grip. "Do you take me for a fool? I am not some drunken, lost waif you pirate scum are so fond of chasing." His demeanor deadened. What I wouldn't give for a more silvered tongue. "Very well. A demonstration is in order." With raised arms, he addressed his people. "All of you, stand back! No one need be harmed, save for this serpent in our midst." I had already begun running as he spoke. In a panic, he hurled his appropriated weapon after me. The people screamed, and scattered. The grocers joined their chorus as I hurled myself over their counter. Following my example, they ducked low. The blast rocked our surroundings and hurled it's contents, along with a great deal of food stores, in every direction. The cloud would not be far behind. That was the way it was designed. Fragmentation of the canister and concussive force would neutralize the immediate targets. The cloud would kill anyone who survived the initial blast. This was never meant to be used on living people. This was a weapon I had employed against the undead, swarming insectoids, and voidsent. I tugged a rag over my mouth and nose, and told the grocers hiding with me to do the same. However, this would not save us unless the cloud passed quickly. Another explosion shook the room. How many did he have? Did he not know what he held, or was he simply that intent on snuffing me out? Questions aside, the second detonation would insure that the air would remain unclear for quite some time if no one acted on it. It was once again time to take stock of what was near. Chopped vegetables, cuts of meat, knives, cleavers, and a few Wind clusters. Not terribly promising, but the clusters did provide an opportunity. Quickly as I could, I broke the clusters up, and attempted to jam them into the empty fuel cell receiver of my harness. Make no mistake, I had no real idea if this would work. The Garlean Magitech ran on Ceruleum. Which this was not. It took an enormous amount of power to make these machines run. I had never unlocked the secret to refining the substance, merely scavenged what I could, but rumor had it that it came from some manner of aether processing that left the crystals devoid of charge. With what I had hoped would suffice as a power source for a singular surge crudely fixed in place, I brought my shield about, held it sideways, braced against the lip of the counter, and turned my switch. The machinery, to my surprise, immediately began to hum. Then to whirr. Then to shake. It had never shaken before, and my expression must've communicated as much, as the grocers moved to flee. With a kind of thump, the emitters projected their force to a greater effect than I had dared dream. The counter itself was uprooted, and the butcher's-block style construct, my shield, the cloud, and myself, were all forcibly hurled out of the main building of the Bismarck. When I was able to discern which direction was "up", I pulled myself toward it. Another few fulms, and I would have been cast to the sea. Happily, the cloud of white phosphorus hung harmlessly outside of our collective reach, sinking slowly toward open water. Still coughing on dust, and picking bits of goat steak from my manica, I staggered back toward the main building. A few unconscious bodies here and there, but no blood. No obvious sores or burns. I did, however, hear the sound of people scrambling on the piers below, shouting about pulling others out of the water. A firearm cocked behind me. Instinctively, I groped about for my shield, forgetting for a moment that I had dropped it upon being catapulted through the air. The burned guard stood before me, new lesions on his skin. That answered the question of whether or not he knew what he held. I raised my hands. I tried to think of something to say to this man, with so much pain in his expression. But my words failed me a second time. "Do you see? Do you see now!?" His hands shook as he approached. "These...things! These weapons, these tools, these...damnable abominations only make monsters. Out of all of us." He stumbled over someone, but quickly set himself straight as he could. He stopped just short of my reach. Too close to miss. Too far to reach. "I can't let you make more of them. And you will. You, and every bleedin' last bastard like you." His teeth were clenched. His voice strained. He would pull the trigger, even if he didn't intend to. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and triggered my harness again. With the blast this time localized to my hands, I was once again thrown. I watched as my would-be killer suffered the same fate, each of us colliding against opposing walls. My impact came quickly. I was not far from the side entrance. His took just a few fractions of a second longer, and that would have to be enough. I scrambled back to my feet as quickly as I could, and charged him. He'd held on to his weapon. He aimed as well as his shaken mind would allow, and fired, missing me narrowly. I made a wide step to my left, and took another off the entranceway near his landing. This, I had hoped, would place me behind him. And it did, however his finger was already depressing the hammer on his second barrel. My fist moved to preempt him, landing firmly on the ruined flesh of his face. My free arm locked around his, and relieved him of his weapon as he tumbled. Much obliged for the object lesson in disarming opponents, Mr. Allard. Wherever you might be. I emptied the shot into the distance, and tossed his gun to the ground. The missing ingots, leather, and linen were one thing. A ruined grocery was quite another. This would take explaining. Witnesses. Perhaps a few days in the gaol. Apologies to families of bystanders. Better to start now, rather than later. I helped the people immediately near. I found one of the grocers. Conscious, if a bit banged up. I asked him if he was alright, and he responded with little more than a nod. "D'you mind if I make a pruchase?" I asked. He studied me carefully. No doubt bewildered by the timing of my request. "Mate, take what you need, and I'll tell 'em it was lost in the blast. Saved my life, you did." Pleasant surprise, that.

