DAISHI

Okay it finally works. Sin should be played by either... Faran Tahir... ...or Arnold Vosloo

Pretty much sums up my feelings.

Pragmatic and it follows to logical end, though I disagree with the underlying world view.

Hold up. Image error.

It was a day after the death, and Revan was still passed out. The guards had talked it up, as much as they'd talked about Kain putting the man into a dream state, but Kain himself hadn't cared. He'd gone about his duties that day like on any other. Now, he stood in a room, completely round, torches upon the walls tossing light about the stone face. The light crept upwards to the domed ceiling, fading so that the roof was only barely visible in the darkness of the shadows. All about him, bags full of sawdust and hay were propped up on wooden supports, a dozen or so of them in scattered formation about the large training room. He'd made a life here during his time assigned to the citadel, this imposing prison to which many of the worst criminals and prisoners in the Garlean Empire were assigned. There was little else to do but read when he was not on duty, and if he allowed himself to spend even a day away from his training, he feared becoming like so many others who had grown fat off their lazy work in the prison. He reached to his back and stripped off the gargantuan axe that he kept always at his back, turning suddenly and putting the blade clean through one of the bags, its contents spilling out onto the floor with a rush. Had it been a man, that would have been his intestines. He then spun immediately, swinging the axe and catching the next back close to the the top, just so that the upper contents went flying into the air. That would have been someone's head. He continued in a circular motion, curving the blade downwards at the next bag, cutting it low and at an angle so that the sawdust fell out from the bottom. That would have been someone's legs. He then spun, looking into the distance at a row of three bags, too far away to attack. He thrust his hand outwards, wind whipping at his back, eyes narrowing in focus as a gust of air blew past him, taking the bags and throwing them against the wall with enough force that they broke their wooden supports before collapsing onto the ground. The wooden chunks fell to the ground with a clatter, the bags slumping to the floor, while Kain hesitated a moment, sweat forming on his brow and staining his tiara. He blinked, for all of a moment the room vanishing. It was replaced by the sight of lines of warriors, ready for battle, desert sand stretching as far as he could see. The sun overhead was so bright it scorched the ground, a shimmering wave of vision sifting up from the sands as the heat made it difficult to see straight. In the next blink of an eye, he was once more back in the training room, breathing heavily. His eyes moved to his hand, still outstretched, and he suddenly withdrew it, looking ashamed, having been so stolen into the vision that he could not account for how much time had actually passed. All about him there were still lying many bags, their innards strewn about, and he suddenly had no strength to clean it up himself. Turning suddenly to the door, he flung it open, glancing up and down the hallway. "Steward! Cleanup!" ***** Kain's room was nothing much more than anyone else's. A small bed occupied the right wall, while on the left was a dresser atop which was a bowl of water and a lit candle, adding to the moonlight streaming in from the slit of a window that sat over his bed. A mirror hung above the dresser and, stripping his tiara from his face, he suddenly became Hyuran again, no longer appearing as the faceless wraith that the rest of the guards here knew him to be. He was still breathing more heavily than he was used to, and a glance in the mirror told him he was fatigued. Feeling weak, he stumbled to the dresser, bracing atop it as he forced his eyes into the mirror. His brown hair fell at his back in a ponytail, the tattoos beneath his face reminding him of days long ago, before even his days as a fighter in Ul'dah. He sighed, looking downward, and catching sight of one of his wooden carvings atop the dresser, he lifted it. It was a symbol, something like a star, which he had fashioned long ago, in memory of his friend Haya. "Haya." He sighed, lifting it close to his brown eyes. "It's been years." It truly had been years since he had seen the boy. They had been friends, though they had started as foes. All it had been was a bar fight following drinks and a game of cards. Kain had taken the boy for almost all his purse, and Haya had been convinced cheating was involved. Kain smiled, laughing slightly as he walked to his bed, sitting down upon the hard mattress. He fingered the small carving, running it about his fingers as he thought of that night. "Cheating? Me?" His grin spread, amused. "Well Haya, it is true that I was once involved with a woman who taught me all about playing dirty." He stopped as he said this grimacing at the double entendre. "In games, I mean, and maybe a little in combat." His smile faded slightly at the thought of her. So long ago, too, with her. Before Ul'dah. Long before Ul'dah. Those years, before he'd become a fighter in Ul'dah, were now so far on the horizon of his mind that they seemed to be as dreams and figments of his imagination, like stories one reads when one was a child and then slowly forget, clinging only to bits and pieces as a person got older. Ul'dah had been only... what? Twenty, maybe thirty years ago? There he'd begun his new life, fighting in the arenas, earning a small reputation as a hero of the people, until that bar fight with Haya stripped him of his ability to fight. In place of that, the Syndicate which oversaw the city had asked him to be a mercenary in their employ. He'd gladly accepted, on the condition that Haya be employed as well. In the week following the fight and their arrest, they'd shared cells directly across from each other, and had come to respect and enjoy each other's company. He'd rather have died than left Haya to rot alone in a cell. So they'd become mercenaries, fighting together, loyal to Ul'dah, the Sultan and the Syndicate. Loyal until the day they were given that damned