RPC has moved! These pages have been kept for historical purposes

McBeefâ„¢ · **03-07-2016, 01:42 PM**

It was strange, seeing the place again. Surreal even.

The small manse lay huddled against the cliff face, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. To her of course, it wasnâ€™t. The house was like a ghost, a spectre. Some remnant of the past that somehow persisted into the present.

She clutches her burden under one arm, and steps out into the lake, boots finding purchase on cobblestone a few inches beneath the surface. There was a dry path, of course, but this felt appropriate. A small current brushes against her, propelled by the small waterfall bordering the house.

She steps back onto land, her boots leaving wet tracks as she heads to the gate. A low wall protected by a row of rusting cannon, a garden overgrown with weeds, a fish pond long since dry. Even though she expected this, some small part of her still grieved that time had taken such a toll on the place.

The door is chained and locked, loops of iron binding the doors. The wooden sign nailed nearby says â€˜NO ENTRYâ€™, but the broken windows show that it was ignored by at least one person. She takes the heavy object from under her arm, a squat pair of bolt cutters. She places the sharp beak of the device over the hasp of the lock, and hesitates.

Laughter, drinking.

Friendly faces and warm fires.

Harsh words, and harsher partings.

Did she truly wish to go through such things again? Did she even deserve to?

The miqoâ€™te takes a deep breath, adjusting the carved mask that covers her face.

No.

She didnâ€™t. Her muscles bulge for a moment, and the lock falls to the ground.

But others, others did.

She wouldnâ€™t fail again.

***GhostlyMaiden*** · **03-14-2016, 02:22 PM**

Nanagi had re-awoken from her restless sleep, feeling her head throbbing. It didn't stop, even with the potion Valen had given her, she could still feel the terrible pain, it made it hard for her to focus. Instead of trying to fight it and force herself back to sleep, she instead laid there with her eyes open, staring up at the ceiling that she couldn't see.

She was in an unfamiliar place, Arcadeus. Rihxo had offered Nanagi to stay in her room for the night, considering she couldn't go back. Not yet. Every passing minute, Nanagi continued to question herself.

"Why?"
"Was it worth it?"
"What will I do now?"
"Why did it fail?"
"Why?"

In the few minutes that she stood outside, holding her weapon towards Stroud, she was hellsbent on killing him.

"DO IT!"

He had yelled at her, goading her to do it. She didn't hesitate, she attacked him without thinking of the repercussions of her actions. Now look where she is.
Laying in a bed that wasn't her's, her crystal taken by the elezen woman who held her in her arms, dealing with a concussion and now feeling the regret.

Constantly did she tell herself that she did it to help the Wayfarer's. All she wanted was him gone so that no one would ever have to worry about his manipulation or mental state.

"Was it really for them? Yes, of course it was! Right?

Time after time was Nanagi always there for him, willing to fight by his side. Time and time again, he refused. Yet, she always dealt with it. She stayed by his side, hoping that she could help guide him, so he wouldn't ave to carry a burden alone. But it was not to be. For too long did she deal with his harsh words, his manipulation. No longer did she want part of it. But she couldn't just walk away, not after the conversation they had the night before.

He would kill her and everyone in the Wayfarer's if it meant it would further his agenda. She didn't like that. L'rinhi, the one who provided him shelter, he would be all but willing to kill her. Knowing that he was around, she saw it as a threat. Perhaps if he kept his mouth shut, all of this could've been avoided.

And now? Now Nanagi had to face the repercussions. She was to speak to L'rinhi, and answer for her actions. Even if it means she is to be kicked out, she will answer truthfully.

ShadowedKnight · **03-14-2016, 05:00 PM**

"Where there is sin..."

Wooden steaks driven into the ice and leaned against each other for support. Â The body of an aevis suspended beneath them to appear as if it were lunging forward. Â Its wings outstretched and piked. Â She stared at the fruit of her labors splayed before her, torch in hand. Â Cold gaze met dead eyes. Â Her lips twitched at the corner.

"... we bring atonement."

Slowly the torch was guided along the length of the wood. Â Kindling shriveled and charred while flames caught, danced then lept over the timbers to consume the effigy. Â Scales may blunt the sharpest steel, but no flesh is safe from cleansing fire. Â She sniffed, inhaled the scent of the redeemed, then turned slowly to face the valley below. Â No vapor accompanied her breath as she sneered.

"These people... they are rife with it. Â Come, Besten. Â It is time."

A grunt of approval followed before the two began their decent from the cliff side.

Telluride · **03-14-2016, 05:38 PM**

He had taken an empty table in the little tavern in Drybone, and nobody seemed interested in challenging him for it. Perhaps it was his appearance.

The tall Hyur was clad in a dirty grey vest and dusty leather pants and boots; an instrument case hung by a strap from the chair upon which he sat, and his hat was wide of brim and decorated by feathers, which were torn and hung limply. He looked as if he had walked in from a dust storm, grimed with a mix of sand and sweat, but more than sand. The grime itself seemed to glitter, as if bits of glass or crystal had been thrown over him.

He had a tankard of dark ale to his right on the table, and was sniffing while poring over a map. It was of no place in Thanalan, but of the Coerthas Highlands, the region around Dragonhead.

A grimy finger slid down the map's right edge, marking with glittering dust a bit of territory inhabited only by wolves and beaked invaders from the Twelveswood.

Ha'uruh Nunh · **03-17-2016, 03:47 PM**

Lt'helo sat and smoked in utter silence. The harsh rasp of her incense-like, stupefying leaf against her throat and lungs served several purposes, but for the moment, she wanted its aid in concentration, its press down upon her mind.

