Bulletin Board

Melodia · August 11, 2015

Today was the day. Melodia stood upon the bone spire that rose high near Bronze Lake. The air crackled with lightning and the rain had made her a mess, but she didn't care. She was thankful for the raindrops that washed away and masked her tears, the storm covering her quiet sobs. She stood at the tip of the curved spire and looked out at the landscape lit brightly on occasion by the flash of lightning, marveling at its beauty and hating herself all at the same time.

Faces flashed before her in her mind. People let down, others who'd left her, others who seemingly ignored or forgot about her.

The first step is the hardest....it gets easier afterward. Her own inner voice spoke softly.

Her right foot slid forward and she closed her eyes. Her lips mouthed the words but no sound came, "I'm sorry." The thunderclap hid the scuffle sound as her foot slipped off the tip and suddenly her body was falling, the feeling slower than she imagined it would be. And she remembered so much all at once.

The loneliness. Her marriages. Her infidelity. The counseling job. She'd been a Yellowjacket. And she'd been a pirate. A damn good one. She had-

It's time mommy.

Her eyes flashed open as she heard the child miqo'te speak and just as suddenly her world went dark as her body slammed to the ground.

**************************************************************

Two Moons After....

"Oy! 'Nother round here. Same's b'fore." The woman with the long black hair and clad in a black leather jacket and boots tossed some coin onto the bar and slid her empty mug to the barkeep, who took it with a nod and moved to refill it. The woman sighed and looked at her wrist with a puzzled expression before she slipped it off. Her eyes looked at it curiously as though it were foreign to her. On the inside it had an engraving which she squinted to see, and read it slowly.

"Your name is Melodia. You are a pirate. Try not to forget."

She said the words softly and felt her eyes going wide. "Melodia...me name's Melodia." The mug of refilled ale was set before her and the barkeep chuckled. "Aye you told me that earlier." He walked back to the other end shaking his head and she looked at the bracelet, slowly placing it back on, her stomach feeling heavy as she didn't remember telling him that at all. Her lips mouthed the words, but no sound came.

"Melodia. Pirate....Melodia."

Kellach Woods · August 12, 2015

Before Ishgard opened its gates to all who sought to enter, actually setting foot in Ishgard was a feat known only to smugglers and citizens. Many attempted to go beyond the gates yet were rebuffed for not being pious enough, or not having the requisite rights. Even today, you are more likely to get rebuffed and executed for impiety than actually entering the city.

Being what Ishgard natives would consider a heretic, and not willing to deal with any sort of illegal activity in order to make it into Ishgard, Kellach Woods was wracking his brain in the Twelveswood, more specifically, in the North Shroud, while his steed, the ephemeral Phantom, was busy pecking at a bunch of gysahl greens his partner had set out for him. He was using his axe as a sort of footstool in order to look beyond, to see if there was anything of notice.

Phantom perked up and immediately started nudging Kell, pointing ever towards the west. Not knowing exactly what the creature had in mind, he shrugged and mounted the chocobo. Phantom seemed to know where it wanted to go, and Kell, ever the wanderer, did not exactly question the desires of his mount - Phantom came and went as he wanted, and Kell was merely a passenger that the bird did not mind ferrying over great distances.

It zoomed faster than what Kell thought possible, going alongside the western coast of Eorzea, finding ways through the cliffs and rough paths that had long been abandoned since the self-exile of Sharlayans returning to their island. Not wanting to deter his mount's enthusiasm, he scarcely dug his boots in beyond steering it away from less than obvious obstacles.

Eventually, after running over several malms, Phantom was tired and night fell. As Kell prepared the fire, he looked at the stars to try and locate where he ended up, only to find that he had absolutely no idea how to navigate, whether land or sea, using astronomy. Worse still, he did not even have the tools for that. The night was peaceful, the silent breathing of Phantom being a soothing sound for the otherwise weary traveler. He thought he was heading towards Coerthas, but the climate was far too warm for this to be anywhere near it.

For days and nights, they traveled like this until they stumbled onto some ruins, and subsequently, a goblin. Kellach jumped off Phantom, patting it on the head as the goblin began to get agitated.

"Is you friendly uplander? Dimwix not see anyone, gobbiefriend or gobbiefoe, in days! What brings uplander to lands?" it said, just happy that someone had shown up.

"Um, well, I was letting Phantom, this chocobo here, lead me where it will. I don't exactly recognize where we are, though..."

"Oh! Birdmount guide? Dimwix never heard of birdmounts being guides. Or birdmounts having names. Is uplander lost?"

"No, well, lost would assume I had any idea on where to go! Though I'd sure like to know where I am." Kell answered, while Phantom was pacing frantically.

"Hm... Village of uplanders in dragonforest to northeast! Go there, uplanders may be uplanderfriends! Dimwix not know if they are gobbiefriends, but surely they help!"

With a frantic wave, Kell waved off Dimwix as they continued scrounging the remainder of the ruins. Two days later, the unlikely duo had made it to the Chocobo Forest, and the truth of Phantom's mad dash was revealed as he bucked his rider off a few hundred yalms, in sight of another chocobo which it went to "Kweh!" and "Wark!" around. Readjusting his mask, Kell could only sigh. His chocobo's thirst had brought him to unknown lands.

He soon found Tailfeather, the encampment that Dimwix had been referring to as a village, and from there, he found that he was past the Gates of Judgement, just... very far from Ishgard. Thanking the chocobo hunters, also warning them about Phantom's loose partnership with himself, he readjusted his gear, verifying the mechanisms of his daggers, and left towards the inhospitable frigid western highlands of Coerthas... in nothing but a belly shirt, a mask and what looked like a long skirt.

Berrod Armstrong · August 14, 2015

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The Heart. Therein lies passion, compassion, and the ability to relate to others. It is the central point of the chakras, fed from the will below and expressed through the throat above. It will answer to one whose passion stirs, and is capable of providing terrifying levels of power. It burns in fierce fire, and can bring about awesome destruction.

In the middle of the chest, the heart lies at the midpoint of the Root and the Crown. Once kindled with passion, it burns brightly until one wills it to stop, or until one's very life is extinguished. It is the only chakra that provides power without any sort of initial control, and it is in that vein that it is one of the most dangerous to the self. The power must flow and leave the body, lest the user be consumed from within by its flames. Yet, this flow must be consciously regulated and controlled as it leaves, so that the body is not damaged in the process. Extensive training is required -- and it is not training that one is guaranteed to survive.

Green is its color, mixed from the yellow fed from the Solar Plexus and the blue from the Throat through which it speaks. Will creates passion. Passion is best expressed. To let it sit within is folly. Through control of the heart, the Throat and Mind's Eye become easier to sway.

Beware the emotion of love; for it kindles the heart to burn its fiercest, thereby draining one of one's life energy at a rapid rate. Balance must be found in utilizing and curbing one's passion. Once it is harnessed, however, one can show the world the meaning of destruction.