mission. His hand squeezed about the wooden figure. "Operation Proximate 6-2," he said, his smile falling into a frown, his teeth gritting even as he said the words. On the surface it had been a mission simply to eliminate opposing cartels threatening the wealth of the Syndicate. In truth... Kain shook his head. Well, it had been far worse, and Haya had abandoned the mission rather than dishonor himself. Kain should have done the same, and done it sooner, but only after Haya had abandoned did he do the same. When the Syndicate had put a bounty on Haya for disloyalty, Kain had agreed to hunt him down, and had instead vanished. Almost two decades later, he was here, and not happier for it. When he'd first become servant to the empire, he'd imagined he was destined for great things. He'd had visions of reliving his glory days, years in the past, of being a warrior once more. The assault on Ala Mhigo, while it had employed ground forces, had relied heavily on superior technology to simply decimate the city. Kain had not been happy with his role, and had found little to challenge him in combat while they'd engaged the admittedly brave defenders of the city. Still, what threat was there when the empire's war machines could have laid waste to any potential threat? At no time had he been happy with the rape of Ala Mhigo, and while he'd impressed his commanders with his superior mastery of arms and his skill in conjury, at no time had he felt personally threatened. He'd felt in far dire straits during his days in the desert, when he'd been a tracker, a lone warrior or a mercenary. He'd felt no great honor from taking Ala Mhigo. In the aftermath he'd been given a high position here, and he felt no better for it. There were no challenges here, no threats, unless one allowed threats to happen. The incident with Revan was the clearest sign of that, but that had been a preventable death, were these guards not so badly trained or so lazy. Yet more than that, there was simply no honor in beating the imprisoned. He focused hard on the wooden figure, sliding it into a pocket in his robe. "Where have the years gone, Haya?" he wondered aloud. "You my friend must be... forty now? Maybe a little younger, maybe a little older?" His hand slid upwards, his fingers touching at his skin, which had softened and moistened in his years in the empire. It was a much easier life than nomadic wanderings in the desert. "And me... shall I ever see you again? I wonder how you are doing now. I wonder if you ever made it to the boat." He smiled, tilting his head forward, nearly leaning into his own knees. "I know you did." He sighed, shaking off his memories as he got up, his hand taking hold of the tiara. He felt better now, and he had one last duty before he went to bed. He slid the mask over his face and pulled the hood over the top of his head, appearing once more like a faceless wraith, like a shadow in the cloak. ***** Regardless of what these other guards may have though of him, Kain knew there was no such thing as a perfect warrior. Everyone had a weakness. He thought of this even as his hand fell to his stomach, where a wound so large it should have been fatal ever reminded him of life's fragility and death's immediacy. However, regardless of the reality, it was not reality which put fear into men, it was the image. Some men could back up their image, others could not. Kain had trained long to back up that image, decades really, but he knew that death could come as easily as the night if he ever let his guard down. Especially in a place like this. His hand moved to the keys at his waist and, putting them to the cell doors, he stepped into a room of four prisoners. The other three were inconsequential to him, it was Revan he had come to see. Lowering himself to the man's unconscious frame, he tilted the man's face upwards. His fellow prisoners had done little to arrange the body, and neither had the guards. This was no way to leave a man, face down in the filth that covered these prison floors. Taking hold of the man by the shoulder, he flipped him onto his back, his fingers moving towards the man's neck. They pressed gently just below the jaw line and, to his satisfaction, he could feel the beating of a pulse. On rare occasion, shock caused by a blow to the thigh could be fatal. This one was strong though, deadly if left unchained, and apparently deadly even while chained. "You're going to have a hard time of this old boy. No use getting yourself into more trouble than you have to. They're going to have to let you go one day, after all. Perhaps." His fingers slid away from the man's neck and to his temple, which he tapped slightly. "Judging by the way you've acted almost since day one though, I'm not sure whether that will be a good thing or a bad thing. Seems you lost something along the way. We all have, but you... I don't know what to make of it." He stood up, for a moment lifting the cloth of one of his gloves, a shimmering sparkle raising up from underneath it, something crystalline and beautiful. "I came to tell you I'm bored of this place. Not sure if you'll remember me saying this or not, though. Either way, if I see you on the outside, I'm not sure whether you'll be friend, foe, or something entirely different." His hand fell to his pockets and, grasping at three mound of fresh cheese, he tossed them towards the three prisoners who sat, looking at him in the strangest fashion. "Don't ever say I didn't do anything for you," he said, though there was no emotion in his voice, no humor or sarcasm. "I may or may not see you again." With that he turned, slamming the doors closed. He was having one of his premonitions, that strong urge of his emotion. He could feel conflict coming. He thought, maybe he'd stick around a while longer. If nothing happened, he'd find a way to leave. If something did, he'd have himself a little fun, and then leave anyway. Either way, he could feel the call, as he did from time to time. It was beckoning him back to the west, to Eorzea. He wasn't sure if that was to old treading grounds in the deserts of Thanalan, to the Black Shroud, to Dravania or somewhere else entirely different. All he knew was, his time in the empire was waning. New things were going to happen soon.