She didn't need the pipe smoke to call up the vision with crystal clarity. It was Warren Castille's vision, Warren Castille's fears, and as he was a man of great purpose, his fears were equally great. The destructive monster slaughtering the Grindstone. The smiling woman who was once his wife, her mind shattered. The despairing Mage flinging herself from a cliff. The herbs of the children of the Mountain Aldgoat tribe had crisply illuminated what was not yet inevitable. Lt'helo was all too aware Warren Castille continued to fear what he had seen, what could still come to pass, and for that reason had taken the Mage girl into his home.

And yet, Lt'helo mused, greater and stranger works were sometimes requires to stave off inevitability coming to flower.

In that service, she had committed sins, great sins. Already, the Masked One sensed those sins, smelled them on her skin like a stench that only another who had committed great sins could perceive. The Masked One, the very definition of a loose cannon knocking holes in the rocking ship that was the Grindstone family, thought himself soiled beyond redemption, and therefore free to do as he pleased. But Lt'helo knew the twin forces of inevitability and duty held them all lashed as prisoners tied by either arm. She suspected he would try to kill her someday. She was certain he would not be the first to try, nor the last.

Toward that end, the end of staving off the inevitable, she had reached out her hand to save the corrupted, granted succor to murderers, healed the unrepentant, spared the conniving. Toward that end, she had condemned the innocent, destroyed pure-hearted love, twisted fate, and bereaved an entire household. She had spoken to Warren Castille frequently of the poisonous cloud of smoke-like grief choking his household. What he did not know was that it was her hand on the bellows, fanning the smoke into the house.

Utter despair lay so close. It was a constant temptation, lurking just over her shoulder, whispering of an end at last. She clung to her anchors, which slipped from her grasp, one by one. Aoi acted the spoiled teenager, petulant one moment and pleading the next, oblivious and uncaring of the forces tearing Lt'helo asunder. Ha'uruh feared her, his own blood, and he was too tamed by city life and weak liquor to put his faith in the movements of stars, the formation of ants on a branch, or the pattern of intestines as they spill from the belly of a freshly slaughtered goat. These were the things that whispered the inevitable. Why would he not learn to hear?

Only Warren Castille and Sudden Impact remained to anchor her to the tumult of the present. Warren Castille of course surrendered nothing he considered his, an admirable quality save when it meant utter refusal to succumb to the inevitable. Sometimes, that could rend fate apart and turn even inevitability aside; but most of the time, it meant being ground within the teeth of turning, inexorable gears.

As for Impact... At first, simply an amusement, a diversion. She has sought him as a woman sought a man, utilizing her arts carelessly, and the more fool she, ignoring some of the strongest indications of fate she had ever seen. She could not afford to be merely a woman - not with him, or anyone else, though he made it easy for her to feel that way. He was as much a puppet of the inevitable as any of them. When she thought of Impact, and then of the future, she felt afraid. That was unusual. Fearing what would happen was foolish.

A reckoning was coming. She could feel it when she breathed, exhaling smoke, and as a knot in the deepest part of her belly. Everyone paid a price for their deeds. But she couldn't afford to lose any more anchors. She couldn't keep holding on then. If only she could talk to the Judge about it, and make him see... make him somehow understand how important it was for him to either return, or move forward. His mind was so alien, it fascinated her as a bird was fascinated by a snake. He could become an anchor as well. If she could only find the right words, could only convince him to let her walk beside him for a time - whether forward, or back.

Would any of them understand? Her choices, her sins, how hard it had been for her, how hard it still was? She didn't need forgiveness, but with no one to follow after her, there were none who could understand, and she found she craved that with the intensity of hunger and thirst.

And yet, on came the reckoning. The Masked One might truly kill her when her sins came to light. Perhaps Aoi would join him, savoring in her mate's righteous bloodlust. John Waterstrike would hide his face and weep for what was lost; Warren Castille would not turn his face from what must be done. Only the Judge's face escaped her mind. Would it be satisfied at justice served? Grieved? Angered? Or blank, as a mask?

Lt'helo could not turn from her path. Inevitability dictated all which would happen now. She filled the room with smoke as she sat alone, and concealed herself within its heart.

Capheira · **03-19-2016, 07:18 PM**

"Khyran," greeted the woman quietly anew, slowly making her way toward the chair only to stop as he lifted himself from itâ€™s wooden foundation. The man looked a mess; blood splattered over his thin, corpse-like frame, noticeable even upon the darker fabric that hung from his gaunt frame as he moved to embrace her. "...B-been meaning to c-catch up with you... s-sorry you always catch me on a bad day... I... kind of want to hug you, but... I've got blood on me... " he apologized, even with the shake of her head and the draw of his person to her. Odetteâ€™s lips curled into a faint smile, chin resting briefly on the scrawny shoulder of her raven-haired friend. "Since when has that e'er mattered in the past...?"

The embrace was short, yet spoke volumes for the time that had passed them by, as time was want to do. Unavoidable down to the last second at the behest of commitments and lifestyle choices. It had been a long time. Too long.
"Y-yeah, I guess ... it hasn't." He admitted, wrapping his arms around her back and squeezing for a small, measured beat before the inevitable withdrawal; stepping back to stand once more at arm's length to offer the sincerity of a forlorn smile. "...I miss you." He spoke, honestly. "J-just ... been thinking about how we killed Hunter together, and now we're in two different worlds." There was a sigh that chased the Vultureâ€™s words, penetrating the silence alongside the quiet whir of magitek limb as he lifted a spindly hand to the back of his neck. In a similar manner, Odetteâ€™s own scarred thumb brushed against the freckled point of her nose, a mirthless chuckle leaving her lips in quiet accompaniment. "Aye."

