DAISHI

This is great!

The man's steps came to a halt, a hand raising to his face, pulling the black cloth upwards over his nose. His nostrils twitched, a frown on his face. "Blood," he mumbled, his gaze turning to a diminutive figure sitting not incredibly far away. He raised a hand in the direction of the small, cloaked individual, his palm open in a gesture of calm. He bowed his head, indicating he had no ill intention, and proceeded onward, moving to the bar, the periphery of his vision still on the little figure in order to be cautious. "Bartender," he said, "Alcohol. Whatever. My only stipulation is that you make it strong."

In the shadowy corners of the bar, a black masked man, face draped with a hood and his body covered in robes, couldn't help but resist a smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. He felt a familiar presence... he only wished that he had memories to help him. He leaned forward in the stool of his table, the massive, curved head of the Great Axe on his back rising upwards above his head. Suddenly interested in what was happening about him, he raised his face, eyes peering out from behind the black tiara that consumed his face and neck, seeking from underneath the hood of his robe. A woman, with a hawk. Interesting. A pompous but very well dressed woman. Attractive. ...A well armored highlander. The man's eyes narrowed on this figure. Intriguing. A stammering man who'd fallen asleep at the bar. Familiar. As in, recently familiar. The man felt he'd seen this one only very recently. There were others, of course. Lalafell, Roegadyn. He did not know whether to pick a fight, buy that woman a beer, or talk animals with the Hawk lover. Perhaps there would be enough time for all three tonight.

The bellowing roar that burst from the lungs of the large brute known as Guytrain the Guillotine reverberated through the halls of the prison, even over the sound of battle, as he spied the conspicuous route that prisoners had obviously used to filter out of the walls of the citadel. "SOMEONE gave this location away, and now we have PRISONERS ON THE RUN," he belted, his voice shaking the steel of the men about him as he shoved his massive frame into the narrow passage, the brick overhead cracking as his steeled head and shoulders burst against them, his body pushing against the roof as he attempted to force his way in. Unable to, he pulled out, grunting in frustration. "Jagrath!" he shouted, turning aside. It was his lieutenant, one of the few that he put true confidence in. The smaller framed soldier was nevertheless still an intimidating mass of muscle, simply less so than Guytrain. At his hands were two leashes, the ends of which held back two vicious looking Raptors. "Jagrath, take some men into the tunnel." His eyes went upwards, to the roof. "I think we have a traitor in our midst." Jagrath nodded, looking aside to several of the guards, armored and weapons ready. "You three, with me. Let's get these prisoners." A round of affirmatives met the order as Jagrath took the lead, racing down the tunnel, his grip on the Raptors loosening as he readied to set them free entirely. They'd track down their quarry, oh yes. Meanwhile, in the room behind, Guytrain began to lumber out into one of the greater halls, his mammoth Great Sword in hand. A few straggling prisoners were caught in his wrath, and received a single, well placed cut that tore through several of them. Guytrain growled as he began to work his way to the stairs, his pace increasing, a rear guard of a dozen men keeping pace as he began to work the long rout up to the highest chambers of the citadel. Meanwhile, far above, Kain sniffed the air a moment, smiling underneath his mask. He let the steel head of his weapon fall, slinging across his calf and close to the floor. He took a weak step, shoulders shrugged, then suddenly burst forward. His footsteps crossed the difference between himself and Revan in a matter of moments, his Great Axe skying upwards with tremendous force. The agile Revan stretched backwards, the blade of the weapon skimming an inch from his chest, then was forced to take a giant leap back as Kain continued the arc of his swing, the axe moving 360 degrees and this time nearly taking Revan across the belly. Revan had lept backwards in time, his rear foot bracing against the back wall before pushing forward, thrusting at Kain, its sharpened tip edging in towards his jaw. Kain turned his face aside, Revan taking a half arc with his weapon that streaked towards Kain's ribs. Kain turned aside, bringing his axe close to his body as he was forced to the floor in order to avoid the deadly strike. He rolled away just as Revan began taking two steps, flying forward, the blade bearing directly upon Kain. The masked man brought his Great Axe upwards, using the handle to block the blade and then turning it aside with an upward thrust. He reared his legs back to his chest and thrust upward, pushing Revan back with a forceful kick before quickly moving onto his own feet. Revan cross distance again, feigning a high strike before slicing low. The strike cut close to Kain's knee, who only barely lifted his leg in time, pushing down with a stomp of his foot that put the edge of the blade to the stone floor. In the open moment Kain pushed forward with the grip of his axe, turning the blunt end upwards in a thrust meant to bludgeon Revan's jaw. The quick warrior contorted his body, turning in a low arc even as he brought the cutting edge of the blade upwards. It led from the floor in an angled cut upwards that Kain felt graze into his side, the experienced warrior grunting as he felt it cut at his side. The volume of the robes had helped take some of the bite out, but as Revan pulled away, Kain couldn't help but take a look at the white robes that formed beneath the brown outer one. A stain of red was forming, though he felt it wasn't too serious. He'd seen enough and been hurt enough to know that. He lowered his weapon a moment, hand raising to his mask and lifting it just slightly, so that the black layer rose upwards, just over his nose. He exposed his brown skin, his mouth and strong jaw, a slightly pained grin forming on his face. "Better than I thought. If we were enemies, this would be some fight." His teeth grit a moment as he leaned wrongly, a sudden spark shooting through his side as his eyes moved again to the wound, then to the man. "I wouldn't be surprised if we do this dance again one day, though." He'd been hearing a progressive escalation in noise, and was now resigned to whatever happened in the next few minutes. "Your move."

