Shuck

"Someone", you say? Well, congratulations. Non-specific requests for help tend to be my domain. You're mine, now. Fuck it, you too. We are gonna get your everything hammered right out, come hell, high water, or crazy mouth tornado from the stars. (That's an Azathoth joke.)

Sounds to me like you just met a crappy batch. For my experience, the roleplayers on Balmung were far from "elitist", and the practice of shunning new people is one that we all kind of publicly decry. It's bullshit, everyone was new once, blah, blah, blah. Anyway, I don't think you have a ton to worry about, just be sure to pitch what it is you'd like to the LS/FC that interests you, and if someone can't provide it, they should at least be able to point you in the right direction.

This is a good idea. Throw my name in the hat for mentoring. Hell, throw me in for a hand full of 'em. I will teach the goddamned class from now, until forever. Bits and bobs: Shuck is the name I'm going by on the forums, I'm 25, and have a history of employment in the interactive software development industry (nothing fancy, I was a debugger, which is like...a half-step above basic QA). I've been playing make-believe since about 13-ish, via tabletop and as time and technology improved, I just kind of carried the hobby with me. I tend toward realism/low-fantasy/whatever you might call the available technology in XIV. I'm on EST, and typically available on Skype (PM/Email me for that). Even when I'm not at home, the phone'll make noise when I get a message, and I'll get back to you ASAP. My thoughts on roleplaying: I firmly believe that it's a hobby for anyone who wants to bother. There's a misconception floating about that roleplayers are inherently exclusionary, elitist, and generally a gaggle of repressed, developmentally arrested adult babies. While that's certainly true of some people who end up roleplaying, I've never believed it to be the norm. I'd like to provide a counter-example to that entirely too vocal minority. What I might offer you, the prospective mentee (say that word out loud, it sounds weird): Not only the same kinds of lore-checks, character creation assistance, and general writing tips that other mentors might, but I will do this with the patience of a rock, and the obsessive tenacity of a wikipedia editor. I am willing to work with you for as long as it takes to get your shit to where you want it to be. As. Long. As. It. Takes. So yeah, hit me up.

Isaac: You have all chosen poorly.

Isaac started the game as a kind of take on the Calculator (Arithmetician, if you're nasty). He had about zero actual combat aptitude. He relied heavily on his ability to identify flaws in structure/stance/positioning and was almost incapable of prevailing in any conflict where he couldn't think faster than his opponent moved. He attempted to make up for this by dabbling in Alchemy to produce chemical mixtures that might/might not replicate the effects of some very simple magic. In 1.0, this translated into a Gladiator who had a few basic spells from this and that, and would frequently be using shortswords, daggers, and chain instead of plate. Heavier weapons were entirely out of the question IC. As time went on, and he was brought face-to-face with horrible things, and then some interesting Garlean technology, he became a Machinist (FFVI). Constant conflict encouraged him to practice and experiment with different sorts of weapons and armor. Salvaging scrap provided materials for him to build a series of gadgets that were not only more effective than the chemical mixtures from earlier, but more reliable. So, with the re-shuffling of abilities and where they can/can't go with the job system, this meant that Isaac had a tool for just about everything. Summary: Yep, played a Calculator who had a splash of Chemist thrown in, who then became a Machinist.