"A lot has changed, an' even more has continued on as it always does. Yet, it's been on my mind too. There's so much..." the words trailed off to silence with the slow huff of an exhaled breath, marking the truth of just how long it had been since the exchange of private words in the past. "I've missed you too." With the click of the manâ€™s magitek leg accompanied by the double-step of her own heeled boots, vixen followed vulture toward the table and chairs that cast eerie shadows upon stone wall and floor with the flickering light of the waning candle atop the table. First and foremost the inquiry to the greasy-haired midlanderâ€™s current state found itself the topic of discussion, turning then to recent matters and the follow up to prior conversation - one marked by the blondeâ€™s retrieval of flask from shapely hip and the quiet screech of metal on metal thread for capâ€™s removal.

"I don't know. . ." Odette admitted quietly with opened canister sat before her, scarred thumb brushed over equally scarred knuckle in idle sweep back and forth. "There's just a lot goin' on, or not enough. I'm nae sure which, t'be perfectly honest." Lifting her eyes from their ocean-hued dance upon wooden surface, the highlander unthreaded the lace of her fingers to habitually reach for the flask, lifting it to hover against her lower lip in paused consideration. Oh how she despised that feeling of vulnerability, enough to back away from it entirely. "I didnae come here t'burden you more than y'already are, however. I know things have been busy, hells. . . th'place is thrivin' on walk up."

Khyran Oisin knew better than that, however, and the vulture gave a small nod in response to her words. When he spoke, it was with an exhausted but undeniably honest tone for the ties they shared. "Well... if you ever need a break from things, or just to talk... I'm almost always here." He gave her a weak smile, lips parting just a sliver to expose the gaps of a toothy maw. Hardly the most aesthetically pleasing of men, with too boney features and a long nose that hooked downward like a beak, he cut an intimidating figure for most. Most, but not she - strange as their friendship seemed to be. "Or I could come to you, for a change. I know you don't like aether travel. I hate doing that to you." He said. He trailed for a moment, then, he too, found a great interest in the wood grains on the table; single brown eye weaving about the various nicks and scratches that carved their own stories.

"In all honesty, Khy, I've been tryin' t'catch a break fer weeks an' just. . . I dunnae. You ever get that feeling that somethin's just. . . missing? Feeling like y'want t'run. Just run an' nae look back. Nae knowin' where yer goin'. Just th'need t'be an' do somethin'... to fix somethin', or break it." Atop the tableâ€™s surface, Odetteâ€™s slender fingers slowly curled into a tight, but passive fist; knuckles threaded with the tracking scars of an undisclosed past and a far more curious present. â€œJust that desire t'feel a little more. . . alive?" the soft words spilled from her lips like the rushed current of a broken dam that eased to trickle and then, stillness. A shortly huffed note left her maw as she leaned back against the chair's rest and partook of the flaskâ€™s contents, the familiar burn that warmed her throat a comfort. "I need somethinâ€™ tâ€™sink my teeth into, rather than make do with scraps thrown from thâ€™table. Th'travel is inconvenient, but fine. . . I can manage."

Listening to the bardess in silence, Khyranâ€™s claw-like fingers idly traced along the wood-grain of the table, tacking each sporadic line that was, in itself, unique. "...It... sounds to me like..." he spoke quietly, offered words trailing off almost as quickly as theyâ€™d began; dying on thin lips before picking up anew. "...You want a family. M-maybe I'm wrong, though." He sighed, boney fingers falling still atop the table where a dark eye stared for but a single moment before weaving upward to the freckled countenance of the familiar blonde. "...You're alone in a crowd... a sea of faces... a world of two faces and backstabbing. At least, that's... how I felt, back when I was... there." He trailed a little, meeting the depths of ocean pools that was the aquamarine hue of the highlanderâ€™s keen gaze. "...But maybe.. maybe I'm wrong. C-correct me if I"m wrong, anyway." He drew in a deep breath, adding quietly. "I just... think you're really lonely, Ode. I guess that's why I wanted to learn more about you. Back then, I asked... if you've ever loved someone before."

"I dunnae what I want... or if I want anythinâ€™ at all." Odette mused honestly, a dry chuckle sounding from her lips to echo within the rim of the flask. A pause followed as she partook of the contents, feeling the comfort of the burn at the back of her throat. "Lonely..." she murmured, tasting the whiskey-tainted word on her lips with a slow shake of her head. "We all make sacrifices, Khyran." was the only reply given, perhaps the only reply she had at such a time; brows creased in a small frown. "We all do what we must."

desmond28 · **03-20-2016, 10:53 AM**

Finding himself at a tavern, Paul sat quietly by himself and observed the patrons from a dimly lit corner. The day was hard on him. Of course, it was nothing compared to what he had seen over his span of time in this world. Yet, it was just one more day to add to his already taxed mind.

While he was good at what he did, there were always several more criminals to appear who felt the need to abuse women or children. Can one man make a difference; can several?

The questions weighed on Paulâ€™s mind as the spiced alcohol presently known as rum washed down his throat. Despite his best efforts, it never washed away the pain. Nothing did and nothing probably ever would. And who could he confide in? Who would be able to sympathize with his decades of pain, suffering, and loss? Who would understand his struggle with reasoning on the â€˜whyâ€™ of his journey?

Why am I here?

What can I do in this dying world?

Why do I continue to live while all other things die?

The rum continued to wash down his throat. Maybe, just maybe this one time it would actually make him forget about the unimaginable sorrow that continues to crush his insides.

Gegenji · **03-21-2016, 04:13 PM**

"... Whaddya think, Gran?"

The baby behemoth unwillingly looked up from his rather comfortable spot on the sheep-pattern rug that was the staple of Chachanji's bedroom, chewing idly on the piece of antelope jerky that had been given to him not long before. The aforementioned Lalafell was sitting on his little Tonberry-themed couch, eyes on a strange bottle that he held betwixt his stout little fingers. Its contents were somewhat obscured by the smoky amber glass, leaving little more than its label to discern its contents.