Thus wrote Berrod Armstrong, Son of the Fist, regarding the fourth chakra.

Berrod Armstrong · August 14, 2015

"Atala is fear. Fear of death. Fear of life. Fear of others. The fear is crippling if left unchecked. Mirror to the root, this dark chakra is the first in its order, located in the hip, and is a drive for survival. Whereas the Root grants survival by fortifying the self, Atala protects one by driving the destruction of all threats near and far.

To curb the fear when there is nothing to destroy, one may give into desire. Lust is often a distraction from peril in the eyes of man. Indulge it, and Atala will quiet."

Guntrand grunted and closed the thick, heavy bybel. He knew Atala all too well.

Aaron · August 14, 2015

Aaron sat in his inn room by himself. . . the now medium sized wolf puppy he'd saved long ago sleeping silently across the room next to the giant sword he'd recently acquired. The black furred creature looked so peaceful. . . while Aaron sat at the desk, garbed in all black as he usually was. . . he'd take a piece of parchment out from the drawer and a quill and start writing. . .

"Dear Mom,

It's been so long since we've talked. . . and even longer since I've seen my father. . . but I guess being in the Maelstorm does that to some people. . . anyway I know this letter is long overdue but I. . . figured I should finally write back to you. . . Your little crybaby of a son has grown up a lot in some aspects (mainly physical) but still is a child mentally I hear. . .

First I'd like to say that you shouldn't worry. . . Aleria made it to me safely. .. I've been making sure no one messes with her, even then she's made quite a few friends already judging by how much she talks my ear off when we do talk. I let her look after Fenrir when I'm gone a lot, oh yeah. . . forgot to tell you I got a puppy, well, had a puppy. . . he's a little too big to still be called a pup. . Aleria and Fenrir seem to get along a lot, sometimes I think he prefers her even. Yeah, I'm still a negative thinker to an extent, I've always been like that. . but I'm trying to change. . . I really am.

When I first got here, ever since you left for the far east. . . I was hell on Hydaelyn. I got into a fight almost everyday in the tavern, I drunk non stop and almost died of alcohol poisoning several times over. . . I felt as if everyone hated my guts because I was so volatile and stupid. . . but you know me. . . I didn't care, kept that same old don't give a damn attitude which only made my reputation worse. . . even to this day I'm still cleaning up my first impressions I've made on people. . . but deep down. . . I feel like people will always be waiting for the day I pick a fight again and wound up killing someone. Just so they can lock me away. Maybe I'm being too depressing. I told you I'm trying to change. . . I haven't touched a alcohols drink in ages. . . I generally avoid fighting. . . and I even try to crack a joke every now and then, no matter how lame it may be. I also lost my accent growing up in Limsa. . . and I don't miss it to be honest. Was getting tired of sounding like a reject.

And I've made quite a few friends also, some through ways you wouldn't even imagine. Weird right? That crybaby kid from your years in LA Noscea now has a bunch of friends and even a bit of popularity around Ul'Dah. . . ain't that something? And I got to working for a new Free Company called Astral Agents. It's led by a big Highlander guy who I met in the dumbest way possible. We had got to fighting ages ago and needless to say he kicked my ass. . after that I guess we sorta just gained respect for each other and eventually he let me in his business. We fought again later and he still beat my ass but I did a lot better this time. Managed to get him on the ground one good time at least if anything. . .

There's also this Au Ra lately named flower who stays on my case about "holding back" at Grindstone. . . probably because she noticed lately I've been getting my ass handed to me a lot when I used to be so determined to win. Guess after you deal with hearing people bloodied and beaten all day you kinda lose all motivation to get into a scrap and try. Oh well. . .

There's a lot more I want to talk about in this letter but I'd have sent you a novel by then off all the stuff and things I've did and experienced. We'll save that for another time. Just wanted to say me and little sis are doing just fine. Hope you come back and visit us again one day when you're done doing whatever you were doing.

Your white haired son,

Aaron Frostheart

P.S. - When you get back I'm probably gonna start crying again. You'll just have to deal with it like you always do

Berrod Armstrong · August 21, 2015

http://i.imgur.com/G45ZDcL.png[/img]

The Throat. It is the gateway of one's expression, the outlet through which one's Heart may relate one's intent. Through it, one can declare what the Mind's Eye has seen. It will answer to the will and desire to express oneself, but not lightly. Desire, Will, and Passion all feed into its control. Unlike the Heart below it, it does not specialize in raw power.

As the name suggests, it sits in the middle of the throat. Once Desire, Will, Passion or Wisdom have been gathered to it, the Throat takes them and transforms them into whatever expression one desires. As the mouth speaks, so does the Throat release aether to affect the hearts of those around it. This is usually best achieved using studied and practiced mantras; chants that can rouse a man's spirit or open a group to swifter recovery.

Blue is its color, deeply steeped in the voice's Wind. As the centre of wind-aspected aether in the body, the Throat can also be harnessed in movement.With proper control of the flow, one may utilize this aether to move swiftly, and at levels of mastery, in bursts that defy following of the eyes. The training to master the Heart is invaluable at this point.

The expression of the throat is not always outward; one may use it in meditation to communicate one's will within; especially to the other chakras, and even to one's very physical form.

A monk who has mastered the Throat is a monk who is close to mastering the self.

This wrote Berrod Armstrong, Son of the Fist.

Berrod Armstrong · August 21, 2015

"Vitala. Here you must gather your anger. Here you must gather your resentment toward all those in this world who have wronged you. All you have done is your best, and all your life, this world has sought to strike you down. No one is exempt save your self. You are not to blame. They are. And so, gather this fury into your thighs, and unlock the seat of power that lies there. Let it guide your legs and arms to lay your enemies low. Take vengeance for the havoc that they have wrought upon your livelihood. Do so in the name of your blameless place in this world. You have your orders, Gerdtrid. Carry them out."

"Yes, Master."

Aaron · August 21, 2015

(This is really a pasting of a Skype rp between me and my roomate that we do since we cant be in game at the same time)

Aaron sat alone in his room yet again, the dim lit atmosphere barely letting enough light in to see him lounging in the corner. He'd look towards Aleria as she sat across from him, legs crossed and would watch as his puppy ran up and jumped into her lap. A slightly annoyed look etched itself across his face. "So you're stealing my dog now? Fascinating." He scoffed rolling his eyes.

Aleria chuckled smiling brightly as she began to stroke the dog behind the ears gingerly. Her voice soft yet profound. "Maybe if you stopped leaving him with me so often he'd be more attached to you! He's supposed to be your pet not your liability!" She frowned before nuzzling the puppy again. "Who's a good boy!? Yes you are!" She spoke to the dark colored animal before looking up towards her older brother once more. "Anyways what did you want to talk about? It's rare you actually call me let alone let me know your room to talk." Her voice curiously rose.