Part 1: I can't go on/I will go on. Prelude: The day I turned my back on all you people. When the call came to muster in Mor Dhona, the very same call that I knew was a rally for death and glory, I did my best to ignore it. To go about my days as if the world were not on a terrible precipice, to pretend as if this gathering of troglodytes, waving their sharpened sticks from an age long since dead was truly the solution this world and it's people wanted. I smiled, as I was supposed to smile. I made arms and armor for sons and daughters that would not return. I shook hands. I made well-wishes. And I kept careful eye on the force marshalls that came with their orders of conscription. All would fight under the banners of these so-called Grand Companies, or all would perish. When the letter came for my band, my decision was a simple one to make. I told them "no" in the most familiar manner available to these pirates-turned-soldiers. With the crack of gunfire. They would not find our faces among the dead of that field. They would not sift through the wreckage, and wonder what kind of idiot pride would drive a man to attempt to fight a floating castle with an axe. As I sealed the entrance to our small hold on the Lominsan islands, I allowed myself a moment to consider the gravity of this choice. I had decided, in no uncertain terms, that we three were more valuable than the thousands in Mor Dhona. But it was done. It didn't take long for my navigator to express regret. She had clung to a soft-heartedness uncommon in brigands. I remember her asking me if I had abandoned my hope of bridging the gap between the weak and the strong. If I had given up on bringing Eorzea into the present, and severing the chains of superstition and dogma. I cannot recall the exact words that I used, but the message was simple enough: My dream for this world was doomed from it's inception. We were a society that would spend the entirety of our existence looking backward. Right to our bitter, vainglorious, senseless end. Chapter 1: All the world is mad. When we emerged, after weeks of simply subsisting off of dried food stores, and the stream that ran through the cavern, it was to an alien landscape. Limsa Lominsa burned, but not at the end of an Imperial torch. The shapes in the sky were not airships. They were winged, and they screamed. For a time, we had thought ourselves alone on the islands. When the shapes in the smoke-blackened clouds circled, we hid. When they grew bored, we hunted, and fed ourselves on the thinning population of creatures still breathing. When we found another person, we were hesitant. He was an Imperial. Wounded, tired, and lost. Against my protests, he was restrained and questioned. From the few things he would tell us, I was correct. It was a massacre. Being right had never left me so hollow. For the first time in years, my armor felt heavy. My bones ached. And something other than hunger caused a pit in my stomach. As I sunk to the ground, my axe serving as a crutch, I tried to listen to the rest of his tale. Dalamud housed something he called the Dragon King. And it had butchered the attacking Imperials before turning it's fury on the rest of creation. I began to feel as if my helmet were suffocating me. It hit the ground as he finished telling us that some poor fools had begun worshiping this thing from beyond the sky. That they sang it's name, and followed in it's path, destroying what they could. His unit had fled to the Lominsan isles to escape the Dragon King itself, and were ambushed by what they had mistaken for Maelstrom troops. He opened his mouth to share more, but was struck silent by the passing of one of the shapes in the sky. Navigator Reid called my name. "Inside!" she said. I told her I would follow when I felt I could move again. With that, my companions took their prisoner into a small outcropping, and left me to sit. I watched the thing circle. I listened to it scream. For a moment, I tried to imagine the ruler of this creature. This Dragon King. And then it left, dragging with it a curtain of flame. It aimed for the spire that once housed the Mizzenmast Inn. I would have been content to remain motionless if I hadn't watched specks scurrying away from the tower, and into the waiting ranks of red-robed murderers. For all this man's rambling, he had neglected to mention that there were others still hiding. I tore into the outcropping, tossing stone and covering tarp aside. My axe fell to the dirt. I demanded a re-telling. One that included mention of survivors. He pleaded with my compatriots not to allow me to harm him, and they would have obliged, had they been faster. I relayed what I had witnessed outside. If there were survivors, there would be someone leading them. They would have a place they would go, in the event that the city fell. An inevitability, with our collective standing armies dead. Chapter 2: Naught but the wind to rely on. We stayed only a few days at the outcropping. It was for the best that I remained separate from the others, and so I took the liberty of plotting the likely places that the Lominsans would hide. It was days before we found them, in what used to be a Serpent Reaver hold. Very few soldiers. Even fewer children. Upon getting a look at our prisoner, they immediately cried for blood. I was happy to allow them to eat the man alive, but Nagivator Reid was having none of it, and she was adept at appearing intimidating when it suited her. Such is the way of Rogaedyn, I am to understand. While she was busy scaring already scared villagers, and my First Mate was busy locating alcohol, I took it on myself to find the organizer of these refugees. Imagine my dismay when I learned that the remaining soldiers were simply taking turns, and operating on the incomplete orders of a dead man. I told them of our stashes. They had been set up in case of a much less flamboyant disaster, and as places for us to go to ground during some of our less legal outings, but all had food, clean water, arms and armor. They didn't have the courage to ask, but I felt safe in assuming that at least one of them wondered why no one knew of these holds on the eve of our mutual ruin. With little issue, and in good time, we moved from store to store. The supplies were exhausted in short order, but that was to be expected. I had planned for three, and no more. I began to question why that was. Why I had looked ahead for so few. My introspection was interrupted by insurrection. The soldiers, roughly half of them, began to accuse the other half of hoarding supplies. When that faltered in the light of everyone going hungry, accusations of being Lambs surfaced. Through their shouting, which I did not dare to interrupt, I learned that the Lambs of Dalamud were the individuals in red that I had witnessed. When it came to blows, I did nothing. Not for fear of taking sides. No, it was for the simple fact that if more of them died, the supplies would last longer. My crew was not so quick to leave them to their devices. Attempts were made to placate tempers. Pleas were spoken to my own deafened ears for action. Leadership. But I would not have these people look to me for salvation. Chapter 3: Keep your hands from play. Burying their dead was bittersweet. On one hand, these people had grown close. On the other, the few children we had with us would have more to eat. The last man in charge of the soldier detail had reasoned that they could skip meals, as the adults needed to be sated, and functional. They feared attack by their Lambs. I had dismissed this as a paranoid fantasy. The secret wish of a proud mind. What better end for a man at arms than to die defending starving families in the wake of a cataclysm from nameless, faceless monsters who want nothing but to kill? In truth, these Lambs seemed in worse condition than we were. You could see them, time and again, scavenging and screaming prayers and praise. Their faith would go unrewarded. Their slaughter of the fleeing Lominsans had won them nothing but contempt, and a pile of bodies. Their camp, if one could call it that, was not far from what was Bearded Rock. I found myself watching them to escape the squabbling, and rousing speeches, and crying. In the relative quiet, I found myself wondering once more. I could not find