~GIGAS JUICE - Be as big as a Gigas!~

It had been an impromptu purchase suns ago. After a stop by the Quicksand had quietly hurt the little Lalafell's pride. A meal interrupted by a - of course rather large - Highlander turning to him and asking if he wasn't a bit too young to be there. Such seemed to oft be the case: time and time again he was dismissed as being "too young" or mistaken as a child. Even Virara, one of his closest friends, frequently poked fun - in her own deadpan way - at his height... and he didn't even want to think about his brother's steadfast belief that he was still too young to be the family heir.

He had kept it hidden well enough, talking to the man at some length before his interests turned to another Highlander - one who had tried to pretty little Chachan up like a doll not half a moon prior. The Doman had slipped away then, a smile hiding the new nettling added to the pile, as he escaped to Pearl Lane and the markets beyond. And it was there that he ran into the strange man, draped in an almost haphazard assortments of cloth that hid all but his deeply sun-kissed head with its short fuzz of ebony hair.

As merchants oft do, he immediately latched onto the quelled depression within the Lalafell. Chachanji had been cautious at first, checking for crimson earrings - he had been nearly poisoned once before by the rogues who bore such accessories - before even deigning to speak to the man. The figure, whose ears were overfull of hoops of metal with no spot of ruby to be found, apparently took the teenager's concern for trepidation and continued his spiel. And, perhaps finding appeal in venting to someone, Chachanji has spoke his worries.

To be a little taller, more recognizable for the young adult he was. And the man, in a flurry of jingling jewelry and colorful cloth, had presented him the bottle he now held. Chachanji had been uncertain, worried, as he oft was with matters of medicine. That is when the man said it to him, lips curled into a toothy smile:

"'Twould take a man to take a bitter medicine, no?"

Perhaps it was that little barb, perhaps it had been all the other pokes at his height and supposed childishness. Whatever the reason, Chachanji had given the man his coin and shoved the bottle into a pouch. Then he had gone to attend the Grindstone and forgotten all about it while cheering on for his friend Tiroro. He only rediscovered it upon returning home, feeling quite foolish indeed for falling for the man's words and leaving it on his bookshelf.

The Lalafell held it now, having just returned from Gridania and the festival of fortune. Next to him were the fortunes he had received, and his thoughts on what had been done and said flitting through his head. Again he had been deemed too young - this time to have "getting lucky" explained to him in the context of Nathan's grandiose presentation - and had even reacted a bit overmuch when Jancis offered a "handkerchief" for him to avoid sitting on the damp forest ground. This was followed by a performance on seeking one's dreams, and Jancis' suggestion to seek other, smaller ones beyond his old standby of "protecting his friends."

He had countered with seeking to be equal to his father's skill in smithing, but a little nagging thought brought back that childish little wish of his. One of the fortunes had told him to stop hiding and tell "her" how he felt, a confusing thing indeed. Had it been a moon or so prior, he would've assumed this mention the nebulous certainty of his relationship with the delightful Aya Foxheart. However, that had be resolved rather handily, so he had been left with the fortune as a mere curiosity.

Another told him to hold fast to his dreams, and the Miqo'te woman who had presented to him had stated it was an important thing indeed. Again, he had assumed it in context of his usual dreams - protecting his friends and others, either by his own hand or through his craft. However, as he started at the bottle again, he had to wonder. Jancis had been one of the few there who had stood by his adulthood - perhaps he should have told her of this strange insecurity of his? Or perhaps spoke of that childish dream to be taller to her instead of improving his craft.

He made a face - he hated medicine. Leanne had chased him around Coralhaus when he caught a cold with a bottle and spoon. But again the sun-kissed man's words crept into his head, goading him on. Along with other suggestions - taking it with something sweet, for example. He still had Tiroro's picnic basket - which had a thermos of the mix of fruit juices and sweetwater Aya had coined as a "Champion Chachan" - from the cut-short date they had out at the Bazaar. A little bit of fun interrupted by a flung fireball.

He had managed to block some of it, but Tiroro had still lost her bow in the attack and suffered burns on her back. Burns that took far longer to treat due to new procedures being instituted at her Free Company. The little worrywart's thoughts turned fanciful: if he had been taller, he could've covered the gap faster; taken more of the hit. He was a smith, he could - and did - handle a few burns. He looked to Gran again for guidance, and the purple porker just gave a succinct snort before going back to gnawing on his jerky.

Hold tight to your dreams.
Seek out smaller dreams to fulfill.
Prove that he was an adult.
A man takes bitter medicine.

The cork came off with an audible pop that caught Gran's attention, his little ears standing and swiveling at attention. From the vial came an odd smell, of grease and oil, that caused both pet and owner to recoil a bit. Steeling himself, however, Chachanji poured it into the thermos and swished it about. He hesitated for only a moment afterward before draining the contents, and then made a face afterward. The suns-old juice tasted more tart than fruity, and he could still make out a rubbery flavor that he assumed was the "Gigas Juice."

He immediately felt worrisome - what if it didn't work? What if it just made him sick? What if folks found out and laughed at him for having such a childish concern? His cheeks burned at the thought, before a refreshing thought blew through his mind - a song he had echoed earlier that day, along with memories of rainbows. The lyrics spilled from his lips, even as he sought to quell his concerns.

"And I'm doin' jus' fine... 'm always landin' on me feet. In th' nick'a time 'n by th' skin'a me teeth... I ain't gonna stress 'cuz th' worst ain't happ'n'd yet..."

He bobbed back and forth as he hummed more of the song. And thought on the positives - even if it did nothing, at least he tried. And if he got sick from this impulse purchase, he had friends who'd help him. The tension drained from him and he yawned, stretching his little arms into the air. He rubbed at a cheek as he tucked the thermos away into the basket and made his way to his bed.