He watched as the crowd thinned, though he himself looked to all the world as if he was asleep. This he did not mind and, getting up, he stretched and yawned, playing the role out, appearing as if the two drinks had been enough to put him to rest. With a shuffling of his feet he meandered to the door, walking back into streets of Limsa Lominsa, and vanishing into the city.

[undeleted ] The most intimidating looking of the guards allowed everyone to back away, their unskilled attacks having beaten but not finished the prisoner. As the bruised captive sat there on his knees, eyes to the grounds and breathing heavily, the tall prison guard stepped forward. A large staff in hand, he arced it upwards for a second, striking the man with such an incredible blow to the thigh that it sent the prisoner into spasms, his eyes going closed as he fell face forward, falling in shock at the crushing of his femoral artery. The guard knew the blow, in conjunction with the rest of the beatings, would have the prisoner out for a day or two. The imposing figure turned, staff still his hand, as he pointed out two guards and then pointed to the body. "Get that out of here." He walked outside of the cell and into the main hallway, passing into the pale light of torches that lined the central prisoner hallway, grimacing at the sound of hooting and hollering that the rest of the uncouth mob emitted as they leapt about, bragging of their beating. "Way to do it!" called one, slapping the tall man on the shoulder. "You got 'em there Kain!" said another, a fat one, the clapping of his hands causing his oversized belly to shake, the light exposing the grease and sweat that trickled down to the line of his trousers. "What a hit I tell's ya!" The guard shook his head. None of them could see his disgust, and he was better for it. His face was covered in a black tiara, a transparent facial mask that allowed him to see everyone around him but kept his own visage hidden. A hood sat atop his head and ran downward into the tuck of his cowl, his body wrapped in brown cloth, his feet and hands covered in gloves and boots that were secured to his body by ropes. He remained silent, simply walking among the ruffians as they passed under the pale lights, the torches dancing upon the walls and casting an array of shadows on the floor that appeared as living wraiths stretching upon the stone ground and up to the ceiling. Far above, thin slits in the stone ceiling exposed the sky, and streaks of pale blue moonlight crisscrossed the prison floor. Their hollering and hooting went on too long, and the man they referred to as Kain could no longer deal with it. "The entire whole of you are rank amateurs," he said with a growl in his voice that could be heard to end of the prison. "Blink and you die, but that's the lesson you just learned, now isn't it? The problem is that the lot of you have never understood what it means to stand on the brink of your deaths, face the abyss and then have to claw your way out." He stopped a moment, turning back in the direction of Revan's cell and thrusting his staff towards it. "Well one of you has now. And he was found lacking. No disrespect to any of you, but the truth is, with the way you conduct yourselves, I'm surprised you all haven't found ways to get killed working in this place. This is a prison, and we have some fairly violent occupants here. Or have you forgotten?" They groused as a whole, but did not argue. They wanted to ride the thrill of having beaten a prisoner, but had lost a comrade to that same prisoner. There was no honor in it. As they reached the end of the hallway, Kain took hold of the keys at his waist, sliding them into the lock of the heavy iron door. A loud click could be heard, the door swinging open and exposing the guard room inside. Just beyond the stretch of the main prison was the small area where the lot of ruffians the empire deemed 'guards' could sit and enjoy their downtime. A few tables occupied the center and a chimney fireplace on the left side burned, a hot cauldron sitting above it, a thick and viscous gruel bubbling away. The scent of it offended his nostrils, as he was not from here and his tastes in food were from a different land. Still, it was edible, in the strictest of senses, and he was forced to admit it was either this to eat or nothing. He took a look at the meal and shook his head once more. Nothing. He'd eat when he got home. His left arm stretched outwards to the heavy iron door, sending it to a close with a resounding boom whose echo carried out into the night air. The ring of it carried in their bones and shook their hearts, but Kain paid it no mind, his eyes instead searching out the area. The men here were half dressed or worse, some of them rife with muscle but many instead looking rather... underwhelming. The overweight ones he understood the least. How could one work in such a dangerous environment as this and not at least attempt to improve their condition? What if a full out prion break occurred? How would such men endure? "Amateurs," he mumbled, stepping through the group huddled about, many of them playing games of cards at their tables, his feet carrying him without sound along the stone floor as he approached the doorway at the opposite end. His men fell behind him a moment but he turned, hand upraised, and they cowered at it. "I just need a breather," he told them, and they nodded in their cowardice, the masked figure turning back to the more simple wooden door that opened into the rest of the complex. These men would be the death of themselves at some point. Regardless of his disdain for their tactics, at some level he was protective of them. Yet so many were from the margins of society, hired for their lack of morals and willingness to beat a prisoner to an inch of his life. He wasn't sure his patriarchal instinct was well deserved.