the exact point that I began to count lives as little more than variables. I could not find the crux at which I became more concerned with personal survival than with the pursuit of knowledge. Than with the betterment of Eorzea as a whole. Wasn't that why I left home? Wasn't that why I was here at all? But what good would this do me, or anyone now? Superfluous parts in a broken machine. I avoided returning to our current hold for quite some time. I could not bear to look on these people. I spent my time quietly cursing the gods that they had held to. That they still offered prayer to. The very same gods that picked and chose, and granted a swift, likely painless death to their favorite few, and left the rest of us to squabble over scraps. The Lambs at the camp had begun to cheer. From what I could tell, they had happened upon emergency stores, or the tide had washed lost cargo ashore. Whatever it was, they were happy to have it. And they were few. But we were fewer. None the less, the had things we needed. And they would not expect an assault. When I explained my aims to the others, I had interrupted Navigator Reid instructing the children on how to make toys from bones and rocks. Chapter 4: Close your mouth to song. There were few volunteers. These were guards, after all. Not killers. Not pirates. Not what I needed. Not likely to return. The plan was very simple. From four angles, while the majority of their number slept, we would burn the tents with oil-soaked arrows. While they scrambled, our raiding party would move through, kill the armed members first, and cause sufficient injury to whoever remained to cause them to flee. Once they did, we would not follow. We would burn the rest of their camp, take what we could carry, and toss the rest into the sea. We began as planned, if a touch off on our timing. Navigator Reid compensated. Overcompensated, perhaps. The woman was gifted with a bow, I will not deny her that. Our trouble began as we moved toward their defenders. They were not disorganized. Someone had rallied them amidst the initial chaos. This individual was neither seen, nor heard. Not by me, in any case. I did manage to witness my First Mate hurl a tent post at something in the dark, and bound off after it. I shouted for the rest of the raiding party to close ranks to little effect. And so, the geography of my predicament would become important. Rocky shoals to one side, a few rolling hills, and nothing but ash, dirt, and gravel in most every direction that didn't lead to the sea. To my back was a sheer cliff face, and Navigator Reid's perch. Nowhere to retreat to, no one listening to orders, and far more angles of incidence than I would like. The retreat was sounded, but I did not bother to keep track of who followed. These people would not listen. Or I was not loud enough. During my exit, I did find that the Lambs did not wear armor. Some among them practiced a kind of defensive magic, but it faltered under an abrupt application of physical force. "Were it not for their numbers...", I thought. We could not go back to our camp. Navigator Reid, two guards that had bothered to follow, and myself made for ground further inland. It was a bizarre experience, attempting to navigate the island without the landmarks with which I had become familiar. We would pass ruins time and again, or a particularly blasted gnoll still bearing scorch marks and rotting bodies. "There was Bloodshore", I would think. "And here was where the goats would graze." Losing our pursuers was no easy feat. I had Ms. Reid to thank for our brief respite. I had Ms. Reid to thank for a great deal, but no where-with-all to say so. They would pick up our trail again, though. We were aware of that. We slowed our pace, and I attempted to regain my sense of position. It took longer than I would have hoped, but I found what I was looking for. A small, natural funnel. A pass I had held against the Reavers years back. Back when I was young. Back when the world was whole. Back before this monumental failure. If these were to be my last moments, if I were to drown in a sea of stabbing iron and shrill cries, this would be the place. I instructed the others to build a fire. Gather what they could, and stack it as high as possible. There would be only one more person to pay for this misstep. As the glow of our pyre spread, I took time to check my armor, and the condition of my arms. Dents, gouges, chips...to my surprise and chagrin, a lodged shot from some rifle or other. And this damned helmet never fit correctly. I decided to leave it sit. My axe was no better. Chipped, stained, and more mallet than cutting implement. I sat, and removed my traveling coat while they found more and more to burn, and attempted to grind some type of edge back onto the head with what few tools I had kept on me. Even the leather of their case was cracked and weathered. Navigator Reid broke into song while she worked. A dirge. She had raised her voice to it before, usually on the eve of a raid on a rogue vessel that had earned itself a Letter of Marque. When I asked who she sang for, she did not answer. And when I told her not to sing for me, I was struck. Chapter 5: I like the dark. I had never witnessed a tear fall from Ms. Reid's eye. Never. Her spirits were never what I would call "high", and she was far from jovial, but genuine displays didn't seem to suit her. Butterflies, and white knights riding great war-birds, and other faerie-tale nonsense. That was all she spoke of. Were it not for sheer chance, I would have missed this singular drop of moisture as I strapped my armor to me. It caught the light of their fire for a fraction of a second before she wiped it away. "What about your coat?" She asked. Her voice trembled. I tore the sleeves of it off, and wrapped it around my breastplate before fastening my pauldrons. The red would make me all the more obvious. The wind would fan it like a flag. The holes in it would cast fearsome shadows. "And your helmet?" She held it out to me. "Can't breathe in it." Her hands sunk. As I looked on her, I was flooded with a great many things that I felt I should have said. I never once told her that I was afraid of fire. That my home in Ul'Dah had burnt when I was very young. I never told her the names of my nieces and nephews. She had never spoken with my mother, nor met my two younger brothers, or had the pleasure of conversing with anyone I went through schooling with. I never told her that I would go hungry for days so that my tiny crew could scrounge every morsel they could. I never told her that I kept the three of us treading water by working the shipyard. I never told her that the beds she and Mr. Allard slept on were paid for with coin soaked in blood. I did not even mention that the strides I had taken in working with magitek were built on the shoulders of another. My one true friend along this winding, terrible path, and she did not know the road I took to find her. She did not know the holes I found myself in along the way. And now, here, in this pass where her favorite story about me began, there was simply no time. I told her and the other two to leave. Make broad circles, and find their way back to the others. Ms. Reid refused, but this was not her decision to make. This was not her wrong to right, and I would not have her here for the sake of sentimentality. She started to protest, and gods help me, I have no idea what madness took my mind in that moment, but I grabbed her by her collar and kissed her. We stood in silence as the sun started illuminate the horizon behind the fire. She left at some point after I turned to the west, and began waiting. There was a strange sense of peace in the air as I watched the Lambs approach. Embarrassed as I am to admit this now, I took a kind of pride in seeing them pause. I must've looked a sight. Tattered coat billowing in the cross-winds we tended to get on the island, battered, blackened plate underneath? Pyre and sunrise to my back, chipped, nearly ruined axe in my hands, and likely ten lifetimes worth of blood, ash, and general filth on my face. Such a creature would give me pause as well. Their assault began with a great deal of hesitation, and that was to my advantage. I swung in wide arcs, the reach of the haft extending my killing