Aaron would look at her puzzlingly, a soft exasperated sigh escaping his thin pale lips. "Can I. . . can I not just see how my sisters doing every now and then? Tch." He shook his head.

Aleria suddenly scoffed. "Oh my god all I did was ask a question and here you go becoming a smartass to me." She threw her hands up and stood up after placing the puppy on the floor. Her pale white skin hair and eyes almost glowing in the dim light. "Like why are you so freaking moody all the time?" She questioned jerking a gloved finger at the man.

Aaron looked up at her bewildered. "Moody? You assumed I called you here because of something important, can I not just ask how my little sisters day is going without there being a need to relay some life or death matter? If anyone was jumping the gun it was you." Aaron rolled his eyes as he spoke and canted his head off to the side. "Whatever forget it." He waved a hand dismissively. "Do what you want, bye."

Aleria fell silent, as if she felt kinda bad all of a sudden. She'd walk up to Aaron, and then kneel down in front of him. Waiting for a reaction.

Aaron just avoided looking at her. "I said you can go, forget I even called you here." He said solemnly.

Aleria attempted to hug her big brother in a full on embrace.

Aaron was hugged and completely caught off guard! His eyes widened and his heart skipped a beat from the sudden hug. ". . . what are you doing? Get off me!" He said trying to free himself.

Aleria giggled and released her brother, patting him on the head and standing up before she turned tail and walked to the door. "I love you too big bro!" She teased opening the door. "Bye little puppy! I'll come get you some other time." She said finally walking out the door and closing it behind her.

Aaron sat alone with the dog now for a long and quiet eon apparently. Before he suddenly smiled just slightly and laughed. "Love you too sis."

Jancis · August 26, 2015

Across the land streamers of vibrant purple and bronze as hung in clusters near bonfire pits.

Alongside the other festivities bonfires blaze in the night, lighting up the metallic tones of the dancing ribbons. By both of them, trinkets and old items have been scattered around them; some are discarded for others to pick up, others thrown and burnt to ashes in the fire.

Cheering pilgrims and locals blow horns and make a racket when some bit of old sentiment is thrown in, calls for the Destroyer and releasing from strength-sapping bonds echoing in the late evening and night.

Around Ul'dah in particular other shrines are put up; the majestic resemblance to the white griffon and blue sword of Gyr Abania is kept in small decorations. Brass Blades seem more friendly than usual with an extra jingle in their pocket as they look the other way this Moon at the little setups.

Pilgrims dress in thin comfortable clothes for staying out in the desert in summer, or enjoy the bustle of the Jewel as they make their way to Little Ala Mhigo.

The bell tolls at Rhalgr's stone soon, pilgrims.

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cuideag · August 31, 2015

The door closed behind her, set back into place by the weight of the body that remained leaning against it. Delial allowed herself to slump just slightly, sighing loud enough that she could have been heard had anyone been waiting immediately outside. Someone suggested it as an exercise before, that she might clear her mind and relax her spirit after a particularly trying event. It rarely ever worked.

It took them far too long to fish for anyone who held even a passing interest with speaking with them, and then that was swiftly sabotaged by a lunatic with an enormous sword. They were left with three dead bodies but upon reflection Delial began to wish for the fourth: the last of their contacts had gotten away maimed and terrified, and she would be surprised if he had not been telling his peers and others in the Brume to be wary of a group of foreigners with gil and questions moving with a dark skinned highlander woman. Given what she had seen of the populace so far, it would not be difficult for anyone to make the connection to her. Even Kiryuu had been met with open suspicion, and no doubt a lalafell with a white beret and a large axe would be difficult to miss despite his stature.

Delial counted one, two, three, and pushed off to stride across the room. At Kiryuu's insistence they had shared the room, albeit briefly. His generosity was unnerving at times, and she could not quite figure if it was an attempt to make right the slights once inflicted by his then partner in the Sultansworn. She hardly saw him at the inn regardless: her hours were intentionally tuned to be opposite his, that she might have privacy during his waking hours and that might have his during hers. It was simpler that way and he did not complain. Nor did she complain when he moved his things out and took another room elsewhere in the Knight, citing concerns for safety. That the girl's death bothered him was plain, for Kage Kiryuu was not very good at masking his worries.

Early on she had laid claim to the armoire and it was there that she stopped. Her wardrobe shrunk considerably since departing Limsa Lominsa but she still had a few things worth keeping safe. The heavy wood creaked open at her touch and she withdrew something nearly as tall as her, carefully wrapped in burlap and twine. She had hardly touched it since Windsoul and his friends helped her retrieve it from a cursed burrow deep beneath the Shroud. That it was even there to begin with was a travesty and insult, one that she wondered if Hrathi even knew.

The pitiful tome she had relied on for most of her time in Eorzea laid on the bed beside the ones Kiryuu brought with him: studies on aether and the nature of fire, plucked from the shelves of the Ossuary. She gave her prize a few quick tugs and twists, letting its wrappings fall to the floor as she turned to cross it again, and laid that down as well: a black staff of uncertain make, smooth like steel but light as wood. She remembered how it seemed to hum in the Witch's hands, how the black coils and curves seemed to shine in oily shades of emerald and heliotrope.

The girl's neck snapped like a twig in the warrior's hands. Surely she knew she had slim chance of walking away and she put up a surprising fight when it became apparent that the ruse was not quite good enough. Her strikes and blows combined with Delial's spells hardly even made the man flinch. Killing the man would have been the better option than letting him run free but that was clearly beyond their capabilities. It was only a matter of time, Delial was certain, before he ceased to be amused by them. Sooner or later, his blade would be at their throats.

It was her birthright, her key to a power she had not even the decency to devote herself to in her youth when still she had teachers willing to put up with her delinquency. "There is fire in your veins," the Witch was always fond of reminding her though she rolled her eyes and dismissed her wisdom. The staff laid there before her dull and silent, the orb that crowned holding a particular shade of cold grey better suited to tombstones and crypts.

Useless.

Berrod Armstrong · September 3, 2015

[align=justify]The following story contains a bit of non-explicit IMPLIED SAUCIFICATIONS. Do not read it if references to adult fun times is not your thing.

Berrod Armstrong's back hit the rug with a light thud that was mostly drowned out by the chorus of deep and heavy panting. He couldn't help the way in which he pulled air into his lungs and released it in exerted bursts -- nor could the short-haired man next to him. They laid there, side by side, upon a rug in front of a fireplace; Berrod and Caden Agron. Sweat drenched them, among other results of the activities the two had just engaged in. The only light came from the fire itself; it glistened orange upon their wet skin. Berrod's thick thigh still remained entwined with Caden's, even as his heart thundered in his chest.

It had been a bit of a risky endeavour, doing what they had done in that location. The basement floor of the Free Company house was quite open to all, and there were very few hours when activity in and out of the area ceased. That night was one such night when they found a window of opportunity. They'd both come home to meet the place dark and shut up for the day, with notices from the two Hyur at staff that they would resume operations in the morning. After a brief inspection of the ground and basement floors, Berrod lit a fire in the lounging area downstairs and sat upon the rug to enjoy some conversation with Caden. One thing led to another, and the rug became the grounds for their carnal indulgences.