Well I'm upgrading my card to a GTE 470 which should help.

I love Jerusalem. Watch your pockets in the Old City though. FFXIV will pale in comparison to some of what you will see.

To get a haircut you'll probably need to go on a lengthy quest that will require you to find scissors, razor and rinse in order to get the haircut done, and then need to wait a week for your hair appointment to occur.

But will they? S-E wasn't always entirely aware of what made the game fun for people.

Sadly I don't think they're going to expand the hairstyles.

I'll be installing a few hundred dollars worth video card into my computer.

Like I said, I have a more realist opinion of them these days, where once I had a fascination with their culture. My stereotypes about the Japanese, which were highly positive, were tempered by the realism that they've got as many flaws as anyone else. There's one issue more than any other that made my opinion of them more negative and that's just a consequence of having outright conflict with them in the past.

I have had a big attitude change towered the Japanese. While once I really had a deep love and almost fascination with their culture, my general encounters with many if them in conjunction with many of their political and ecological decisions has made me wary. Not that you can put an entire people in a bottle but I guess I just have a more realist - or perhaps pessimitic - view of them.

Gotta sell a story to Blizzard in order to pay for a new card

As an aside, what song is playing in the guild teasers page?

There was a woman moving about directly ahead of him, his own frame leaning back, his long arm stretched out on the table, a mug of beer at his fingertips. Just aside of her, on the piano, a giant Roegadyn, dressed in a silk shirt parted down the middle and in a fine pair of pants, gently tapped away at the instrument, a slow tune sifting into the air. The woman herself, dressed in a tall, shimmering dress, smiled throughout the bar, a group of mostly men but also a few women lifting their bugs as she sang her tune, an angel in hell, in this part of Ul'dah. He'd only just arrived, confused, the last thing in his memory his battle with Nemesis. Then, darkness, and he was wandering the streets of Ul'dah. His bag had been lined with money and his weapon secured, and it was as if, out of nowhere, he was back in his own head. Confused, he'd stumbled his way into what had definitely been one of the less economically blessed sections of town, though he himself had cared little about this. It had been the music that had caught his ear, leading him down the alleys, under the darkening skies, into this place. Now, sitting there, he couldn't help but lift his mug, crooning along with the rest of the bar. Men, soldiers it appeared, had their arms over the other's shoulders, some with mugs raised, some leaning on the other. Everyone was singing along as the girl led them in the verse, and suddenly he could feel the moisture at his eyes, staining his mask. He kept mouthing the words as his voice got caught in his throat, a cascade of faces and names suddenly pouring into his mind of people he'd known, once upon a time, in some place, somewhere. "We'll meet again, don't know how, don't know when..."