arc well beyond what their scavenged swords, handaxes and knives could achieve. This, however, did nothing to halt those still charging. With their implements of murder ineffective against the angle of my plate, they attempted to pull it from me. I retreated to the fire, found a workable grip around a piece of burning timbre, and beat back my attackers. They did not advance again. Only about ten now. I would have felt accomplished, if it ever took more than one hole being punched in chain and padding to kill a man. Their redoubled efforts saw longer weapons, and defensive magics. Halberds, mostly. Taken from the guards and armory. They advanced, and I retreated once more. I would have to abandon this pass. Turning on my heel I lead them further inland. Further from their camp and ours. Their cries and payers had turned to the panting and rasping of hungry dogs. Into the caverns. That was where I would take them. I carried my makeshift torch with me, hoping they did not know the caves as well as I did. When I heard them lagging behind, I tossed it. A few followed the light, the others gambled on following the sound of my footsteps. But these were unreliable, and picking these people off as they groped about was simple. Brightly colored as parts of my garb were, it's quite the feat to adjust to sudden darkness after staring into a fire. In time, those that were not dead were hopelessly lost. At least I had hoped they were. I made my way back to the mouth of the cavern, and was greeted by a thunderclap, something very hot striking me in the chest, and the faint smell of sulfur. My attacker was on top of me before I had time to reel with what had just happened. He had dropped a still-smoking rifle, and was fiddling with a duckfoot pistol bearing the Barracuda's symbol. His free hand cinched itself around my throat. Of course, I fought, but every time I moved, I could feel his shot sink deeper. Our struggle caused his pistol to misfire. All three barrels, unfortunately. One into his leg, one into mine, and the third simply burst from overuse or poor maintenance. In the instant that this startled him, I mustered the strength to throw him off. I could hear him moving toward something, but I did not allow myself time to look. My axe had not fallen far. Once again, I found myself using it as a crutch as I drew to my feet. He had apparently caught the worst of his weapon's failure, as he sputtered, clutching his gut. Looking down, I caught sight of a piece of brass lodged in my plate. Far enough in to cause bleeding. Not far enough to kill me outright. Not like the ball in my chest. I hobbled to him, struggling to breathe. My first good look at this man who I very well might be sharing a gravesite with. A Duskwight. No scarring. Young. He would have easily overcome me if his pistol hadn't failed. Superior reach. Superior stride. Superior sense of hearing and balance. I raised my axe as well as I could, and very nearly dropped it when the blade hit his neck. An ugly cut. He would live a few moments before passing. I thought of lying down in that field. It would have been the appropriate thing to do. But, I was well past the point of propriety, and had been for some time now. Chapter 6: Nothing left to burn. This was Aleport. A singular standing building, a ruined coastline, and unused munitions. There was more, I knew it, but my vision had blurred. A combination of a sudden gale, and blood loss. I opted to sit a moment. Perhaps more than a moment. Aleport was not where I had wanted to go, and I was in no condition to re-trace my steps. I began to wonder if anyone would come for me. It was a far away hope, to be certain. My life was one lived in obscurity. My death would be the same. The world, it seemed, preferred cycles to remain unbroken. But why do we, the things swept up in causality's flow, seem to care so much for the world's comfort? Why should we, beings gifted with the freedom, and the burden of choice, choose the natural order of neat little cycles, if the fabric of our shared existence marches on without us? My mind raced with a myriad more questions. Always with questions. A thousand variations on the same bleeding questions, in fact. Through a great deal of derivation, I was able to distill these whispers and shouts in my head. Why should I play nicely? Had I not spent the past few years doing the opposite? Was that not the very lesson imparted to me by the crews I had sailed with? I had long felt that my misfortune had been part of a vicious causal loop, entered when I refused to simply be happy in my station. To date, that had been the closest I'd come to some form of faith. But these loops are not inescapable. Small variations of the conditions in any nonlinear dynamic system can produce large variations in long-term behavior. I just needed to find my one degree of variation. When you construct anything, before you draw plans, or discuss ideas, or get anyone who claims to be an "artist" involved, I've found it pays to take stock of the materials and tools at hand. If you begin with what you can do, rather than what you'd like to do, the project smooths itself out. At the time? I had one broken ceruleum generator under my left gauntlet, a ruined axe, plate that was mostly useless, plenty of loose blood, my blunderbuss, perhaps some still active fire crystal shards, and a pile of unfired, primed munitions. Plenty. The secret shame of scientists everywhere is the relative ease with which their craft can be turned to destructive purposes. For example: You need significantly less expertise to make a bomb than you do to make medicine. The formula, if it can even be called that in situations like these, is quite simple. You start with something highly reactive. Ceruleum. Check the holding container for breaches. Fortunately, it was not a ruptured fuel canister that had rendered my magitek inert. Then, we need something for our catalyst to react with. Fire crystal powder and rust shavings. The former delivers more heat over less time than your standard crystal shard due to the greater total area of exposure. The latter, when exposed to the exceptional heat that the crystal powder releases, burns intensely enough to liquify the iron present in the substance. Next was a delivery method. Many would ask why I did not simply shoot the munitions. I would answer that they would be shocked at how very stable the powder the Lominsan navy used was. Nothing short of an open flame tends to set it off, so a hot projectile, painful as it is to be hit with, does not quite suffice. To remedy this, I would have to find at least one heavy, solid piece to fit down the barrel. One of the broken slabs of metal from my plate would do. With it's fitting, and a few strips of my coat, I fashioned my ignition charge. Powder in the fabric, wrapped 'round the canister. I packed my firearm. I thought of uttering a prayer. I decided against it, and simply hoped not to miss instead. The shot flew in a lazy arc, but that was to be expected, given the irregular shape and weight distribution. As it lodged, I heard the canister crack. Good. However, I had neglected to measure my distance from the blast. I was pelted with debris, choked with dust, ash, and sand. Nothing lethal, as far as I could tell. Now, I could only wait for someone, anyone, to become curious and come looking. Chapter 7: Hold my hopes under water. I can't remember how much time had passed between the explosion, and the first sound of footsteps crunching stone. In and out of consciousness. Whoever was making the noise must've heard me stir, as their pace quickened. I did not know if they had come to help, or harm. I could make out little more than shapes, and gleaming metal. No room for gambles anymore. Whatever they had used to get here, I would have to take for my own. The fragmented door to the munitions building made a decent enough shield. I laced my arm through the slats where the bar would have sat. I could no longer heft my axe, though. It was too heavy, and I was too weak. It had been so...so very long since I had been too weak. I groped around, and managed to find some sharded iron banding. It would do as a makeshift spear. I readied myself for their approach. Memories of my commuted sentence in Ul'Dah came flooding back as I felt the