And as he fell into slumber, he left the fortunes from the event sitting on the couch in a neat little stack. A fortune that told him to hold fast to his dreams. A fortune to speak up about his feelings. And a third fortune that had confused him just as much then and slipped his mind in his wild romp through a strange tangent of thoughts now.

To be wary of tricks.

***GhostlyMaiden*** · **03-22-2016, 12:27 PM**

"...And so, the hunt begins again."

Pirates.
A dead captain.
A bounty.

In order to grasp onto the freedom she desperately wanted, to see her sister once again, she had to do it. It was a swift and painless death, she was kind enough to give him that. Did he deserve worse? Certainly, but Kanako wasn't the one to mutilate someone. Despite her behavior, she had some sort of class.

"What's an Arrow doin' 'ere in Gridania?"

Pirates.
A symbol.
Poisons.

If the boy hadn't flaunted his ship's symbol, Kanako would've been left completely unaware that the boy was there. The Arrows were known for their poisons. Hiding it in someone's food. Having their weapons tipped in it. Creating it and selling it. It was their specialty, it was what made them feared. For every deal made with these pirates, people were left afraid, as if the food they were provided could not be trusted.

Now, knowing that these pirates were out hunting her again, it left herself and even her sister in great danger. The best thing to do was to stay away from Limsa Lominsa, but what was Kanako not doing? Staying away from Limsa. Instead, she would go to the Wench and enjoy the company of anyone who wished to entertain her for that evening.

Perhaps it was simple luck that one of their members, or their new captain, didn't walk in while she was there. Perhaps it helped that she was one of them, and knows when to stay out of Limsa.

"They'll come lookin' in Gridania."

Mamiko was Kanako's twin sister, the most innocent person she knows. Knowing that these pirates would likely begin looking in the Shroud because of the boy she met there and allowed to live another sun, she knew it wasn't safe to stay. At least for a few suns.

Perhaps it was coincidence that she found Yumi after being away for ten cycles?

For the next few days, Kanako and Mamiko would stay in Thanalan to travel with their old family. The family had grown, and it brought a great warmth in Kanako's heart to know this. It was unfortunate that they couldn't stay.

"And 'ere I thought, they actually fergot about me..."

The morning when the pirates found their dead captain and missing woman, they knew exactly what happened. Kanako knew what would come for the next cycles, and possibly the rest of her life. A bounty was placed - wanted dead or alive. However, as the Arrows began to rebuild and gain new members, Kanako and her bounty was almost forgotten.

She was able to walk freely in Limsa without ever having to worry about one of them coming from behind and slitting her throat. She went three cycles without ever having to worry. But now? Now the bounty is starting to rise up from the surface again, and she must tread ever so carefully.

Who knows what the new and improved Arrows are like.

Kurt S. · **03-23-2016, 12:00 PM**

The highlander had placed a crate on the table between him and the robed midlander. The cloth of her robes decorated by spare bits of metal here and there, clinging onto linen that shrouded her. A sword was slung on one side of her hip, a grimoire on the other, both looking a little worn. The hood of her robes were drawn back.Â

Grunting with effort he reached for the lid of the hardwood crate and swung it open for the midlander. In turn, a small smile danced on her lips. She reached over and grabbed one of the vials held by the crate, a sickly green liquid swirling inside the glass that she turned over and examined. All of the vials held within were arrayed neatly, kept in tidy little clusters of color that made it an organized listing of swatches, four colors in all, instead of a kaleidoscope of hues.

"I'm honestly impressed, Roland. I thought it'd take a little while longer to assemble what I asked for."Â

"Well, Allene, when you've got a wee little pup who thinks she can take the world on and not one whit of sense to dissuade her from her course. There's little and less that can stop a passionate woman like you."

She had brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear as the weathered and rugged highlander spoke. Crow's feet wrinkling the corner of his eyes, grey streaks upon a black messy nest of hair. He had spoken in fatherly tone. Allene slipped the vial back into the crate. He shut the lid over the crate. She placed a sack of gil over the box.

"And you, wee pup, can keep the gil. I got me a windfall and just used the excess to make yer order. Diluted banemite poison, now what could you possibly need this for?"

"My reasons are my own, old man."

"My my and you almost sounded like me daughter too. Thinkin she knows what's best. An' I know there are other methods to stop yer belly from growing. Ya don't need to chug any of this poison an' slowly kill yerself in the process."

She fell silent, slumping back against the rickety oak chair. Her lips pressed into a thin line, arms crossed. Her gaze turning away from the worried highlander across the table. He scoffed and shook his head, the ratty greying nest dancing from side to side. Her attention was caught when she heard the heavy thud of her gil landing on the desk. It was almost thunderous.

"If'n yer that worried about a wee one intrudin on yer fun, there's always some alchemist who could 'ave a solution to yer problem. Ya don't need a retired poisoner to 'elp ya. An' more to the point, that other solution probably won't have ya dancin with death every time."

He held a finger over to her before she even spoke. A gesture so powerful in her contemplative state she had silenced herself rather easily.

"An' I know, yer not doin it fer the fun. No' completely anyway. Fer the gil. Scared that monetarist lackey ain't gon' be done with yer family even tho' ya paid. But ye've met the quota, ya paid the debt against all odds. Yer father's got both his legs back and yer mother's decided to sleep more. 'ells yer favorite little brother looks up to ye and the twins too."

He leaned over and reached for the sack, dropping it on her lap.

"Ya don't need to be so desperate this time. Look, yer not me daughter but it kills me to see ya come here bruised and wounded because the gil was good but the man was all flavors a cruel. Ya get a little more leeway to choose who you sell yer body to and what ya do with the earnins. 'Ells with yer father back at Nanawa Mines like nuthin ever happened, ya could let go of sellin yer body fer 'owever long it takes for another tragedy ta hit."