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"Five men sat at a table, five men sat in shadows. Five men sat at a table, in empty halls once hallowed." It had been, once, a shrine to a god. Who that once was they couldn't say, couldn't know, so dilapidated was the facility. All that was left of what it had been were the arches that rose a respectable length into the air, the columns and the pews that lined the length of the church. All the windows that had lined the walls were shattered, tiny bits and shards of mosaic glass lining the floors at the edges of the room, sunlight spilling in from the outside. Any carvings or paintings, anything that would have indicated to what god this place had once been committed, were now gone. They were five, all lesser members of that group that rules the city of Ul'dah, the Syndicate. Behind the mask of the caliphate, they operated from the shadows, running the city's government, its civil and military actions. They protected their public wealth through aggressive and shrewd business decisions, and their illicit wealth through any means necessary... including murder and extortion. The wealth of these men had not been built entirely on good business practices alone. Yet, for all their success, they were under a shadow, a pall that had been cast upon them some ten years before. The shadow of the Maestro. "We recently had a wholesale slaughter of some of our enforcers and lower managers," said the fat, engorged man named Paulio the Ruby. "The Maestro came on his own this time, instead of sending his men. I suppose he was looking to send a personal message." The thin, intellectual Adarack nodded. "Yes. If he were anyone else I'd say we strike back, but... I believe we're all aware that, should he make public what he knows of our underground affairs, we'd be lost men in this city. We don't have the weight in the Syndicate to sway them to protect us, and we'd be left to the dogs." Paulio pointed aside, to the richest of them, Viktor Korenza, a man who had been around for some time. His hair was gray, and of them all, he was the only to have any significant pull in the Syndicate's upper echelons. "Viktor, here, brought up an interesting point. An unexpected twist, you might say. Viktor?" "Of course," he replied, his accent thick though romantic. "It seems that recently there has been a sighting, of an old friend. You may not know him, as I was only a young man myself when he was an enforcer of the Syndicate. He was the best, you might say." Carpaza the Grim, a worried and tired looking man, shook his head. "We've sent the best for Maestro. They've all been left hanging upside down in the streets, their intestines stinking to high heaven." "Not like this man, not like this. This man was a fighter, a gladiator before he ever became one of the Syndicate's enforcers. He'd lived years surviving in the desert and fighting far more vicious creatures than men. When he departed we lost track of him for decades, until we heard rumor he was in the employ of the empire. He later came to our attention with the come of the Primals. Now, once again, he has appeared, this time in Limsa Lominsa. However, we have reason to believe he's coming here, and it is my belief that it is to settle out his debt with us. I think we can make an arrangement with him, so long as he agrees to track down the Maestro." Carpaza again did not look convinced, his long face breaking downwards in a frown. "Forty years ago? You say you were a boy when he was fighting in our arenas, and now you want to tell us that this man, who must be... what, fifty? Sixty? Now you want to convince us that he is the one we should invest in bringing down a monster like the Maestro?" He scoffed, his arms folding as he tilted back in his chair. "I think not." "I understand your reluctance, Carpaza," Viktor said with a nod, pointing to the light coming in from the windows. "Many suns have come and gone since those days. However, my spies have tracked him, have seen him in the rare moments when he has removed his mask. The man looks not a day older than when he left from this city." He stopped, a thin smirk sliding across his face. "I think that should be intriguing of its own. Of importance to us, though, is that he may be the one we need to finally end the Maestro's madness." The brooding, black skinned Othello the Bright grunted, eyes looking downwards onto the surface of the table. "If you decide to utilize him, it is your investment, not ours." Viktor's eyes slowly crossed the table, turning onto Othello, though the man did not return the gaze. "I see Othello. Then, I put up the money, and take the risk. After that, if my agent is victorious, you reap the spoils as well? How is that a wise deal for me?" "I pledge up front money to compensate you should he win," Othello said, voice still low, eyes still on the wooden table before him. "However, I shall have it set aside with the Syndicate's brokers, to be paid when the deed is done. How does that work for you?" "Quite well, actually," Viktor said, a wide grin spreading on his face. "Do the rest of you men agree?" He paused only a minute as the others nodded their consent. "Well then, gentlemen," Viktor said after receiving their approval, "I shall contact him first thing when he arrives in the city." Paulio raised a hand, glancing at his friend. "Viktor, you've not actually told us the man's name?" "Ah, of course," Viktor said, returning Paulio's stare. "In my time, he went by the name Amal Shachat. Today, he calls himself Sin."

