Bulletin Board

[ZindelloTarantella]

There was a subtle romance to the action and feeling, there really was.

 

1-2-3

1-2-3

1-2-3

 

It was difficult to describe it to the outsider, to the layman on the street that would, undoubtedly, frown upon him for the action. It was understandable and he didn't resent them. They weren't unwashed masses that didn't 'get it'. They simply never experienced the thrill and feeling of it. The subtle art of it.

 

1-2-3

1...2...3

1-2-3

1-2-3

 

There was another attempt to break free and it was quickly stopped again. All the training in the world wouldn't save him. One could argue that it all led up to this moment--and even if someone could say that this was no act of the gods--well, he wouldn't argue. It was, to him at least, more an act of men--you simply either were prepared for a moment like this or you weren't.

 

1-2-3

1...2...3

1-2...3

1-2-3

 

This man wasn't. He could feel that now, as if everything else didn't say as much. As the powerful arms tightened, locking inexcoribly tighter, the pulse could be felt, the breathing was stopped and the heart struggled in its now broken rhythm. Actually, now that he thought about it, no--this wasn't art. Not really. Maybe math and a sheer set of numbers. A formula that led from the beginning to this end result.

 

1-2-3

1...2...3

1...2...3

 

No, this was a job--just like any other--that relied on simple math. This man had trained, according to what his assailant had figured, approximately five years in the art of pugilism. So, by that logic, he, his assailant, who had trained for almost three times that, would be the most obvious winner. This guy was good--but his assailant was simply better. Speaking of math..

 

1...2-3

1..2..3..

 

It had been a good run, his assailant supposed. Five years of training, of making oneself better. He could appreciate the philosophy of it. After all, how many other lives had this man defeated with his own 'numbers'? Ah, but he was letting himself get philosophical again, wasn't he? He really didn't have time for this.

 

1...2...3...

1...2...--SNAP.

 

The body was dropped from the man's arms, the assassin flexing his fingers as he stood up from the hold he'd locked onto his 'fellow' assassin. "See now, I went and started mentally meandering." He looked down at the man on the ground, the mask on the man's face denoting him as being one of the 'Faces of Mercy' or some other silly nonsense like that. "I've got work to do and you got me turning killing into math. For shame." 

 

He turned and started away, leaving the fallen pugilist and assassin of five years dead, his neck snapped and body lifeless--maybe one of his fellow Faces would find him, who knew? The assassin with the superior number of years had someone to find and he couldn't do that if these Faces guys did it first.

 

"Always hated math."

[BadDJuJu]

You can do this.  You've made it this far, Jujah'to thought, gingerly entering the kitchen of the Bismarck.  The dark featured Miqo'te desperately clung with both hands to a round wooden tray, stacked with various plates and cups, their contents consumed.  All about him the restaurant bustled; waitresses glided in and out of the dining area, guests talked among themselves, pots and pans clanged, and food sizzled and simmered.  It felt like a battlefield.

 

And there was Jujah'to, inching along.  He could call upon the elements to move Earth, Air, and Water, but he couldn't carry a blasted tray without white knuckles.  He could swear those waitresses had to be unnatural.  They carried these damnable trays one handed, for Twelve's sake!

 

WHOOSH!  “Pardon--!”

 

Too late.  It was as if time slowed, yet he felt like an Acorn Snail.  The tray teetered and he watched as items slipped from it.  It was all he could do to save a lone cup among the symphony of shattering dinnerware.  The whole restaurant had come to a standstill to hear its ballad.  Of.  Course.

 

Pale-faced, Jujah'to caught Jossy, the supplier behind the front desk, glaring at him.  In an instant the restaurant resumed its commotion, with a mix of reactions within the kitchen, from shaking heads to grinning chuckles.  Lyngsath watched from his perch, tight-lipped for a moment, then his jolly enthusiasm returning.  He had more important matters to oversee.

 

“You had better get that cleaned up before Jossy, over there, melts the fur off your tail with just the look in her eyes.”

 

Jujah'to bent quickly and began gathering larger broken pieces onto his tray.  I bet it will be easier to carry now, huh?  He looked as a light skinned, male, Hyur crouched to help.  He was about to thank him, until--

 

“You!”

 

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that,” the Hyur scratched the back of his head, “I move a bit too fast sometimes.”

 

Jujah'to glared at him, then let his anger go.  He couldn't blame this person for his ineptitude.  “Iht's okay… Thank you.”

 

“Don't worry, we'll get this cleaned up,“ the Hyur waved a hand lightheartedly, “you're new, yes?  Well, commis de debarrasseur, you might want to use one of those wooden bins.  Less balancing.  Besides, you can hold much more than one of those trays.  Just don’t bring it to a table with you.  Be quick about it, I'm sure there's a few more dishes that still need collecting out there, then I'll see you down in the scullery.  I bet Lyngsath has go you on double duty for now, eh?  I'll fetch the broom and get what's left here.”

 

Jujah'to nodded, prostrating with a much more stable tray.  Turning to be off, a hand grabbed his arm.  He looked back at the smiling Hyur.