"And that's how I cope. Look, the only reason I haven't gone bald of the stress is because of that. A little outlet, a slave to my desires, and I get gil out of it too. My vice saved my family."

"And yer vice isn't masochism innit?"

"No."

"Thought so. I won't tell ya to stop, though I would like nothing more than to. Ye've yer mind set on it but at least leave summodat gil for better purposes. Not ones that get ya killed. I dun mind at all that you come to me for all manner of nasty things to shower yer blade in for that edge ya need, but when ya use it on yerself it's nuthin short of bafflin really.Â

H-hey. Allene? Allene!"

The highlander had stopped. He found it odd that the midlander was so uncharacteristically quiet as went about lecturing her. He found it odd that even with the tent flap open she was sweating like it was in the middle of the hottest day. He caught her just before her cheek decided it was a good idea to kiss the wood of the table.Â

Her body was almost limp in his arms and he'd feel the heat just seeping through the linen of her robe. He quickly moved her to the sole hammock within the confines of the tent he lived in. Quickly taking the sweat stained robe and shirt off her leaving her with her sleeveless hempen shirt and the leather skirt that hugged her waist after he had taken her boots off as well.Â

Just as he turned to leave the tent, he stopped when he'd hear her chuckling on the hammock, rushing over to see if the midlander needed anything he knelt down beside her on one knee.Â

"W-well didn't expect myself to collapse so easily after finding it so hard to sleep for the past...oh three days. Y'know how hard it is to find people to just...revel with you in your little victories. Odd how..no one, literally no one in Ul'dah was interested in the prospect of free drinks. Three day celebration of my triumph over the forces of debt collectors!"

She began to rant sooner or later. Allene was vaguely aware of another voice, female this time. Probably Roland's wife. She was aware how everything was inexplicably wet and hot and uncomfortable. Then it started to feel cooler and drier, a little more comfy, a little less scratchy.

A great lull that just felt like her worries evaporated.Â

Morning came, she pushed aside the flap of the tent and was greeted by blinding light, her clothes neatly folded ontop of highlander woman's arms, the woman who was walking in her direction. A man waving at her perched in front of a crude cook fire.Â

"Mornin' pup, or rather, good middle o the day. Now dintcha have a leve you said you wanted to get done? Get dressed and go put me products ta use!"

desmond28 · **03-23-2016, 05:11 PM**

The following is a family hearing for case number 43812 involving a child adoption gone awry.

Inspector Desmondâ€™s voice was professional but grim as he spoke. â€œBaby Girl Smith was found in the custody of two known criminals. These two also were in possession of four other children at the time.â€

â€œWhat happened to the other four children?â€ asked the chairman of the hearing.

A lawyer speaking on behalf of family services answers. â€œCecil was reunited with his parents. The three rescued girls are in the system until they are claimed.â€

â€œAnd despite all the coverage in the heralds no one has come forth to claim Baby Girl Smith who was also found with the others?â€

â€œNo, they have not,â€ the Inspector answers. â€œMy team has checked infirmary records, adoption recordsâ€¦ I have personally been through all reports on missing children. No matches have been found.â€

â€œItâ€™s why we are here today with this motion.â€

â€œVery well,â€ the chairman responds. â€œIt pains me to think that in a world where so many desire a child a beautiful and healthy child like this goes unclaimed. Tragicâ€¦ very tragic. Since this baby is declared as lacking she will remain with child services until all efforts have been exhausted. She will be placed with a temporary couple until a final ruling is filed.â€

Paul sat in his chair. He lost it to himself.

Children are lost every day without choice, and people willfully abandon four? This is beyond tragic. Itâ€™s disgusting...

Capheira · **03-26-2016, 06:12 PM**

The front door to the company building slammed shut with the mutter made into linkpearlâ€™s channel. â€œIâ€™m takinâ€™ off fer a few weeks.â€ the highlander stated in a solemn tone, words as clipped as the steps that took her from the building. Tugging the fabric of her tunic down over hidden blades, the worn leather satchel at her side rustled in the background for the draw of leather strap over slender shoulder. â€œIâ€™ll send you Redwallâ€™s head.â€

â€œYouâ€™ll get yourself killed Odetâ€“â€ the pearl clicked off before the garlean could finish his words. Long russet lashes drew shut for several long beats as the siren stood her ground upon the front porch and exhaled a slow lungful of breath that billowed outward in the coolness of eve. â€œYou will replace me.â€ came the unheard utterance from the womanâ€™s lips as her hand pulled away from the pearl and dragged down the contours of her freckled features. Simple truth.

With ocean hues peeking out from parting lids anew, scarred digits tugged the leather gloves from beltâ€™s hugged embrace of a taut, tapered waist to wriggle them over the threaded maps of her slender knuckles. Footsteps marking the womanâ€™s departure from the premises one cobblestone at a time, there remained only one thing that mattered: the task at hand.

This would be her last hurrah for Ebonbrand, lest the companyâ€™s Spymistress live through the ordeal and go through with intended resignation. Course set and final thoughts on the matter pertaining the absence of their excitable trademaster, the highlander set off for Thanalan.

Target Identified as: Redwall. Midlander Hyur. Male. Void-Touched(?).
Hair: Mid-length, Raven. Complexion: Pale. Eye Colour: Green. Build: Stocky.
Last Known Location: The Outer Ruins of Qarn, Thanalan.

An abomination of speed and strength enhanced by energies of the void would not be an easy target to track, despite the manâ€™s flair for the poetic and tendency for the elaborate. As an instigator within the realms of child-trafficking, the slaverâ€™s fate had been sealed from first moments regardless of whatever anonymous â€˜tipâ€™ had brought it about. Yet Redwallâ€™s abilities had been underestimated countless times before, the madman breaking from capture to infect several she knew with a sickness.