But, again, this isn't a book, so you aren't entitled to that warning. Which is what I had said before. Also, since roleplaying =/= novels, this measure is still a poor one to use. And it'll be a poor one to use if you bring it up again. No, I think you were responding to exactly what you responded to, and I will again remind you that there's no substance in thumbing your nose at a medium for not being like, or adhering to the same rules as another medium. The argument is shallow. By your own protest, would this not also be a shallow statement? Still not the original point of discussion. Still. No matter how free you feel with your opinion, you missed the entire point of the discussion that was meant to take place by the person who made the thread, and instead opted to get in on...I don't know. I don't know what the point of this was.

You're not against it, but you made a big, long to-do about being against it? That doesn't work in any kind of rational world. This is not a road you want to go down with me. Because this is what happens when you do: This is where you draw a direct line from roleplaying stories to books. Right here. Your words. So...y'know, yeah. You did. You said, in no uncertain terms, that your rubric is the composition known as a novel. I said this is a poor rubric. Then! You go on to say that the changes, by the measure that you said that you were using, being suggested were what you would consider "poor writing." Right up there. In bold. When things are in text, you don't get to backpedal when you realize that your point isn't quite as solid as you had hoped. Be glib until the cows come home. But don't try this shit. Let's now take a look at your little barb regarding how "shallow" things are: Yep. Just as we left it. A crappy pot-shot. My response: Nope, that's not out of context! That's a direct response to a statement. That you made. Referencing another statement you made (see the first quote in this series of rehashes for the reference!). If you've got nothing to add to the conversation, save for...whatever this is, nothing is pressing you to toss these barbs out there. Nothing. Ultimately, these responses have not been constructive. Retreading, and misplaced hostility, sure. But not constructive.

What? No, it isn't. There's a myriad of societal conditions to consider. An individual, regardless of genetic heritage, immersed entirely in any society will conform to that society. Genes be damned. Horrifying example incoming: Click these words! Do it! Yeah, they still don't have an obligation to "warn" you of anything. That's a really, really weird hang-up, I'm noticing. You can say that you'd like it as much as you want. And, again, there's nothing wrong with you preferring said method to any other. But to insist that there's any kind of unwritten rule that someone should talk it over with you is just...odd beyond odd. The models weren't done, and there was an attempt to associate the game with XI. There, there's your reason. Anyway, I have a question on this: Does the retconning bit bug you on it's own? Does it bug you, given that this is not a popular name asking the question? Do the people who were roleplaying as Miqo'te males in 1.0 bug you? Because there were quite a few of them. Just curious. Ok, you know what? No easy way to put this: If you don't want your story effected by outside forces beyond your control, write a book. Don't roleplay. Other people will change your story in ways you didn't expect, because they are not you, and you don't really get to dictate what they do, and do not do. They're not responsible for how neat and clean your experience is. That being said, this analogy is entirely invalid, as we're not talking about a book, which is static, and has one conscious mind working on it. So is insinuating that someone is a "bad writer" with a smothering amount of passive-aggressiveness, then thumbing your nose at an argument that disagrees with your (frankly, strange) idea that roleplaying should be tidy and clean as a novel, and decreeing that it is "shallow." English as a second (third, whatever) language be damned. I'd also like to add that your entire post here has been discussed already. Retreading ground already covered serves little more than stirring the pot.

Why? Looks to me like he's got a decent grip on the discussion so far.