The Agron turned his head to the red-haired highlander and idly lashed at his stomach with the back of his hand. It elicited a turn of Berrod's head, complete with a gruff, exhausted chuckle. The toothy grin on his face quickly vanished as he caught a shadow of hasty movement on the staircase that led up to the ground floor. With only the dying light of the fire, he could make out nothing more than a hyur sized silhouette.

Berrod sat bolt upright and tapped Caleb's thigh twice with his fist. The other Highlander frowned and rose a bit more slowly, scanning the direction to which his lover's gaze was affixed.

"Don't bother runnin'. I done saw ya," Berrod called loudly and boldly, "An' I can catch up wit' ya before y'reach either o'the doors." He gave a pause of consideration. "Come on out. If yer peekin' in y'coulda at least done it right."

Caden leveled him with an exasperated look; obviously the black haired Highlander would have preferred to allow their voyeur his or her freedom. Yet, he didn't protest. Instead, he simply reached across the rug for his trousers. Berrod on the other hand, stood up, quite in the raw, drenched and reeking of the night's indulgence.

"Don' make me come up there," came the final warning.

The shadowed figure reappeared with sluggish motion that spoke plainly of an burden of horrified embarrassment -- and perhaps a fear for their life. It lingered on the stairwell like some sort of terrified animal.

Berrod gave an impatient, snorting grunt. "Well, come closer, you was peekin' before so this ain't nothin' you ain't done seen. Makes no sense playin' shy now." As if to make matters worse, the red-head set his hands on his hips and stood in proud display -- one that may not have been as intentional as it looked. Caden had already pulled on the trousers, having already decided that he'd just leave Berrod to his whims.

With a whimper the shadow slinked down the stairs and drew close enough for the muddied orange light of the fire to wash them into dim release. It was a Highlander fellow -- blond, somewhat short and slender, but no less sturdy than the rest of his kin. He was young -- could not be more than nineteen summers in age. His blue eyes stared at anything but Berrod's direction; an unconvincing display.

Berrod on the other hand made a sharp sound of recognition. "...Bolie?"

Bolieron Stonesthrow was the son of an Ala Mhigan refugee, born into ragged poverty in the piss-stinking alley of Pearl Lane. He was a few years younger than Berrod and a bit...slighter and less prone to doing what it took to survive out on the streets. Berrod had never paid much mind to him; he was too busy trying to find food for himself and those around him to focus on protecting a weakling. As time passed and the red-haired Highlander rose from poverty into decent living, he reached out to the youngster and offered him employment in the form of retainership. Only recently had the young man expressed an interest in mining and Gladiatorial combat, and was clearly seen practicing with weathered weapons and tools.

At that moment however, he stood before his bare employer, staring with intense focus at a portion of the wall. He was dressed for bed; a loose shirt and slops, all colored as white as his pallid, terrified mein. "Yessir," Came the meek response.

Berrod was taken aback for a moment -- he had planned out a cruel punishment for their voyeur, but he knew that he had a soft spot for the lad -- regardless of if he'd ever admit it or not. At that point he even slightly regretted not putting something on. Still, it wouldn't do. Berrod was the one who caught him; who knows how many other people he had been peeking in on? Granted, the basement rug was...not exactly the place for an encounter usually reserved for privacy. With an internal gnashing of his teeth, the redhead pressed on. "I suppose it's our own fault we got caught down here, but yer still gonna pay." His tone was serious; almost malicious. A bit of guilt struck him as he saw how much paler the poor boy got.

"So, yer gonna be the one ta clean this rug in the mornin'. Make sure it's scrubbed good as new and ain't stinkin' o'fun times." Berrod folded his arms. "That, an' yer gonna keep an ear out for anyone who's havin' a good time on this rug in the dead o'night -- we know we ain't the only ones, we ain't stupid -- an' clean the rug every time that happens. S'part of the job now. Got that?"

It was a cruel and unfair sentence, but Bolie nodded in obedient terror. "Yessir."

"Look me in the eye, Bolie, not like you wasn't gettin' a eyeful quarter bell ago."

With a monumental effort, he managed to let blue meet green. "Yessir."

"Now go on, get some sleep. Y'got a busy day t'morrow."

The younger Highlander brooked no delay in pelting off at top speed, vanishing into the dark and up the stairway. He didn't even bother to close the Private Chamber hall door quietly. It slammed like a firesand explosion. Berrod sighed and shook his head. "Stupid kid. Least we got somebody ta clean the rug now."

Caden got to his feet with a bundle of clothes in his hand, half of which he shoved into Berrod's chest. "Yer too tough on 'um," He commented with mild disapproval, "Just a curious kid is all. Now put those on before ye poke somebody’s eye out."[/align]

Avenio Naemig · September 7, 2015

(( Disclaimer: Discretion for mild expletives, violence, gore.))

The Xaela clan known as Buduga is identified - and sometimes dreaded - for its unique look on proliferation. They recruit only males, and therefore cannot produce more members sexually. Instead, to swell their ranks they will resort to kidnapping and brainwashing, either ignoring or slaughtering the remaining souls that do not stand up to their arbitrary inspection. Oftentimes there will be recruitment raids, generally comprised of a cadre of specially trained Au Ra who will descend upon a settlement and either raze it to the ground, or operate covertly. Either way they will strip the town of all males deemed fit, or die trying.

During one such raid over a decade in the past, the Buduga descended upon a Xaela encampment of the Himaa tribe, known primarily for the strangely common trait of multiple births. The attack was swift and merciless, exacted with near-surgical precision.

Screams and shouts permeated the air, transforming the small camp into a bloody battlefield, yet it was hardly worthy of the title. The tribe's meager defense force had been the very first target, and had been quickly overwhelmed by the highly trained Buduga. Some of the male fighters had been clapped in irons, though the majority were slain on the spot without mercy.

In one of the nearby tarpaulin shelters, yet untouched by the carnage, a set of young boys barely approaching pubescence cowered. Not two or even three but four identical boys hid under blankets and stools, and could do naught but listen to the horrific noises floating through the walls and the single window. Shock and fear gripped the lads, suppressing them into inaction.

"Do you think they'll see us?" one dared to query of his brothers.

"Shut your mouth!" came the hissed reply, "You're going to get us found!"

"These bastards hardly seem like amateurs," mused the third as he rose to his feet from behind a dresser.

"Evan! Get down, you fool! Do you want to get killed!?" admonished the second.

"I don't think they're going to kill us," said the lad with trepidation. An uneasy silence followed as all three of his brothers very specifically did not voice their opinions on the matter.