(Note: Though my stories are never entirely too gory, this story is to set up a murderer Sin will later encounter. There is an appropriate amount of violence. Readers who do not enjoy stories whose focus is this may want to move on) It was one of the few days of the year when it had decided to rain in Ul'Dah. Maestro couldn't have asked for anything better. His thin frame stood against the black of the skies, the single scar running down his eye, hands relaxed and at his side, and all his chest and waist strapped down with knives. His fingers went twitchy a second as he paused, looking to his side. Ah, good ol' Mr. Satan himself, The Leader. Maestro couldn't help but note the man's impeccable wardrobe, second only to his own, though Satan there didn't carry knives... just a skinny sword that could skewer three men like a kabob. Maestro licked his lips. Kabobs. Delicious. Opposite side of him, Goobbue was standing like Goobbue always stood, looking like the idiot he was and yet forming a shape so high and large against the lightning infused clouds that he might as well have been a small house. He had two maces... TWO! One in each hand, each a weapon so heavy it would take a normal man both hands to carry. Goobbue wasn't any ordinary man though, of that you would know if you only looked at him once. At eight feet high and almost seven hundred pounds, there were boulders that weighed less. Maestro's fingers were starting to twitch again. He was getting that madness, that... bloodlust. He couldn't control it, he just felt the mania coursing through very blood pumping inch of his veinous system. The Leader took a look at him, arching an eyebrow. "Can you hold it together until we're inside, sir?" Maestro turned aside, lips curling in a look of mock insult. "You shame me sir. Mania can wait when it means murder on the horizon." He smiled, flashing that charismatic, almost handsome smile, but the vacancy in his eyes betrayed the acute lack of a soul. "Let's get started, shall we?" He stepped forward, past them, snapping his fingers as he did. The duo fell into step behind, Goobbue suddenly starting to happily grunt like some fat child ready to consume his next piece of cake. You never knew with Goobbue, men disappeared when fighting him and judging by his size of his belly, he could down several. Best not to mess with a seven-hundred pound cannibal. Maestro threw open the door and walked deep enough into the tavern that his two companions could step in behind him, Goobbue closing it as they did and then taking up position in front of it. Nobody would be leaving. As Maestro took a step further, there was a sudden ruckus as men jumped up from their tables, drawing swords, the sounds of metal unsheathed ringing throughout the tavern. Maestro glanced about, from man to man, almost a dozen there. A few were guards, but most were mid-level racketeers or enforcers. He threw his arms open wide, one pointing to the western wall, one to the eastern. "Lucy, I'm hooome!" he shouted, followed by a flick of his wrists that sent ballistic daggers propelling from his hands, flying with speed into chests of two approaching guards. They collapsed to the floor as he howled, pulling out a Bowie knife the size of a man's forearm as he rushed into the nearest of them. As the bar collapsed on his position, Goobbue let out a bellowing roar, slamming his maces into the ground with such force that it threw several of the men aside. As he closed off the eastern end of the tavern, The Leader rushed up to the bar on the western end, unleashing his blade with such tremendous speed and precision that the closest of the guards did not have time to pull his blade before collapsing onto the ground. He proceeded to the bartender who, in midst of grabbing his sword, found himself pinned through the stomach onto the wall beyond. Not that Maestro wasn't having his own fun as he gutted his way through the small crowd of guards, enforcers and racketeers. His knife cut slish-slash and up-down, leaving men falling onto the floor in a sparkle of ruby color that painted the walls red and put a giggle on his lips. A nearby rushing guard thrust out his blade, but Maestro only leaned back, flipping his blade in his hand as the sword passed his face, then thrust the sharp edge of the knife into the man's belly. The man collapsed, Maestro chuckling ever more as he looked over to Goobbue, who stood there with a likewise grin on his face. "Well you can't spell slaughter without laughter, can you?" Maestro asked, looking gleeful until he looked around. "Wait. What? Are we done?" Footsteps from the opposite end of the tavern caught his attention. The Leader, looking as ever polished with his slickly combed blonde hair and his spectacles, nodded. "Yes, sir. It seems they weren't prepared for us." His eyes drifted to Goobbue, noticing the red stain on the man's lips. "Have... have you already started eating?" The hulking figure's face fell downwards, ashamed. "Yes..." he mumbled in that deep, stupid voice. Maestro looked from The Leader to Goobbue, then down to the floor, disgusted, alarmed, enraged, outraged. His arms started to tremble at his side, a tremor which began to shake his entire body until finally he looked upwards, turning a fist towards the wall and striking so hard that an audible crack could be heard in the small tavern, Maestro suddenly falling forward, head striking the wall as he slid down to the ground, a guttural roar burbling up from his lungs, rising up to his throat and then piercing the air as thunder roared around in the skies above. TOO EASY! he screamed, suddenly pounding the wall with his other first. ALWAYS TOO EASY!!! The Leader walked up beside him, glancing calmly at the hysterical figure, reaching a hand down to trembling man. "Sir, you're right. These men weren't suitable to be your opponent. Let's go home." He paused, leaning in just a bit closer, his voice quiet and soothing. "We could play a game of chess." Maestro's face shot aside, looking up at The Leader, a sudden gleam in his eye and a smile on his face. "Chess?" His scream was gone, replaced now by a low chuckle. "Yes, you've always been a worthy opponent, Tervanian. Chess it is."