You're late to that party. You can't assume hostility simply because of differing opinion. It's just wrong, and doesn't really allow for much discussion (Someone believes something different than me? Why, they must be upset! They should calm down!). You can't just use that as a bludgeon to end any and all discussions you're unable or unwilling to carry on. Just bow out if you're going to bow out. These little parting shots are downright unnecessary (particularly when they miss the mark as thoroughly as this one.) Anyway, that's fine if you think it's weird. Really. Nobody said it wasn't. What was said (asked, really) was why you felt that way. And then there was a discussion on the merits of the explanations offered. A short one, but a discussion none the less. Though I have to be honest, I still don't see how it is you create a character around a race you knew jack about during the super-early (alpha tester, even) phases of the world-to-be. Much less a character that has any kind of depth. I once again point to Orlando Bloom's Legolas as my example. Also, you...uh...may want to re-read the original post. Prior to the de-rail here. You answered a request that wasn't ever voiced. Which then begged some more questions. And here we are!

Thank you. The very idea that someone can't do whatever they please with a character (provided that it still makes sense to the overworld they inhabit) in a game of makebelieve is straight-up weird. Yeah, I don't. I don't have any idea who your character is. I'll freely admit that. The point was made in general. Building a character solely around race is crazy. It's how you end up with a really, really bland character. Example: Quick, describe Orlando Bloom's Legolas without resorting to goofy Elf tropes or general appearance! Go! Why would you assume this is the majority, rather than an ugly minority? They're highlighted. That's to draw attention to a detail. You don't highlight the entire text. Oh, please. As if other races don't have solitary individuals? Hunters? That can't possibly be your argument here. Then there's the issue of starter stats. You mean those things that are so incredibly insignificant as to affect no real difference in play and viability over the entire course of the game? Those? The things that are mathematically insignificant (the smallest kind of "insignificant" there is!)? No. No, no, no. Will not do as supporting evidence. Which is dandy fine, but let's not try to frame that as anything but an opinion. You're mistaking my tone. I don't swear only when I'm angry, I just swear constantly. I'm not angry. I'm not upset. The case against just makes positively zero sense to me. And while you may not have used anything that could even remotely be considered "incendiary language", and are therefore not technically attacking anyone, it has been made clear that people find the very notion that someone might flop around with a character just oh-so-very-ghastly. And that's also dandy-fine. It should then be perfectly acceptable for you to hear the other side of that argument (the one for doing whatever you goddamned please) without attaching any kind of subtext of hostility. Deal?

That's what's being done.

Ok. Point by point time. Wait, wait, wait, wait. Who does this? Who builds an entire character around nothing but the race chosen at selection? How is that a complete character in the slightest? Isn't that just a kind of an awkward, lifeless, pale shade of a thing that was supposed to be a person occupying a world? Two questions: 1. What? 2. How? Confusing in what sense? New options were offered, and they took one. Is there a secret step I'm missing? Some unseen turn that converts this ray to a fractal, infinitely complex in it's endless repetition of shapes? No, no. That's your reaction. My reaction would be: "Ok." And that's all. Because it's a really, really small leap to say "Fine, that character is now this, and always has been." Except for all that progress and work you put into the old one. Why re-do when you can just repurpose?

Ok. I gotta ask: How exactly do you figure? Are people really unable to cope with swapping an avatar out? I, personally, don't believe they are. I'm with Eva's approach: Whatever, roll with it.

The cases against fucking about with your character any way you please are kind of assuming an awful lot. Sure, it doesn't work in the exceptionally specific examples provided. I mean, I'm also seeing a lot of assumed bits and pieces about how the various races have somehow magically preserved a kind of unsettling purity of habits and conventions in a world that quite literally has instant transportation. What, pray tell, would be a Miqo'te characteristic of an individual who had lived in Ul'Dah their entire lives, well away from the Black Shroud and any sense of tribalism? What about the vast difference between Hyur from Gridania and Hyur from Limsa Lominsa? I get that conventions help guide people to creating characters. I do, sincerely. But they're really, really not an end-all, be-all, hard rule for how a character does and does not behave. Kind of like conventions and stereotypes aren't a hard rule for how people in reality behave. And ultimately, shouldn't these characters feel as real as possible? That's what I aim for, anyway. On the actual topic of this thread: I'll just be swapping Hyur "clans" to reflect five years of hard labor in reconstructing the world. Because "smooth little boy" is the only option for Midlanders, I guess.