The boy who had stood approached the window, ignoring the hastily whispered warnings (and then insults) floating from behind him. He came close enough to see his reflection in the window, and through it the view of mind-numbing violence. Blood ran freely through the dirt, bodies of the dead piled up, all of whom had been walking, talking, living, breathing only hours before. The staggering horror clawed its way through the young Au Ra's stomach, instilling in him a resentment which already festered hotly. His vision blurred, and refocused on the reflection. He, like his brothers, was coming into adulthood boldly. Dusky skin of rich mahogany, and hair of starless raven cut a striking figure, along with the radiant blue limbal rings. A perpetual frown graced the youth's face, framed by long lashes that made it easy to understand the boys' popularity in their daily lives. Or... their former lives.

But vanity was not what had taken the lad's attention. He saw with rising dread that there was a dagger poking through the canvas behind him.

Without thinking, the standing young man dashed to the back wall, to the confused cries of his brothers. He arrived just in time to watch it fall away, sliced into ribbons as a huge Buduga raider dropped the jagged dagger he'd used to peel open the tent. As soon as he spotted the lad, he grinned vibrantly from ear to ear.

It all happened so fast. While his brothers could do little but look on with stunned horror, the boy puffed up his chest and pointed back over the figure's shoulder, "Get the seven hell out of here!"

The raider's grin barely wavered - in fact, it only grew. He seemed almost proud of the youth... or was it proud of himself for his find? He drew a wickedly curved blade from his hip, and thumbed over his shoulder where the boy had indicated, "Sure will. And yer comin' with me, pipsqueak. Got a set 'a stones on yer, doncha?"

"Not on your life!" replied the boy, surging forward and throwing a punch towards the large man's neck.

"It's not mine that's in danger here, laddie," chuckled the raider darkly as he swatted the attack aside carelessly. He raised the blade then, already stained with the blood of the townspeople. He did not seem like the type to bluff.

But the boy did not back down. He launched another punch, but the raider's patience had already grown thin, and his weapon swung down to meet the second attack. Stunned into shock, the Au Ra youth staggered a step backwards, staring at his maimed hand as if unable to understand what had happened. He looked up, into the eyes of his assailant, and heard the sound more than he felt it. It sounded wet, and sticky, and wholly unpleasant. The man was grinning again. Then there was the sudden realization that the raider had already attacked. And this time, the sword had gone right through his belly. Both of his hands trembled as they gripped the weapon impaling him. He gasped for air that would not come.

"NEVAN!" one of the boys finally found his voice, but the display of unfettered violence had cowed him into torpor. The raider's grin remained, and he noted to himself to search the dwelling thoroughly. These Himaa camps were great for recruitment.

Yet recruitment did not await the boy who had been brave. With hardly a thought, as if he were simply some monster that had dove upon the sword, the raider extracted his weapon and swatted the youth upside the head, toppling him over into the growing pool of his own blood. His last thought before darkness came was of his mother.

Leggerless · September 7, 2015

Elise glanced down at the map, scrutinizing the details the paper held with its black sketches and red markings. Her eyes drifted over the map towards the Shroud, landing on a spot directly south of the Redbelly Hive. She placed a hand there, touched the map with her index finger, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes, exhaling just once...

She opened her eyes and found herself in the Twelveswood once more. The ambience, the air, and even the sounds of animals in the distance made the experience surreal. Sitting behind a rock, she quickly examined her gear once more. Blades, knifes, medical supplies, a book with a few geometries; all of her gear was still intact.

Peeking up from cover, she scanned the area for others nearby. Besides herself, she saw a patrol of two Redbelly archers making their rounds in the nearby area. Elise unsheathed one throwing knife from her coat and held in it her right hand. She was at a disadvantage; the enemy knew the territory better than she and they outnumbered her two to one. Her only advantage, however, was the element of surprise--Redbellies aren't used to dealing with a Rogue's tricks, and they certainly aren't expecting a lone wanderer to make an attack out of nowhere at them. Weighing her options, she stealthfully made her move across the terrain, hiding behind a tree and waiting for the Redbellies to pass by.

As planned, both archers passed by the woman without detecting her. With the chance at hand, she crept along and kept her distance for a few yalms. When both archers had turned their heads forward, she charged towards the nearest enemy, covering his mouth with her left hand and stabbing him in the right kidney with the sword in her right hand. A muffled yelp was given for half a second, but the other archer kept walking ahead unaware. When her first target stopped struggling, she darted eastwards into another bush to get out of sight.

The other archer took a few more steps but stopped, muttering to himself a few words. He slowly turned around and saw his dead companion on the ground. For the archer still alive, what was supposed to be another daily patrol became a life or death situation. Drawing his bow he prepared himself for combat, occasionally rotating while pacing towards the dead corpse to avoid another ambush. The moment he kneeled down next to the man, Elise made her move and appeared from the bush. The rustling of the leaves made the archer turn around, quicking taking an arrow and almost firing his bow in the direction of the sound... but it was too late. Elise stood behind the man with the small knife in her hand and made a stab at his left temple. The shock and sudden surge of pain paralyzed the man into letting out a quick gasp, stopping him from yelling for help. Pulling the blade out from his head, blood spouted out for a brief moment and soon turned to a slow, steady stream.

Her targets were down on the ground and the mission was done. She glanced around the area and darted off once more towards the trees, taking cover. Seating herself on the ground she pulled out a small cloth to wipe the blood off her blade and sheathed the weapon again. Letting out a sigh, she closed her eyes and finally relaxed once again...

Eyes opened once more, she kept her hand pointed at the spot on the map before returning to her scrutinization. She lets out half of a sigh.

"At least the map will prove useful when I roam Eorzea." She lets out half a smirk. "Even the finer details are sketched so nicely..."

Rolling up the map, she pockets it back within her coat and soon heads out the door. It was time to do another job as Lynx.

Berrod Armstrong · September 8, 2015

The butt of the sword hit Berrod squarely in the gut. The Highlander stumbled backward with an awkward heave and clutched the already reddening spot on his abdomen. "Agh -- damnit." It was a clean enough hit to make him gasp for air for more than a few ticks. The Black haired highlander who hit him however, did not press the advantage. Instead he withdrew and studied Berrod closely with discerning blue eyes. Berrod met them with a return of green confusion.

"Why'd y'stop, Cades? Y'had me."

Caden Agron held the greatsword with both hands, then proceeded to stow it onto the harness strapped to his otherwise bare torso. Sweat soaked him, down to the dark blue training slops. From his labored breathing, their last exchange of sparring blows had been particularly intense. "Yer distracted," He pointed out. "Ye never let a hit like that through before. What's goin' on in that head of yers?"

The question's sudden frankness caught Berrod off guard -- enough for him to forget the lingering ache the strike had gifted him. He straightened up, dressed in the same wares as Caden save for the color. His slops were a deep, blood red. The bruise on his stomach grew clearer as each moment passed. After a deep, pained breath, the redhead answered the other man truthfully. "Went to a meetin' wit' some other monks last night, down in Lil' Mhigo." The words arrested Caden's complete attention at once, and prompted eager curiousity.