He could feel the burn of the alcohol in his chest and the pit of his stomach, and it warmed his heart. It had, indeed, been a while. Finding his way over to his table, he pushed his chair as tightly as it would go, resting his head against the smooth, cold wall at his back. His hood fell low, once again obscuring most of his face, his arms crossed before him as his eyes growing heavy. It had been a long trip, and now he contented himself with simply enjoying some time among 'civilized' people.

He looked fully at her now, for the first time showing his entire face, the shadows folding back to reveal a deep and tanned skin, dried by much time in the heat and sun and marked occasionally by nicks and cuts. Small tattoos sat beneath either eye, but despite these signs of age, the glint in his eye showed all the vigor of a young man. He took the cup in hand and tilted it back, clearing it's contents in a gulp before taking hold of his robe, turning aside as he looked back at his table. "Sin," he said, offering a smile as he stepped away.

I have no idea who my character is, so hopefully I figure that out soon.

The man noticed her eyes moving about the tavern and, his hand sliding along his hip to withdraw his bag once again, he pushed back the cloth of his robes just slightly further, the massive head of a Great Axe hanging downward at his back becoming visible for just a moment. He continued to stare forward for the half second that he did this, betraying nothing of his intention, and pulled the bag onto the table, his robes consuming him once again. His heavily wrapped hands cupped the small pile and slid it along the bar to its edge, the pieces falling into the dark interior of the brown cloth bag. "I don't think I'm particularly into the purchase of individuals, not even the services of beautiful women," he said, shifting his head slightly to her so that he exposed his brown eyes out of the shadow of the cowl. He secured the bag as he did this, hanging at his side, before taking the glass in his hand. "As for the ladies at that table, it's been a long time, you see, since I saw any." His hand gripped the glass, enveloping it in his large hand. "A sight for sore eyes, I suppose you could say. It's been a long time since I had anything like this, either," he joked, a small smile cracking his dried lips as he brought the rim of the glass to his mouth, the liquid contents seeping into his throat. His smile grew as he finished off the drink, lowering it once more to the bar with a contented sigh. "Excellent, I must say."

I shall carry on the flag of Bastok!

Anybody who has lived in the Southwest United States or further South has to pick Ul"Dah.

Pick Ul'Dah.