The wind whipped high about him, all around, lifting the sands from the desert plains that made up the vast, desolate stretches of Thanalan. That the place was called Thanalan, he did not know. In fact, he did not know much, except that for some time he had been wandering. He did not know why or understand entirely why he was here, only that he had been surviving off the flesh of the local beasts. His face was covered by a black tiara that hid his features, clinging tightly to his face and given the impression that his features were merely entire black shadow. Over his head was draped a hood that hung low to his eyes, falling downwards until tucking into a fold of robes. His entire appearance was of a man draped in heavy brown clothing, robes that fell in multiple layers, browns towards the outside and white towards the innermost folds. His hands were tucked into brown gloves and likewise, his feet into brown boots, both made of cloth material and secured to his body by ropes that wrapped about his forearms. In his right hand was clutched a massive axe, so heavy that to lift it would take the strength of both his arms. All along his belt were secured a string of knives, and small bags at his waist clattered with the sound of more tools and objects hidden within. For as far ahead as he could see the environment was bleak, with little vegetation and only small hills and crags rising up out of the distance. Yet, despite its inhospitability and the little life that dotted its surface, the man found himself strangely at home, as if it was here that he felt he should be. Why, though. His eyes scanned the horizon, the scorching sun overhead baking the ground, while far in the distance he could see where stone mountain faces did rise up. Bits of brush and small shrubs marked parts of the ground every so often, but wherever in this forsaken land he was, it seemed to be in one of the worst locations one could imagine. There was not a sign of life, not a stirring or a rustle, and the only motion was that of the rising clouds that pushed high into the air. Though he had no qualm in being here, he knew he could not simply stand out in the open sun for too long and so, taking a step forward on the cracked, sandy ground, he began to march towards the far distant mountains. Almost at the same instant, he felt a sudden urgency at his back and, turning, he raised his Great Axe upwards, a hand towards the base of the staff and another towards the axe head. In the moment he did this, twin scimitars came cutting downwards, ringing against the steel shaft of the axe's handle. The man twisted, pushing the blades of his attacker away, before swinging his mammoth weapon towards this new enemy. The attacker leaped backwards, coming to a rest just a short distance away. He was clothed all in black cloth, his wiry frame tight with muscle, only his red eyes exposed through the black strips that wrapped around his face and kept his features hidden. "Funny finding you here," the black garbed man said, voice menacing, a growl upon it that seemed unearthly. "That's just the funny part about life, though. You're never sure where you're going to go after you die." The brown robed man stared at this newcomer, unphased. "I have no idea what you're talking about." "Oh, of course you don't," he responded, crossing his arms, one resting across his waist, the blade pointed towards his knees, while his other arm held the second blade upwards and behind his neck. Its flattened side patted at the back of the attacker's head, the black strips that tied around his face coming to a knot at the base of his skull, two strips flailing in the breeze that begun to whip about in the desert sands. "You might not know who you are, but be certain, I do." "Who am I, then?" "You're a leftover, a regret. You're something that should have been let go of long ago. You're like a sin." The man relaxed his guarded position for just a moment, taking a step backwards. "A sin?" "Oh yes, and be assured, I am your judge and jury. Just, perhaps not yet. No, no, it would do no good to kill you know, before you knew the magnitude of your crime. No, I'll let you dangle. I don't know for how long. Maybe a week. Maybe a year. Maybe for decades. However long it takes you to remember what you did and then, when you realize your crime, that's when I'll come to pass judgment. If you're Sin, I'm justice. Or better yet, you can call me Nemesis." The newly dubbed Sin could feel his breath increasing, the heavy panting, the anxiety creeping up inside of his chest. His belly was tightening, and he felt as if he would vomit any moment. What was this creature, this... Nemesis, talking about? The eyes of the dark robed warrior squinted, and there was a perverse pleasure there. "Up for one more test, Sin?" This time, Sin could not raise his axe in time, as Nemesis closed the distance so quickly that it only took the blink of an eye before he was upon his target. Blades raised, his eyes peering out from behind the black mask, Nemesis appeared for all the world like an animal on its prey. His scimitars, only an inch from the chest of Sin, began to to press at the cloth robes when, in a brilliant burst of light, he was driven back, screaming. His body was flung toward the desert floor, his blades vanishing in bursts of black smoke as he began to claw at his eyes. Sin fell backwards, his own hands tearing at his robes and separating them, digging until he could see his chest and the brilliant blue light emanating from it. He felt himself near faint as a mark of an unknown letter gleamed upon his body for a moment more before vanishing, appearing as if it had never been there at all. "I see," Nemesis laughed, stumbling backwards, eyes shut, hands hanging limply at his side as he tilted his head upwards. When he looked back down, locking his gaze with Sin's, they were once more open, once more that piercing red stain. "The Mark of Kain. You bear it." He scoffed, stumbling back another step. "That wretch had one last trick up his sleeve. Alright then, this will have to wait until the appropriate time. Until you're ready for your punishment." He halted, lifting a finger, the wind beginning to pick up and whipping the sand all about his black form. "Only remember... you cannot run away forever. You will reap what you have sown. That is the way of divine retribution." The wind surged then, the sand consuming the form of the dark fighter, making it impossible to see him. Then, in a moment, the winds had died, and the man was gone. Sin fell back, to the harsh desert floor, his axe falling aside. Three names suddenly appeared in his mind, like long forgotten memories: Kain. Amal. Charon. He had to find people, find someone and, until he knew more of his past, he would have to go by something other than such a dubious name as Sin. "I'm Kain... I'm Kain," he mumbled, rocking forwards, hands clutched to his head. "Kain Mazus."