"How'd it go?"

Berrod rubbed at his stomach idly in a somewhat unconscious bid to ease the re-emerging and irritating agony. How did it go? It was exactly that which spun in his head and blurred his focus. Being asked the question by another, however, made an answer much easier to find.

"...Too many agendas," He began slowly, "The meetin' was to talk about reformin' and rebuildin' the Fists of Rhalgr, but jus' listenin' to everybody...lotta them are in it fer more than that, an' that don't make me feel too good, y'know?"

Caden folded his arms and shook his head. "It ain't a strange thing that people have their own lil' goals in addition to the big one," He reasoned, "Why's that bother you?"

The words gave Berrod pause, and he struggled for a little while to articulate what was on his mind. "Thing is, it seemed like the order itself was the additional goal fer some, wit' their agenda bein' the main event. I dunno, it don't make me comfortable or confident. The idea behind it all is good, but..." He trailed off and rubbed at the coarse, ruddy stubble along his jaw. "-- an' besides that, I dunno how many o'them are actually in it fer God, y'know? I know that Adalhaid gal is, but other than her, I ain't heard or seen no interest in it -- wasn't no prayer or nothin'. People talkin' about chakras an' power...but not a mention o'God himself. That bothered me a lot. I'm a monk. Yeah, I move my fists in His name an' beseech 'im for power...but I never forget that it's Him in the end."

Caden didn't seem to have an answer that one. Given Berrod's continuing fidgeting, however, he simply granted him with an expectant look as leave to continue.

"I'm not investin' in it yet. I wanna get some guidance on it first -- pray a lil' too. Maybe talk to some o'them one on one, see what they really want. Get a feel fer it. As it is now...egh. Glad I didn't carry in any o'the learners fer that ta cloud up their heads. Been makin' too much progress wit' 'em lately ta muck it all up now."

"Doesn't sound like ye got much hope, Berrod."

"I got hope," Berrod assured, "But I ain't blind, and I ain't chasin' after nothin' other than what it's supposed ta be. As always, it's a fight ta get things right, even if it's wit' words an' ideas at first. An' if not...well I guess I'll jus' keep doin' what I'm doin'. I didn't learn the old ways jus' ta give up. Now draw that big dumb ol' sword o'yers so I can break it on yer teeth. We got a spar ta finish."

Berrod Armstrong · September 9, 2015

http://i.imgur.com/hZXrQlK.png[/img]

The Mind's Eye. It is the chakra of observation, insight and thought, feeding what it learns to the Throat so that it may be declared to all. It is the seat of Wisdom, though this wisdom must be honed through experience, learning and meditation. It is the only chakra that has the potential to consume more than it produces, and in no small amount, for the cost of its full potential is great. It is also the chakra most inclined toward sensing.

It rests upon the forehead, slightly above the point between the eyes, in an ideal spot to receive enlightenment from the legendary Crown. At its most basic level of function, it allows one to see deeper into the ordinary; to read motions, body language, and be attentive to minor details that may usually escape one's notice -- such as a shift in the way leaves blow on a tree in the corner of one's vision. This sight alone is a great boon to any monk, for insight into an opponent's moves and motions is an advantage above most others. Be warned, that the ability to see is not coupled with the ability to react, so one must be properly trained in body to make full use of that the Mind's Eye has to offer.

At more advanced levels of function, the Mind's Eye may grant one the very image of one's chakras, and brief glimpses of the energy distributed about them. A monk properly trained in the Mind's eye sees open chakras like blazing beacons, and ones that have not yet opened as darkened moons. Beware extended use of such sight; for it comes at a great aetheric cost. One must know when and how to use it, lest one consume one's stores and be reduced to a husk. It is also important to note that the eye does not grant extended or indefinite aetheric sight, though brief perception of the flow is possible.

Indigo is its color, with no elemental aspect to its name. This unaspected quality allows it to draw from any and all sources in the body, which is as useful as it is dangerous.

Thus wrote Berrod Armstrong, Son of the Fist.

Berrod Armstrong · September 9, 2015

"Ah...Sutala. Jealousy. Covetousness. Possessiveness of all things, even those that do not truly belong to you. Take everything from them. To the world it does not belong to you, but your purpose has long since been to break the world and the order that poisons it. Make it all belong to you. Take your insecurities, any feelings of inadequacy you possess, and concentrate them in the knees. Let Sutala consume them and form them into the desire that will power your claim to everything you covet -- regardless of if it is in the hands of others or not. It is a powerful chakra, Guntbrand, and I trust you will grasp it with great aptitude."

"Yes, Master."

Hammersmith · September 9, 2015

"You're out of practice. This is a bad idea."

The fire was small. The lantern inside it burned brighter here in the swallowing dark of the shroud. A beacon of pure white in a wreath of dull, ugly red.

"Shut up."

Someone had had the foresight to drag a log up to the remains of the fire. Hammersmith was seated on it. Humming to himself as the dark and the diamond-bright thing in the fire whispered.

"I said this is a bad idea Shaman. Go Home."

The fire pulsed.

"I'mma king o'bad ideas."

The fire shuddered.

"Noticed. One of them said you reminded them of their father. You can still quote that letter YOUR dad sent you after you hit the bottom of the mountain, right? Same one you gave your kids after you sent them back up it? That made you squeamish. Kind of funny to watch. Been a while since you felt weak, huh? Gonna happen a lot more before this is through. Go home Shaman."

The fire -writhed- under the giant's one glittering ruby eye..

"Fuck You."

Sparks were rising from the dead embers.

"You're going to see a lot of people die soon. You made that Harky stripling feel -heroic- And you knew you were doing it! You know what happens to people who think they're noble, right?. Aren't you tired of outliving people you don't even -pretend- to care about? You and me both know you have a bad habit of rising people up and then leaning back to see how fast they fall. You got a sick habit. Go Home Shaman."

Sparks were leaking out from between the ancient roe's teeth. The two were mixing in the inky black night of the forest.

"Fuck. You."

Forming a column of starts reaching for the stars. Two parts of an old ritual weaving together in the night air.

"And here you are back with your faith. What'd you tell that pointy mage? You and faith fight? A lot? You fight knowing you're going to lose and that pisses you off more. Go Home Shaman."

The word that followed wasn't a word. It was a force given form with tone. It was a command and a burning retort of promise twisted into something that rolled off the tongue and dripped over the brain like dark, thick, viscous oil. The one after it was nothing short of explosive hatred that drew claws over the ears and unleashed a flood of sparks that screamed rancor.

"You're out of practice. It's nobody's fault but your own."

Out in the dark of the Shroud a voice rose in song to the sky and the stars. A raw, bloody edged voice only just short of crashing against the vaults of heaven.