weight of the door/shield bear down on my shoulder. "Isaac Jacobi, you stand accused of Treason, and of Theft. The specifics of the latter are as follows: Your superiors within our office of Public Works allege that you had taken, without consent, the design specifications to an experimental Airship that had been submitted for production, and rejected." The shapes in the dust and smoke drew closer. They called out for something or someone, but I could not hear. Everything was so very far away now. The bailiffs close ranks as I'm brought in. "How do you plead?" I wait, and the gathered audience turn their eyes on me. Every last one, a backbiting snake in their own regard, and here they would look down their noses at me for taking what was mine to begin with. "Innocent on the first, absolutely Guilty on the second. However, I would like it recorded that I fail to see how I might steal something that was mine to begin with." A hint of armor, and the probing, polished end of a halberd. I ask them who they are. I ask them what they want. I ask them if they're here to help me. But I still cannot understand their response. I cannot even make out more than their shape, and we are not more than a few fulms away from eachother. What are these things that seem to multiply in the ruins? My "trial" is a sham. My own brother, member of the Brass Blades, testifies against me. Anything to further our name among the well-to-do's. Nevermind they wouldn't have given us a bucket of their own piss to douse ourselves with if we were to catch flame. The simple truth that I had taken my designs to prove my concept was lost in the ocean of lies and frightening stories of intrigue that came pouring from the mouths around me. I am told that I will either spend my life in prison, or I will spill blood in the Sands. A fate fit for a spy, certainly. But I was no spy. I spit on my brother's pride. On his reputation. I would rather chance the Sands than be marked as a stepping stone for his advancement. They close, and I react. With a swat, I redirect the polearm. I can't manage proper maneuvering, but a simple lurch forward puts me inside of his reach. I drive my "spear" into a thigh. I would have to take hostages if I were to survive. I was in no shape to fend them off otherwise. Not now. They give me weapons and armor too heavy for me. I was no fighter. I was an Engineer. A Civil Engineer, at that. Pipes and waterworks, street planning. That was my day-to-day. I am told that my one and only match will be against a hardened Garlean spy. Caught some years back. A crowd favorite for his performances. The others in the barracks spoke of him as some kind of butcher-ballerina, weaving here and there. Another two moving to my sides. I would have to leave the wounded first for now. I drug myself backward, unable to properly lift this hunk of wood and metal that I would depend upon to protect me. A testing blow from the left, and an attempt to hook my one good leg from my right. When we meet in the arena, I am shocked. A gaunt man, head and face shaven to a shine. A short spear in one hand, and a longsword in the other. The scutum they gave me hurt to carry. The iron shortsword was unwieldy. He betrayed no emotion as he darted at me, blows coming from all directions. I allowed myself to fall backward. The shield/door fell back onto my shoulder, catching the tip of the thing to my left off-guard. He'd lodged his weapon, and was unable to retrieve it. The other lost it's fingers to the iron band. Practiced as he was, he was striking all wrong. Against the slight dome of the shield, his blows meant absolutely nothing. I hid beneath it until he tired. His spear hit sand, and I locked my blade behind it's head. The glue gave way when he tried to pull it back. I whirled about as best as I could. My shield would have to sit on the side that still had a weapon pointed at it. My swing was wild. Desperate. But I caught some manner of plate. I felt metal grate against metal. And someone staggered backward. The man was laughing as he backpedaled. He called me "clever." Claimed he had expected me to simply hide and wait until the 'Blades came and drug us apart. That he was only to make an example of me. Put on an entertaining show. He said that he would have to kill me now. That it was now a matter of honor. My arm buckled as the remaining halberdier swept my shield aside. I had little choice but to be carried with the impact, and so I tried to control the rotation as well as possible. My guard was open, but he was at the end of his swing arc. Mutually exposed, but only one of us still had a striking avenue. I drove my arm forward. And found purchase in my opponent's abdomen. We both fell to the ground, unable to hold ourselves up any longer. Someone, somewhere, grabbed me by my ankles. In the swirling dark, I could hear the stunned silence of the crowd. Their man had fallen, and I had won my freedom. Chapter 8: Until I feel whole again. I don't remember blacking out. I awoke to the sound of birds, and to the feel of the sun. Ms. Reid...Beatric. Was at my side. She chastised me for being a layabout. It took me quite some time to convince myself that I was not, in fact, dreaming. She told me that what was left of the Maelstrom had come home. They had reclaimed and secured the city. Reconstruction was already underway. I had been unconscious for nearly a moon. I watched as she studied my face. "You wounded three of them rather severely, you know." I was shocked. Ashamed. I had become so used to a life of frequent violence that I did not so much as chance a guess at help arriving. This was not who I wanted to become. I did not know what else to say to her. My questions and confessions from before all seemed small. I simply thanked her for staying. "I couldn't tell you I was leaving if you were asleep." Beatric always had this rather comic way of stating the obvious. As if she believed the people she spoke to had no grasp of the most glaring reasons why something could, or could not happen. In spite of myself, I laughed. I sat with her while she packed. I walked with her to the pier, where refugees of all sorts waited for their trips home. My limping and hobbling nearly made her late, for which I had to apologize. She looked on me a moment more. "I didn't think I would see you again." I tried to stand up straight. The tunic she'd dressed me in, the very same one I wore when I left home, no longer fit. Made the bandages and stitching rather obvious. "I didn't think you would either." She boarded her ship. Last call for the mainland. She didn't say where she was going, but I could hazard a guess. Born in Ul'Dah. Raised in Gridania. And the only Rogaedyn named "Beatric", I was certain. A very strange woman. A very appropriate companion. We spared eachother the embarrassment of a long, romantic gaze from ship to shore. I decided to try and find my bearings. A good number of the walkways were still down. Simple rope "bridges" were in place for the time being. Traversing this city would be like moving about in the riggings of a larger sailing vessel. At least until it was fixed. I wandered the docks for some time, picking up bits and pieces of scheduled departures. I couldn't go to Gridania with Beatric. They would not have me right at this moment. The next boat to the mainland would leave in a week. I was sure I could find a way on to that boat. It would do me good to get out off of these islands. To find another crowd, and disappear a while. Ah, but then there was this man. This man in his crisp, red coat. A young Midlander. His oration was lost on me. My hearing was...somewhat dampened since the blast. I did not know if it would return. But it was obvious that he was making an appeal. His gesturing was passionate. His face full of hope. A mirror of who I might have been. I was prepared to walk away when he asked the crowd if anyone had any experience in city-planning, masonry, and/or smithing. The crowd before him was silent. I knew that creeping dread. That empty realization that your plea has fallen on deaf ears. I had wished someone spoke up when I had begged. This young man would not go wanting. With a raised hand, I spoke. Sheepishly at first. "...I...I do." The relief was tangible in the air. I might just stay here for a time.