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Kain shook his head at the sound of a bellowing roar that erupted from the lower wings. "Well isn't that just pleasant," he said with a heavy sigh, shaking his head. "They've got Guytrain on the loose." If there was a man to be outright, truly fearful of, it was Guytrain. The two of them had never gotten along, to be expected as they were both warriors with pride. Guytrain recognized Kain as something different from many of the other guards, and Kain recognized Guytrain as someone not to be fooled with, at threat to one's life. When the dust settled, and the riot had been put down and Guytrain took an account of the men, he'd see Kain was gone. And when that happened, Kain had to be as far away from the citadel as possible. Guytrain hadn't been appointed to captain of the guard here for his good looks, which he certainly had none of. He chuckled to himself even as he heard the pounding of footsteps coming from a doorway towards the rear of the prison wing, two of the less impressive guards rushing downwards and into the blood stained hall that Revan had once been imprisoned in. The lead man collided face first into Kain, who absorbed the blow like a stone wall, sending the man stumbling backward. The guard's face shot upwards for a moment, shocked, until he realized who he was looking at. "Kain!" he cried, breathing heavily, a sign of his lack of any training regiment. "A man... a prisoner escaped!" Kain's fingers went to his forehead, squeezing at the bridge of his nose. "Look around you, idiot," he said, waving a hand around the room, its many cells open and bodies dead on the floor. "All the prisoner's have escaped. They've already moved into the lower halls, where you two should be, helping secure the exits." "But the man above...!" "What are you two going to do about it?" They looked at each other, then to him. "Perhaps you could take care of him?" "For the empire," he said, feigning pride even as his face twisted in disgust beneath the mask. "Head below or by the gods, at least find a place to hide so you don't end up skewered. Got that?" They nodded, rushing past him and towards the end of the prison wing. Kain moved on, shaking his head, his Great Axe secured between his hands. "Always be prepared," he mumbled to himself, truly not knowing what state this prisoner would be in. It was silly to think it would be anyone else but Revan, probably one of the few who'd had the intelligence not to head into the death pits below. Guytrain would see to it that there'd be a good number of dead, though Kain was leaning towards believing a few would escape, most likely Goobbue among them. His feet were carrying him quickly up the stairs now, and though the soft pad of his cloth boots reduced most of the sound, Revan was no spring chicken. The man had strong senses. Kain's left hand let go of the grip of his axe a moment, reaching under the cloth of his right glove, where a single brilliant stone shimmered. He would have loved if it were Aetherite, but no such luck. Still, he felt reassured that it was there, for reasons all his own. His steps were bringing him towards the top now, approaching the roof of the watch tower. "May the Mother Sun stand between you and harm, in all the dark places you may go," he whispered, a prayer from a time of which he no longer had memory. Then, he emerged upwards into the uttermost room of the watch tower.