"You're feasting on nettles because you don't know how to find a better meal. People are noticing. You're chasing phantoms people forgot about because you don't know how to get your teeth out of something that's wronged you. People will notice that. You're bleeding inside and out too much. People have noticed -that-. They aren't blind. You're not going to have anyone to blame but yourself for the pain that's coming. Come on then. Sing me your faith, Spark Shaman. Remind me what a soul on fire is supposed to sound like. Remind me why I love hearing your tongue dance with Words."

In the dark of the shroud the shadows shuddered as a low voice rolled through the spaces between tree and bough, carrying sparks and smoke with it.

In the dark of the shroud a voice called for something more through a curtain of rising flame and boundless fury. Fury fed with passion kept kindled as coals, rising again in a crimson howl

Berrod Armstrong · September 10, 2015

"Master, I don't -- understand. Why would you have us deceive our own? And why would our own be willfully deceived?"

"Because, Gerdtrid -- opening Talatala requires it. It is a basic, confused and almost animal state of being. Hound-eat-hound in its most basic form. There is nothing of the wiles of man within it, only the base instinct to do what it takes to place your own existence above others. Be it lying, stealing -- whatever you must do to exert your will over others. It is a potent power -- but beware the mindlessness that comes with it. Those who access the seat of Talatala in the calves may find themselves subject to compulsive lies or concealment, or even battle trances of deadly ruthlessness. It must be used lightly, and only in times of need -- for it distinguishes naught of friend or foe. So it is you will find these chakras below the third disregarding fellowship and leaning toward the individual. It is for this reason that despite our common goal, we must at times harm each other. Speak with Guntbrand on it. He will put it into simpler terms than I."

"Yes, Master."

Berrod Armstrong · September 11, 2015

[align=justify]When Osric closed the door to his house to vanish within, Berrod turned around and limped to the gate, and down the stairway. The Highlander was in a pitiable state. A mixture of sweat and stream water soaked him to the skin and matted his hair to a dark red. The hair that speckled his musculature had its pattern disturbed by large purple welts and bruises. The leather gauntlet on his right hand was burnt, and his harness had near snapped right off. It didn’t help that he stank horribly of exertion far past a healthy musk into a sour reek of mixing old and new perspiration. He could have sworn a chunk of his left ear was missing – but in truth it was just an angry, bruised red.

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[align=justify]The injured Hyur only managed to make it around the corner before his legs gave way from underneath him. The very last of the mixed energies from his first and second had dried up, leaving him to rely on his long exhausted physical power to keep going. A heavy series of wet thuds echoed against the nearby wall as Berrod crumpled to the floor. He felt agony shoot up his left leg and arm; he knew at once that they had not truly healed – the second had kept them together just for the sake of functioning. It was not within his power to mend broken bones, and without a doubt, Osric had broken both his arm and leg in a few places.

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[align=justify]Pride alone kept the bass cry of dolor in his chest. Full did he suffer, for his Sacral had nothing left to give. The root was also exhausted, and the pain that assailed him left him in no condition to focus on drawing from the land. He heaved, but nothing came up – it had all been emptied from him near the stream. There had been much blood mixed in with the bile. Likely Osric’s strikes had damaged him internally as well. Berrod laid there and shivered for a non-discerned period of time, wheezing loudly. No one passed by, and the night was still cool – so it could not have been long.

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[align=justify]Incapacity came with the somewhat unfortunate freedom to think, to let his mind wander. One below for each one above. He had been warned about going against the nature of each of his seats of power, that they would only lead to him being less effective if he was able to call upon them at all. Now, he was being told the opposite. Berrod wanted very badly to accuse one man or the other of lying; either his old Master or Osric, but to his churning irritation, he knew both men to be far from liars – at least not to him. Osric had discovered something he had not; tapped into something he hadn’t the barest clue about.

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[align=justify]Bubbling envy was cut short by a slight ache in his knees,which in turn triggered recollection. Fear and Anger. He had felt both, in different capacities. He had genuinely feared for his life when he felt his arm shatter under Osric’s roundhouse, and the revelations afterward had certainly incensed him enough to throw the poor Midlander to the ground. Guilt flushed through him as the image of the other man’s hurt and despaired face emerged in his mind. He’d have to give him a real apology. Somehow. Without actually saying it. Or him knowing. Something like that.

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[align=justify]Berrod was only vaguely aware of the puddle forming beneath him; his soaked leathers were draining onto the cobblestone below – and perhaps the cold sweat from his agony contributed in a small amount. He had to make it home. He had to rest, he had to heal, then he’d try to figure things out. Using his right arm and leg, the bulky Highlander dragged himself down the lane and around the bend to the Aetheryte. He knew the one he needed to get to – the Eastern main; it was right outside the Agency Headquarters. There was only one problem; he didn’t have the spiritual fortitude at that moment. Teleportation was not going to happen after he had so thoroughly spent himself.

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[align=justify]What he did have however, was a linkpearl. A few, in fact.Who would he call? Caleb or Caden? No, they’d worry and then watch him like a hawk. Someone from the Agency? Good people, but they were annoying with all their weird questions and assumptions. They didn’t understand. One of the Monks, perhaps? That negative was far too immediate for his own comfort. A sudden thought occurred to him. With haste, the redhead dug a rather bright green one from his soaked satchel and put it to use.

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“Ginny?” came the hoarse and desperate plea. There was no disguising the whimpering in his voice, or the labor of his breathing. “Gins, please be there, I’m in trouble.”

Berrod Armstrong · September 14, 2015

"Master. Speak to me of Rasatala. It seems so similar to the others above it -- yet the power is different."

"It takes a keen spirit to taste the distinction of Rasatala, Guntbrand. I'm impressed. The fifth shadow is a potent mixing pot for the previous four. Keep in mind, as the shadow seeks to climb, so does it also fall. Their energies leak down and mingle. For reasons I cannot myself fathom, Rasatala is a basin for all the fear, anger, insecurity and deceit that one must steep oneself in for the sake of this power. As a chakra however, it also possesses its own unique spiritual state. Or in this instance, a state where the spirit is forfeit.

"Rasatala opens up our animal nature in its fullest, through the promotion and indulgence in the sins just above it. It is a powerful wellspring of endurance, though it is born of fear. It demands that we place ourselves above all men; let anger fuel the effort. Covet their place. Take it from them. Deceive them if needs be. Ware that this very animal nature is at the brink of a loss of one's discretion and faculties. Killing will come across as an easy necessity. Every other being one sees will be a challenger to one's existence. Their suffering...one will relish in it, and become drunk on it if one is unable to curb the perception of such necessity. It is one of the most difficult to master, and the one to which I have lost the most students."

"Do you fear you will lose me, Master?"

"No, Guntbrand. I know you. The qualities of this chakra encompass your very nature. If anything, by mastering it, you will give yourself the potential to surpass us all."

Melodia · September 15, 2015

She hesitated.

"Gods what am I doing....this won't work." She muttered, looking around as she held the paper in her hand. She looked at the writing on it and grimaced.