Regardless, for all his power - retained or not with the Ahrimanâ€™s expiration, he was still a man and men left their mark on the work around them as reliably as any other mammal. An imprint on parchment, a loose thread upon linenâ€™s edge; eating, sleeping, defecating, sweating, even breathingâ€¦ each one the tangible strand of a larger web. Those whom knew what they sought, looked hard enough and managed combination of knowledge and training, found their efforts rewarded more often than not.

So it was that the careful track of information, the scraps of pinpointed disturbances and the sightings of a man fitting description given drew the vixen away from the ruins where the midlander had last been sighted and onto dirt trail, leaving behind the red dust of Thanalanâ€™s deserts for the transition into the groaning, living depths of Gridaniaâ€™s forests. It would only be a matter of time until she had found her mark.

Capheira · **03-29-2016, 11:06 PM**

Coerthas. The well known saying â€˜the path to hell is paved with good intentionsâ€™ certainly rung true in a less than metaphorical sense for the crunch of heeled boots in the snow. Days had passed, ripped from the calendar. From the deserts of Thanalan, through the Shroud and into frozen wasteland the Fox had trailed itâ€™s prey with little sleep and a survivalistâ€™s menu - enough to keep her at her near-best, yet lacking luxuries that would only slow her down.

Amidst the charred remains of a cluster of pine trees, it was there the highlanderâ€™s knee soaked upon frosted ground for but a beat; leather-clad fingers brushing over the blood spattered over the snow. On the latter end of fresh and chilled to harden by the elements, the heat had long since left the smear of ichor and placed itâ€™s occurrence several hours ahead of her. A billowed breath forced itâ€™s way through the womanâ€™s freckled nose, effectively huffing a small cloud of foggy mist through the scarf that wrapper her lower face. She was getting closer; yet so too was the threat of blizzard.

Through the sting of blown, snowy assault the flicker of red fabric was visible even then; contrasting sharply against the brilliant white of the crystallized wonderland in itâ€™s sporadic flap at windâ€™s behest. It was with a brisk push that the rogue found her feet with a cat-like grace, the ocean hues of a keen-eyed gaze tracking the footprints that marked the ground en route - humanoid and bestial both. The lone garment was retrieved with a lean and snatching roll of the wrist, inspection yielding it to be stained in similar hues of injury. Thumbing the jagged trim of a punctured hole with a slender digit, golden brows proceeded to crease in a frown to match the narrow of long russet lashes.

The destruction upon location was evident, the smoldering charcoal of trees that was clearly magical in nature - discernible even to one whom wasnâ€™t aetherically minded. Signs of a struggle. The spill of blood and the scrape of prints that were already being filled with snowfall. Yet there remained somethingâ€¦ off. Slinging the red leather over her shoulder, fingers delving into the folds of her own attire to dance upon the hilt of her blade, the highlander moved to carefully scour the environ; casting aside piled snow and blackened branch in search that would only turn up empty handed. Two combatants, no body, and only one set of clawed tracks departingâ€¦

A rogue. A scout. A thief. The Vixenâ€™s talents were those better suited to the shaded alleys of townships and rooftops of civilization than the wilds beyond the oceanâ€™s call. Yet it was flexibility that remained her greatest asset, and the blood of her more barbaric ancestors flowed in her veins even still. The coat, she kept, her eventual trophy folded and hidden from view within the confines of worn satchel slung over shoulder.

One trail, bestial or otherwise, was better than nothing.

Kellach Woods · **04-01-2016, 10:54 PM**

"Have you finished your prayers? They're preparing the halls for a Bonding ceremony."Â

This was not an entirely new sight, but ever since the restoration of the Sanctum and its return to celebrating Eternal Bond ceremonies, their time within the actual sanctum always fell short. Sylvie had never been "reduced" to living in the Shroud - It was her home, and all she had ever known, much like her father, and her grandfather and her great grandfather before her. All had been branded criminals, poachers or worse for simply not being Gridanian.

Yet the Noirets had endured, partially through thick familial ties, but mostly due to the strict application of their own tenets of virtue which could cause even the most zealous of Wood Wailers to hesitate in seriously tracking them down. Couple with the fact that they mostly lived in the East and South Shroud, areas which are less patrolled due to the Sylphs' lesser danger in comparison to the Ixal, and where bigger fish to fry tread - the Coeurlclaw poachers, who are a far bigger danger than what is merely known, these days, as a bunch of crazies throughout the generations.

"Nay, father - Allow me one last prayer to Azeyma before we set off. I fear without her guidance, it will not be her tears I shed, but mine." said the kneeling daughter. Hands clasped, she closed her eyes.

"If you are to bear the Tears, your eyes should never close. How can you seek the truth if you avert your eyes?" her father responded.

Sylvie audibly gulped, and slowly opened her eyes, maintaining her position. Each word was carefully mouthed. Her breathing was regular, with an errant twitch within its rhythm. She thought of the injustice her family suffered, and immediately felt her knuckles turn paler. Her father ignored the young girl's rage - It reminded him of his own youth, when his mother sought to console him as offered a prayer to Althyk, that the time of Gelmorra was returned to him. He gently caressed his mythril hatchet - a greatly diminished tool compared to the deity's greatax, but one that allowed him precise collection and clearing of runaway branches that blocked the hidden paths they often took through the Shroud. Paths forgotten to most, yet that were fresh in the Noirets' mind.

It fit his daughter's resolve and ideals that she chose permanent tattoos on her face instead of a golden fan, or anything material. It was the first moment where he felt that he had raised her right. Everything had prepared to the moment where she would face the Twelve, and find her path in life. None of the Noirets had chosen Azeyma in quite some time - Menphina, Oschon were common choices, as well as Althyk due to the duty of memory.Â

She stood up, he nodded, they left.