The man, suddenly taken by surprise at the voice of a woman, hesitated a moment, looking sidelong at her from under his cowl. His dried face searched from underneath the hood, his eyes peering out into the open light, staring into her face. They were a deep brown, humble, nothing sparkling or magical. They simply were. For a long moment he paused, glancing from the row of drinks and into her face, his eyes searching the softness of her skin and the glimmer of her eyes. Again his tongue crossed over his lips, the meager moisture lightening them, his face finally turning to stare at her fully in the eyes. As he did, the sight of a man whose face that was not irreparably cracked by the sun and heat stared full at her, his humble brown eyes passing beyond the shadows of the cowl and into her face. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice low and unassuming, betraying nothing of who or what he was beyond seeming a simple and poor man. "But I was wondering... I am so thirsty." His hand reached to his side, pulling up a bag and pouring more than two lap-fulls of coin onto the bar. "Would any of this buy me a drink?"

The cowl betrayed little as he caught sight of the group of women, assembled in a mirror of tribal behavior as they found protection in each other's company. The man couldn't say he blamed them, as an assessment of the surroundings revealed an hive of scum of villainy mingled with the light of would-be heroics. There were men, their shirts open to reveal barrel chests, heads wrapped in kerchiefs and sometimes missing an eye. Some sat about, their cheeks covered in several days' stubble, elongated blades at their hips and with grime swelling beneath the edges of their nails. Some were missing several teeth, others had scars that crossed their jaws. What a an odd paradox, such a crowd assembled alongside young adventurers, their blades free from any nicks or scratches, their clothes and armor freshly assembled, having all the signs of youth, including the inexperience. Their eyes gleamed with a fresh glow, glances of anticipation and excitement flashing from their faces. The man allowed a smile. Their clothes were a shade whiter than white, a deeper red than red, all newly purchased, all so new. He couldn't remember a day when he was exactly the same, but could sympathize with the excitement. From the corner of his hood he gazed one last time upon the women, allowing an even wider smile. It felt good to see people again. His eyes moved forward, to the line of drinks that sat towards the wall beyond the bar, seeking out someone who could assist him. "Barkeeper?"

The man's fingers slid over each other, the rough material dragging upon itself as his fingers folded along one another, his arms resting forward on the table. He heard a talker for sure, a man who seemed to know what he wanted to say, but not how to say it. From beneath the shadow of his cowl, a grin broke out as he considered the words. Words of encouragement, wrapped in the utmost verbosity. This man reminded him of an old friend. "I believe a drink is in order," he finally said, softly and to himself, as he looked up towards the bar. His grin began to slide away as he hesitated. "Been some time since I was in a place like this."

The man entered, covered in a robe, its threaded materials like the strands of sackcloth. Beneath its brown exterior, layers of rough cloth engulfed him, his face hidden by the hood that draped low over his face. As it swayed about his visage, small nicks and cuts could be seen, placed alongside and across traces of red ink that dyed what little could be seen of his face. He had only just passed a man who had departed as he had arrived at this tavern, and felt as if something had just concluded. There was a slight buzz about the room, and his eyes, searching out the area from beneath the edge of his hood, caught the light of the lamps. His face angled slightly upward for only the briefest of moments, soaking in the faces of those who sat about, his ears listening to the dull hum of conversation that emanated from several tables. As quickly as he'd allowed himself to expose his face for that second, he quickly turned away, face to the floor as he searched for a suitable table. It betrayed itself to him, a humble, round thing that sat tucked into the corner of the tavern. His boots, made of soft cloth and secured about his trousers with the security of ropes that crisscrossed up to his calf, made nary a sound, though there was a gentle swish in the air as his clothing moved about him. It billowed around him, swallowing his figure for a moment as he strode forward, the breeze catching the materials as he made his way to the table. His roughly gloved hand took hold of the nearest chair, his eyes favoring the corner, and his body followed. The sound of the chair creaked as he pulled it towards him, dragging it so that he could place his back to the wall, enabling him to look out upon the patrons of the building. Slowly, he lowered himself into the chair, leaning back and breathing deeply, the scent of liquor on the air. His tongue broke from his mouth, like the head of a turtle from its shell, and slid along lips that were cracked and dry. "I'm thirsty," he whispered softly, too soft to hear by all but the keenest of ears, but he did not move. For now, he watched.

I know what you're saying. I'm not a NeWb to computers and hardware but still I'm like... really? *sigh* Alright new vid card... you got me.

Yeah the card itself isn't great, but I mean... my computer has handled everything at max display without a hitch unto now. I can run games like Dead Space or Bioshock 2 but not FFXIV ?

Does my computer suck? Intel Quad Core @ 2.66 GHZ 6 Gigs of Ram Nvida GeForce 9500 GS Getting 700 on low resolution.

A desert culture of nomads? What crazy nonsense.