It's awful...hideous....who would look at this and respond? Her mind was a rush of thoughts and she sighed, looking at her ring finger, noting that the ring line had almost completely disappeared as her tan had hidden it.

"It's been moons...and you're not getting any younger." Her mentor's words coming from her own lips. Post the damn thing and move along. Her own inner voice scolded. She threw caution to wind and inhaled sharply before her hands posted the paper notice on the board at the Quicksand. She was blushing as she affixed it and moved quickly to another spot in the city to hide.

The notice read, including a photo of the red-headed Miqo'te, including her glasses:

Recently single female, seeking a single female for dating, friendship. Maybe more? If interested, please contact me at the information below.

Berrod Armstrong · September 16, 2015

"Mahatala...in a way, it is preparation for the last. The requirements of the final chakra, Palatala, are steep. It is a costly power, and mastering Mahatala provides ideal training. It rests in one's feet, and is a place entirely oriented around the self. All empathy and consideration toward others are forsaken here. It becomes such that there are none in the world who matter more than one. "

"That sounds evil."

"It can be, yet, it may not be. Consider than in a state of only self-consideration, one's own view is all that matters. If one considers oneself the good of the world, then it is so. If one considers oneself evil, then it is so. One decides what one is. Mahatala is also the only chakra at this level that consumes more than it produces. However, it does not consume from the self. It consumes from others. With mastery of this chakra, you may gain the ability to temporarily close..or disable...the chakra of another."

"...just as you did to me in our spar."

"Yes, just like that. I have worked all my life and have gained the ability to close up to three. Closing even one is something that requires a great deal of training. Keep in mind that I say 'close', but I only mean that Mahatala simply steals the energy from one of their seats of power to fuel one's own. The technique is called Purification; for it is said that it purges an opposing monk of their hidden evils. What it really does purge them of their power...and steals it. Today, Guntbrand, you take the first step toward this mastery."

"I am honored, Master. Thank you. I will not let it go to waste."

"You will not be afforded the opportunity to waste it."

Hammersmith · September 16, 2015

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Conversations in the Shroud died in a smothering black. Listen, though, and you might find one.

""I told you so."

Conversations in the dark are strange things. They hum and hiss.

"Yez did. Yez did."

Conversations in dim firelight flit and flutter, making ghosts of the speakers.

"And?"

One just a dim reflections of fire outlined in gold and shining orange. This one has a pipe. It has a bottle. It's facing east towards a clear horizon. There were a few high points in the Shroud. Only a few, if you knew where to look.

"Got whit I wiz owed."

The other bright, and clear. Circling in the shadows. Reflecting in the open doors of a small brass lantern.

"Mmm. I bet you even believe that."

One sounding like a landslide's lullaby to the children of the earth as it rushed forward.

"I do. Dun leave debts outstandin where I kin."

The other a breath on the back of the neck. the comforting embrace of shelter against the colds, liquid warmth poured over the ears like honey, bright and pure.

"And you're not worried about what happens next?"

One with a red eye scanning the east for some sign.

"No."

One with sparks dancing in their brassy depths.

"Do you believe that?"

One drawing slow, careful pulls of smoke. Drawing the taste of the incense infused air over tongue and palette.

"No."

One near breathless as it laughed.

"So now what?"

One grinning wide in the dark.

"I wait."

The other leering in the firelight.

"You know they'll call for that blood."

One shaking it's head.

"Good. I wanna see em nod t'ae how much it cost."

One nodding in the reflections and flashes of embers dancing around the lantern in the fire's depths.

"And then what? You owe more? Not sure you can afford to keep paying if it means you keep getting kissed by fire."

The other sighing a cloud of sparks and ashen white.

"Don't intend to pay."

One fading into the dark, frowning.

"Is that why we're up here?"

One leaning forward, pointing at the east.

"No. We're here to watch that."

Out in the shroud, on a rock with a small fire and a smaller lantern, the morning's first rays washed away the conversation, the ghost faces, the soft words and darker promises.

Out in the shroud, the dawn broke over a blanket of swaying green welcoming the honest light of day.

Berrod Armstrong · September 17, 2015

"If one does not master Palatala, it will master one. It is the lowest chakra, situated at the soles of the feet. It embodies hatred, anger, revenge. Disrespect to one's fellow man and to one's God. For in this state, you are become your own god. Enlightenment within depravity. It is not something that many can master before losing themselves to it. Potent is it's power, and anyone who has brought this chakra to heel must be revered and feared. As any God should be. Be keen to draw energy from the earth below; it aids in keeping the rush of negativity at bay. Keep in mind that simply managing Palatala may not be enough. It is a chakra that leaks upward to spread through the spirit; in that, it may not affect one all at once. A slow disregard for life, a creeping tendency to enjoy killing. Rage, jealousy...easily confused for the products of higher chakras. Palatala is the serpent coiled beneath our feet. The devil which gives us Godhood."

"And those two did not understand?"

"No, they did not."

"...you knew they wouldn't."

"I held a sliver of hope."

"So you led them down this path knowing that each would seek the power of the seventh from the other."

"Yes."

"And what if one survived?"

"Then I would have been able to defeat that one and open my last."

"What--? What kind of Master would that make you, killing your own--"

"Master? That is what they called me, because that is what I needed them to think. I am master of only myself. Power is what I want, and I will do whatever it takes to get it. Find me two more. This was a failure. I need to start again."

"And what if I refuse?"

Rudger the Unlucky cast a silvery gaze on his Hyuran assistant. "You just buried Guntbrand and Gerdtrid, boy. I've no one else to bury you. Do as I say."

Shayrei · September 20, 2015

The day had been long but the satchel on her hip was finally empty as she tacked up the notice on yet another bulletin board. A week of travel and she'd finally moved from city-state to city-state tacking up the notice anywhere she was allowed.

"If this doesn't find someone to whip 'em into shape I'm gonna pull m' hair out..."

She stuck the tack hammer back into her bag and started for home, eager to see the results of her efforts.

[align=center]Growing Free Company Seeks Medical Lead![/align]

Free company Arbiters of Eorzea, a philanthropic group of citizens and adventurers, is in search of formally trained and highly experienced chigurgeon to head an in-house medical team.

[align=center]Qualifications:[/align]

Formal training in traditional medicine techniques including surgical knowledge.
Skill in aetheric healing is beneficial but not required.
Strong Leadership skills.
Strong literacy skills.

[align=center]Responsibilities:[/align]

Maintenance of clinic and supplies
Management of current clinical staff
On-Call duties in emergency situations
Upkeep and organization of clinic documentation and filing

[align=center]Compensation:[/align]

Personal room available on office grounds
Monthly stipend for services negotiable quarterly following a trial period

Visit an OIC agent at any grand company or the AoE offices in the Goblet’s first ward at the twenty-second plot for an application.

[align=center]Reina Townsend[/align]

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