Outside, a duskwight woman radiating elegance in pauper clothes waited diligently, discussing with one of the many attendants about life at the Sanctum, while exchanging good spots for flowers. Seeing her husband and her daughter exit the sanctum, she gently excused herself, and went to meet with her family.

"Are we ready to leave?"

"Yes, I believe we are. Though I fear our daughter has something else on her mind..." Sylvie nodded. A heavy breath took over her body.

"Mother, father. It is time I forge my path - I bear the Tears of Azeyma, I have received every boon you have granted me. How to live with the land from you, mother, and how to live a virtuous life from you, father. While I prayed that the Tears are all I would shed, my own are still falling. I... I..." her body remained composed - her tears fell, and yet she did not hold them back. Her sadness was genuine, and a commitment to the truth also meant letting her emotions get the better of her in such moments.

Words were no longer welcome - mother and father joined to embrace their daughter, who sought only to stand bravely in front of her parents. After hearing an attendant warning them that the ceremony's guests had been sighted on their way, all let go.

"Sylvie, always remember - Our nobility never came from a title, or a deed. It has always been ours from our staunch adherence to the Noiret creed of virtue above all. Remember that, and I know you will do well in all things. You will always have a family, and thanks to the paths you followed us on, you will always know where to find us."

"Sylvie, always remember to honor anything you take from nature, even outside of the Shroud. A noble's responsibilities do not stop outside of their domain, and neither does our responsibility to all living things. Now, come with us to the cache, that we may at least outfit you with proper armor and regalia."

Sylvie blushed - Even without a proper house, she once again felt like the most pampered girl of the Black Shroud.

And she loved her parents for it.

Verad · **04-05-2016, 10:21 PM**

There were three collections of books in the Dubious Distributions estate. The first and most obvious of these was directly to the right of the front entrance, and contained anything in Veradâ€™s inventory that he considered acceptable for purchase. Misprinted books with the wrong cover, journals that had trace amounts of pornographic woodcuts on the page after a bit of confusion and strong drink at the printing press, and tomes of sufficiently useless material (e.g.Â The Mating Habits of Golems) comprised these rows, and they sold as well as anything in his stock. He had considered converting the books into a lending library, provided they were returned in worse-but-nevertheless-legible condition, but was still sorting out the general plan for measuring what constitutedÂ â€œworse.â€

More respectable texts could be found in the numerous shelves in Veradâ€™s employee lounge, set within the estateâ€™s basement. There, the curious visitor could find more standard texts including general encyclopedias, listings of Ulâ€™dahn tax code with layers of dust on their bindings thick enough to withstand a swordpoint, and tales of adventure and salacious exploits not attributable to the Duskwight himself. However, these were scattered among texts that were, upon closer inspection, anything but, revealing themselves to be cunningly painted blocks of wood with titles in fanciful Eorzean script, gilded and embossed to the point of being unreadable. Finding actual books was half the challenge of the downstairs shelves, and he took a certain pleasure in watching people distinguish the respectable-looking from the genuine article. Mayhaps there was a moral in this, but it was far more likely that he was being a shit, not that the two were contradictory positions.

The third set wasnâ€™t exactly private, but as it was to be found within Veradâ€™s office and living space, it may as well have been for narrative purposes. If pressed, Verad would admit these to be one of, if not the, sources of his persuasive powers. These were not a defining element, to be sure - he had his own persistence, winning smile, command of the language, and above all a sense of humility to thank for that - but they were crucial nevertheless.

These were what Verad found himself perusing in the dead of night, unable to sleep and possessed of the restless energy that often presaged a terminally bad idea on his part. He mumbled silently in the dark, lips moving as he mouthed out the titles, taking care to ensure that his words died before he left his throat. There was naught but a screen between the shelf and his bed, and he preferred not to wake its occupant.
He lit upon one string of sideways script with his index finger, and his eyes brightened in the dark. There was a slight shuffling as he pulled the text free of its space on the shelf to get a better look at the title. There, in a simple embossed gilding, were these words:

The Mummerâ€™s Guide to Ishgardian Heraldry

Just beneath the title on the front cover, a small, similarly gilded portrait of a cartoonish Lalafell, winking at the viewer, hand on his (her?) hip, the other holding up a single finger as if to indicate something.

Verad exhaled in relief at finding the title. The Mummerâ€™s Guides were some of his best-kept secrets. A key part of his trade was always knowing at least enough about a subject to pass himself off as an expert at best and a talented amateur at worst. For these, the guides were indispensible. Chocobo farming, swordfighting, poetry, armorsmithing, and metallurgy were common, amongst other, more esoteric topics, including but not limited to the book he held in his hand.

With a very light step, Verad crossed the few fulms to his desk, and carefully pulled his chair aside to avoid letting it scrape on the officeâ€™s tiled floor, his fingers tight around its arms, his gaze over his shoulder to check for the slightest shift in his guestâ€™s frame. Once he had enough space to seat himself, he took a piece of parchment and a small stick of charcoal out of his desk.

Opening the guide and turning it to its index, he was about to begin reading when he paused. What he planned - what was going through his mind - was well beyond the usual range of his activities. It was dubious, to be certain, but he could hardly tell himself it wasnâ€™t illicit, a common refrain in his own pitches. Far from it. This could very well have been fraud of the highest order.

Was the goal worth going so far?

With his chair so far back, he was able to crane his neck enough to peer into the section of the office that served as his living space, to see beyond it and to the edge of his bed. Even from this angle, there wasnâ€™t much he could see; the curve of an arm, pale enough it seemed to stand out against white linens, and the ends of a few strands of deep, bloody red hair.

After a momentâ€™s contemplation, he turned back to his book and fell silent, save for the turning of a page and the scratch of charcoal across parchment.

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