Well, now this was just damned irritating. He should have taken off sooner. He'd known that. Now the citadel was going to hell. The prison break that had started in the upper western prison wing had started to spread to the entirety of the prison, moving to other wings, and of course the lazy, unprepared membership of the guard corps was being killed by actual, ruthless murderers. Apart from their superior technology, many of those here had grown soft. Not all, of course. And there were a few, most among the commanders of the prison, who even Kain would not want to take on lightly. They'd get this riot under control at some point, once they reorganized, and once some of the more vicious of the guards and commanders got into the mix. Right now though, people were being released left and right, fighting was breaking out in the middle of the halls, and in general, all chaos was spreading from the top down as prisoners attempted their escape. That was suicide, though. Even should they reach the base floor, there'd be an entire squad of crack enforcers under good leadership organized by then. Down was a dead end, at least via the main routes. There were other ways. Some could attempt escape via the towers, or they might stumble on some of the secret paths that lead out to the face of the prison and down to the plains far below. Risky, but no more so than going headfirst into waiting defenders. There were the witless and then there were murderers, and he knew the difference. At one point he'd spotted the old man from Revan's cell. The man had paused, holding a club over his head as if he'd use it on Kain. Kain had only waved him off, instructing him on where to go to possibly escape the fortress. The old man had looked at him gratefully, he and his companions streaking off. Then there were the murderers. There were indeed some bloodthirsty members here in the prison, few as notorious as Revan, but one that came to mind as among the most fierce. The man was Bernard Beltwater, but everyone among the guards and the prisoners called him Goobbue. The man stood a full foot taller than the tallest Hyur and was as wide as five men. They'd brought him in with multiple chains on his arms, which were secured behind his back. He'd been a slathering disaster of a man, face mauled, screaming obscenities. The guy had killed, and killed ruthlessly. And worst, he had it out for Kain. It had been Kain, after all, who'd been the man who'd put him in his cage, undid the locks and then fought the man unconscious after he'd tried to immediately bumrush Kain. He shook his head, watching as two men rushed at him. Murderers. Their eyes were all full of rage and death, and they were looking to take it out on any guard they found. Beyond them were the bodies of a few men, slaughtered. The criminals were coming at him with swords and, sighing, Kain put both hands to the axe at his back and brought it downwards, loping off the head of the first man before putting the pommel of the weapon into other's jaw. There was a loud crack as bone broke, blood popping up into the air, Kain moving swiftly to bring his blade up. It caught the man through the neck as well, the body falling aside. Just like training. He continued into the beckoning prison hall beyond, stepping into the maelstrom. Prison guards wrestled and fought against a horde of prisoners now armed and ready. At this point the match seemed about even, no thanks to the lousy training of the local constabulary. Kain, out of both his sense of honor and obligation to the contract he'd signed with the empire, as well as the small amount of affection he'd grown for these prison guards over the last few months, assisted in the brawl. Where a man was being put to his heels, Kain stepped in, downing the guilty prisoner. Where another was hard pressed with the blade, again Kain would move in. It was everywhere though, the dark, dank halls becoming a chaotic mess of combat. He pushed his way through it all. He attacked no prisoner who did not attack him, unless out of some obligation to the men they fought, though he left some of the guards - the worst and most despicable of the lot - to their fates. He wasn't sure what the rest of the guards were thinking he was up to, but he certainly wasn't pushing into the thickest of the riots in order to help. He was looking for a way out of the prison himself.