Personally, I avoid it. The Musketeers have their own presence in the game (That being a kind of police force in Limsa Lomninsa), so until those doors are open for recruitment, I tend to steer clear of declaring any affiliations. On top of that: The Barracuda Knights have very specific types of firearms at their disposal. Listing a gun that is somewhat atypical might not be a bad idea. Example: It's safe to assume that they keep on top of firearms advances. They clearly utilize Howdah pistols, and what look to be early bolt-action rifles. Given that our characters may not be with the Barracuda Knights, they might not have access to things that are more advanced than say, a Blunderbuss. Or a few wheellocks.

So, hey. A username change, and a password re-set later, here I am. The character I'd played in the past, as well as the linkshell I lead is right to our left here, and I believe we'll be making a reappearance as ARR takes off. Also, there's writing in the works that I will eventually work up the nerve to post. As before: Looking forward to it.

Beatric for my number 2, if you would.

That's right. I use it, my people use it, it's great. Here. Run wild: Freedom, my bretheren! Freedom!

Count me in as well. Very much looking forward to a group discussion.

Piece by piece then. With respect to what Eva had said, these are not intended to be jabs. Just a point-by-point discussion. Here we go: We don't have any. That kind of concern is really not one we need to look at, given that there's...you know, no one in that corner. First bit: Which is fine and dandy, save for that whole extinction event thing. No one's forcing anyone to hop on board this idea, so those that don't care, for whatever crazy reason, about life ending on the continent are free to abscond. Second bit: How...do you figure that it limits the creation of future roleplaying shells? That's totally inexplicable. The creation of an umbrella group does not preclude things existing outside of said umbrella. Think on it this way: Your umbrella is Everwatch. Other shells exist outside of Everwatch. In fact, all other shells in the community exist outside of Everwatch. The existence of your shell does not make it impossible for other shells to exist. Therefore, a larger organization, made of many shells, would not keep other organizations from popping up. If you could explain this point of yours a bit further, I'd appreciate it. Those are some incredibly large leaps of logic. Why does an umbrella organization equate to exclusivity to you? Where was that suggested? How are you arriving at that conclusion? I can't even begin to penetrate the last half of this paragraph. It just straight doesn't make sense. Maybe you can elaborate? To clarify, I never said "everyone", but a prominent force in the world composed of roleplayers and their linkshells raises our visibility to newcomers, and that is in the best interest of the community. Any argument to the contrary is either shortsighted, or straight false. Without new people, the community as a whole dies. Without visibility, we don't catch the eye of new people. Simple. It's not my intention to marginalize anyone. Quite the opposite. Bringing folks together under a larger umbrella breaks down those sorts of self-imposed, cliquish barriers that naturally pop up from time to time. If someone doesn't want in? Well, no one's twisting their arm. Not really what I asked, but ok, we'll go from here: To me, that sounds like a personal issue, and not one that needs to be aired in this discussion. I'm sure that there are people who would say the same of any kind of Everwatch event, what with the quality of storytelling being entirely subjective and all. However, these folks who may think the same of your stuff? They all carry on just fine, from what I can see. You can do that too. That's just melodramatic. No one's being pushed out, people are being invited in. The reason for unification makes sense. It's written plainly in the game's lore: You come together, you live. In an OOC sense? Who /doesn't/ benefit from this? Who looses out on a greater organization working toward a common goal? Sharing resources? I think the issue you're running into is that the case against an in-game unification of players is just kind of flimsy. There's a ton of check marks in the "Pro" column, and one tiny mark being "Sometimes, I don't agree with stuff" in the "Con" column. That being said? Once again, no one is making you sign on. No one is making anyone sign on.

Couple things: From an IC perspective, any group deciding that they would rather fly solo than unite in the face of an extinction event on the continent would, and frankly should be shunned. Distinctions of nobility kind of cease to matter when someone is gunning for a complete and total Terminator 2 style cleansing. From an OOC perspective: I've said this on intermission, and I'll say it again. If you're expecting people's egos, grudges, and highschool style bickering to get in the way of cooperation that benefits everyone, then you're expecting entirely too little from the community at large. As far as becoming "frustrated" while playing, I'm not entirely sure what the issue is. Are you frustrated by the other members of the Grand Company you currently belong to? Is it required that you interact, at length, with all members of said company? Does the mere existence of other players in the game world rub you the wrong way? By your own admittance, you're trying to poke holes, but these are some incredibly weak arguments against a case that has the community's best interests in mind. And I've got a question on this: Was that kind of behavior a bannable offense in the past? If not, why not?

Just throwing my bit in here: I'm totally behind this. The very last thing that any community needs is further division. Under a Free Company, we maintain the individuality of the existing linkshells, but band together in a larger sense. With the talk of player estates, and the things hinted at on the Lodestone about Free Companies, it would also make us that much more visible, which is important, given that we are a minority. It's not impossible for roleplayers to be a prominent force, as my fellow TR alumni on these forums will tell you. That being said, I'd love to hear more about what you've got in mind.

((Quick bit of clarification: That will be on the bottom level of Limsa, lower left corner of 6,3.))

((Just a quick bump. We're set to go for later today.))

Happy to hear it, Oskar. Looking forward to seeing you there.

[align=center]Garleans gnaw at your borders.[/align] [align=center]Rumors of the beast tribes summoning their gods abound.[/align] [align=center]Travelers tell of the dead rising to prey on the living, and of monsters springing forth from forgotten, forbidden tomes.[/align] [align=center]Who do you turn to in these uncertain times? [/align] The Misericorde exists solely to answer that question. Whether it be an unlucky coin, or coves so dangerous that they are almost overtly hostile to any and all forms of life as we understand them, Misericorde is willing, and able to address your problems. Unfortunately, the dedication of our present staff is stretched thin, and as such, we will be holding a small recruitment drive in Limsa Lominsa during the coming weeks. Novices in any field need not worry for a lack of experience, experts are naturally welcome as well, as are all degrees of mastery inbetween. Reminder: That is any field of expertise. Stipulations: None, save for that I would appreciate it if future applicants would not show to their interview drunk, and/or hoping to find asylum for some recent crime they have committed. I'm aware that the name of our organization means "Mercy Seat" to some, but do give me a break, hm? ~Sincerely, Isaac Jacobi OOC information: Just a simple recruitment event, and a decent chance for the community at large to get to know the people of Misericorde a bit better. We'll be at 6,3 in Limsa Lominsa, on Monday, April 9th at 7 p.m. Eastern.

A brief IC bit: "...Mr. Jacobi formally requests permission from the Barracuda knights to begin recruiting for..." A disinterested man with sunken eyes and salt-dried skin peered over a missive. "It appears as if you've scribbled in "An ongoing exploratory investigation of areas previously presumed cursed, and/or unuseable." Across the desk, Isaac opens his mouth to speak, only to be pre-empted. "You go on to list that you "may have need of these recruits for-" He pauses to laugh, "An international mercenary action of indeterminate length? " More laughter follows, "I believe I've found my favorite part. You would also like free access to the tools and staff present under Naldiq and Vimelli's smithery. Why would I give any single citizen, much less a known thief and scoundrel such as yourself, any of what you've requested?" Behind the missive, and across a well-used desk sat the man in question, red coat dotted with dried blood. The occasional hole revealed yellowed, medicated wrappings over what could safely be assumed were fresh wounds. "First and foremost..." Mr. Jacobi began, scratching at his head, then rubbing some manner of ash from his cheeks. "My time sailing with the Executioners was done under a Letter of Marque and Reprisal. All quite legal, I assure you. So, while you would normally be correct on calling someone of my less-than-savory experience a thief and a scoundrel, I am only guilty of stealing, not of being entirely without scruples. I would also like to add that I have never once stolen from Limsa Lominsa. For whatever that may count." "Second: You may want to consider the risk of turning me down. How much can you really spare to sweep away in the face of a second Garlean invasion, hm? Your usual folks are far too scared, too sick, or, let's face it, too bleedin' sensible to go down into places like this Aurum Vale the Herald's writing about. Even fewer can make the boast that they've seen, salvaged, and tinkered a bit with captured Garlean Magitek. Going a step further, I'd venture that your shipwrights, talented as they may be, don't rightly understand the workings of airships, beyond basic maintenance. And beyond that, if I were to utter the word "Ceruleum" around town, I doubt anyone would so much as spare a sideways glance." A silence fell over the two for a moment. "Haven't lost you, have I?" Drawing closer, and leaning on the desk, Mr. Jacobi continued. "Now, what I'm asking isn't unreasonable. The Gridanians have already agreed. The Ul'Dahns, the nation I did indeed take from, simply required a small fee. All I am asking is that you, and your musket-toting cronies refrain from bothering me as I go about the business of doing my part in our unified struggle to stay out from under the thumb of Garlemald. And perhaps, just perhaps jump your military ahead a couple years in terms of research and development of new tools for you to defend yourselves with, as per my existing contract with your Maelstrom." A clenched jaw, and the the tell-tale clicking of grinding teeth joined with the tapping of a quill. "I'll put it in simpler terms. Either sign my document, and I will be on my way, or utter your apologies for not trying to do more as we are all paraded in chains before the Legates." Barracuda Knight and Engineer-Turned-Pirate locked eyes. The quill was dipped. The missive signed. "Wasn't so hard, now was it? Good day, gents. Ladies." And now, brass-tacks: Server: Balmung Leaders/contacts: Isaac Jacobi Beatric Reid Castus Allard The only hierarchy to speak of is that Isaac is at the head. The rest is very loose, if present at all. As the shell expands to more than three active members, that's likely to change. RP Style: Heavy, though we have our share of out-of-character moments. Website/forum: None! There really won't be a need for one. And, frankly, I haven't run a group yet that uses them much. Given that I'll be thrilled if we get 8 active members total, I'm going to see if I can't handle all necessary communication via e-mail and Skype. If a need arises for a forum, I'll deal with that then. RP element: Misericorde is about as close as Eorzea gets to a team of "Action Scientists". If it's weird, cursed, incomprehensibly built, forbidden, etc., they'll handle it. For a price, naturally. Headquarters: None, currently. Given the nature of their work, the stigma that tends to get attached to people who seem to tread directly on the toes of the divine, and the leader's focus on R&D above nearly everything else, there isn't much in the way of resources, monetary and otherwise, to purchase and maintain any kind of headquarters. With time, and a few breakthroughs, that may change. Recruitment: Invite only and done entirely in-character, via interview, in-game. Rules: None that can really be written down without going on forever. If you act like a reasonable human being, there won't be an issue. Additional info: Misericorde may specialize in handling the unexplained, but the kinds of projects Isaac takes on demand funding. That being said, more "mundane" jobs are certainly not beneath their notice.