I really don't think we're going to experience that scenario. Most people have played WoW, I think, and are familiar with the way the RP servers were run (for better or worse). The thing is we don't have the raw data. IF there is an RP server, WILL Square specify what that means? (Again, such as in WoW). I do think we should aim for the RP Server because of the very fact that newcomers who do like to RP but are unaffiliated to the organization may see it and want to go there. That doesn't hurt us, that helps us. I don't think that alone is going to so greatly inflate the numbers of the server that we're going to get bogged down.

Kain shoveled a handful of unpolished stones into a bag. He'd started off a woodcarver, but had eventually moved onto shaping and polishing stones. His best were made from what he'd assumed to be Aetheryte, as there was something in the stones themselves, a hum or energy. All he did was fashion and smooth them out. They seemed to give him some comfort and, so, he'd thought they might help Revan. He'd just finished affixing the bag of stone and wood carvings to his belt when a scream echoed so loudly it pierced the walls of his quarters. He casually glanced at the door, then to his Great Axe that sat, positioned against the wall. His hand reached for it, putting it to his back and securing it on the harness that sat above his robes. "Sounds like something's happening." His eyes went to the window above the bed. "Ah Tarina. I miss you so much. Would you stick around?" He paused a moment, smiling. "Of course. You'd never leave a place this interesting. But, I think I'll stay in the shadows for now." He turned, exiting into the hallway in complete silence, alerting none to his movements.

I loved Milla so much until I heard her talk on the Resident Evil commentary track.