Hi there, I can't remember if I ever ended up registering and introducing myself here, so if I did: Hi again. If not: Me and a couple of other folks had been bouncing about this game since beta. We were always fairly avid and active roleplayers, but fell into the trap of mostly keeping to ourselves. We'd established the Linkshell "Misericorde" about as soon as we were able, and have been under that name ever since. Anyway, since I'm absolutely awful with introductions, we'll just go down the handy checklist in the sticky to keep things on-point: --MMORPG background It'll be shorter to sort the ones I played "seriously" from the myriad (all of them) that I've just dipped my toe into. That being said: FFXI, on the Bahamut server, we were somewhat active under the same LS name. From there to Tabula Rasa, where I was with the 131st Hellhounds on Cassiopeia. Then to Warhammer: Online when that got shut down, once again active under the guild "Misericorde" Got bored with that, ended up on Aion with Accordance. Got bored with that, ended up on Champions Online under Barghest. Got bored with that, ended up on FFXIV for the first time, became truly displeased with the lack of focus on content in favor of redesigning a battle system that, to date, I don't really think needed to be redesigned. Ended up on The Old Republic under Naasade. Bored with that again, and finally settled back on FFXIV, and have been quite happy with the changes. --RP experience I could say "see above", but that would be kind of...I don't know, effortless? Anyway, I've had a ton, from the MMO world to the tabletop (Rifts/Beyond the Supernatural and Dark Heresy being favorites). --Character ideas/info Well, the character name, found right above the empty avatar slot on my post, is Isaac Jacobi. Isaac started his adult life in service of the Sultanate of Ul'Dah, working as a civil engineer. After all, someone has to plan, build, and maintain cityscapes, and his head for numbers, coupled with an innate ability to judge structural strengths/weaknesses made him an easy pick for the job. However, Isaac was a touch more hands-on than his employers would like, insisting that he learn to work at a forge along side his construction crews. Save for a mishap that almost cost him his eye, he progressed fairly quickly and the foremen on his projects certainly didn't seem to mind an extra set of hands. Over time, Isaac became increasingly bored with his work. There are only so many ways to design an irrigation system, after all. So, he set about his own private studies, hoping to at least sketch out something he'd never sketched out before. Years of research, planning, scrapping said plans, re-planning, re-researching, and a ton of time spent at the airship docks yielded a set of plans he was truly proud of. A small, maneuverable, highly destructive airship he dubbed the "Misericorde." Primarily a close-defense/exploratory craft, he was confident that this design would further solidify the nation's grip on, at the very least, it's own lightly patrolled skies. Upon submitting his plans, he was simply told that he was not a military engineer, and that the project would never see the light of day. This was the straw that broke his back. Gathering what he could, as well as a few things that technically belonged to the Sultanate, Isaac resigned his post, and set himself to travel, hoping to drum up funds and resources to prove his own concept. Suffice it to say, things haven't exactly gone swimmingly, but hope in seeing his ship make the jump from paper to reality has been re-kindled with his recent enlistment in the Maelstrom. And that's the short of it. --How did you learn about the coalition? I stumbled up on it a while back, looked about, and then I believe I forgot to register. --What kind of a role-player are you aiming to be? Light, medium, or heavy? Medium, edging toward heavy. --Anything from real life youâre comfortable with sharing? (Work, school, hobbies, etc) Well, aside from table-top roleplaying, I also play Warhammer 40K, I've done some independent modding for FFXI, which got me into 3D modelling and animation in general, and that landed me a rather comfortable position with Vicarious Visions for a bit. I would like to apologize for Guitar Hero 6, though. And, that's about that. So, looking forward to getting in touch with you folks.