 

“Oh, and welcome to the Brigade.”

[Gegenji]

"I'm not lyin' ta myself."

 

Chachanji's blows fell quick and unfocused on the striking dummy, still dwelling heavily upon what Mahana Mana had been saying back in the Quicksand. Just thinking about how she had insulted his Doman heritage - one of the few who even knew of such thanks to a slip of his tongue during his first couple suns within the Jewel. Back then, it had been a pair of strangers - a Roegadyn and a Miqo'te - that had come to his aid. He had been without their help this time, and had somehow managed to overcome his nervousness when confronted by her.

 

"It has feelin's!" he had stated, speaking of a Carbuncle that had been the target of the female Lalafell's ire. She had flippantly told its owner to dismiss it, as if it was no more than a thing. That had been what had started the argument, and led to the exchange that would set Chachan over the edge. "If'n it's made from a part'a his personality, then his feelin's are in it. So it has feelin's."

 

"They are imitations of feelings," she had countered flatly. "Not real ones."

 

"'n how're they any less real?" She had actually provided a few solid reasons, but Chachanji was just being childishly indignant at this point. He simply refused to let a "meanie" like Mahana be in the right about anything. "I bet ya don't think Gran ain't got no feelin's neither."

 

"... Well, I guess they are more real than what remains of your country. However..."

 

That lingering nervousness that had gripped him, that childish petulance that had led to this argument, all of it had quickly been replaced with anger at those words. The unfeeling manner to which she described the razing of Doma, her continued persistence that he was lying to himself about... something that she would never straight up name. It had caused something to snap within him and brought out a childish fury that he hadn't given voice to since he got into that argument with his father way back when. He decried her as a bully, a jerk, a meanie who used harsh words to hurt others for her own amusement. The fact that she didn't even seem to react or care about his immature outbursts just upset him further.

 

Ultimately, he had cut his losses and stomped out like a child who had been sent to his room. He had used the excuse of talking Gran for his afternoon walk to get away from the frustrating Lalafell female and her entourage, and had been true to his word. He did indeed take the little baby behemoth outside the walls of Ul'dah, past the collection of ramshackle tents, and down to the riverbed for their post-run cooldown and play. Yet, Chachanji continued to replay the argument over and over in his mind, kicking angrily at the water rather than playfully splashing as he normally would.

 

When he finally realized that splashing around in the river wasn't helping, he sullenly made his way back to the city. He trudged his way back into the Quicksand, his narrowed violet eyes actively scanning for Mahana, his childish glare daring her to still be there so that he could shout at her some more. For better or for worse, he failed to catch sight of her, and thus made his angry little march back to his room in the Hourglass with little issue.

 

He still couldn't settle down, though, and that's how he ended up here in the Gladiator's Guild, beating up a defenseless training dummy in order to get his anger out. Again and again, his self-forged blade clanged against the dummy's motionless form, the sound merging with the other sounds of training around him. His face was scrunched, his cheeks flushed so that his freckles looked all the more prominent against his lightly tanned skin, and seemed to be desperately trying to hold back tears.

 

"You do realize that Doma was razed by the Garleans, yes?"

 

Of course he knew. He slapped sloppily at the training dummy some more. He was there when they refugees had come to Ul'dah seeking sanctuary, had seen his parents and his older sister along with the rest of them. Hell, he had almost gotten dragged off with them when the city turned them away at the gates. It had only been Ms. Momodi's insistence that he had been there beforehand, and as an adventurer no less, that had kept him from being shipped off to Mor Dhona like the rest.

 

"And you no longer have anything to return to."

 

"Doma is gone. Your family may be fine here as refugees, but it is gone."

 

A harsh screech of metal on metal pierced the normal din of the Gladiator's Guild. Chachanji had slammed his shield against the unwitting training dummy, dragging it back off only to bring it back around and bash at it again. A few of the closer gladiators winced at the sound, moving away to resume their training where the noise would assault their ears less.

 

She was wrong! he silently seethed. Doma still lived! As long as its people endured, as long as his family was alive, there was still a Doma - and there was still a place he could go home to.

 

"Then you're not only stubborn, but a fool too..."

 

"I. Am. NOT!" Each word was punctuated by another clash of either shield or blade against the stalwart form set in front of him. The others in the Guild were just glad he wasn't causing that scraping sound anymore. "I'm NOT!"

 

"Go on, be offended. People mean little to me," she had stated calmly, with a slight shrug to her shoulders. "If you want kind, loving people, go to Gridania."

 

Maybe he would! he thought bitterly as he cut a minor gash into the side of the dummy. He had gone there for some training in the ways of Conjury at the behest of Ms. Artemis and her friends. He had arrived in time to behold a celebration for Nophica, and enjoyed music and stories in the grass by the Botanist's Guild. Deep down, though, he knew doing that would just make her the victor - that she had succeeded in chasing out the "lowly, homeless Doman." And his childish heart just couldn't allow that.

 

"I'm sorry again." There hadn't been even a modicum of empathy or kindness in that statement, it was merely the precursor to a backhanded comment. "That the truth is offensive to you."

 

"She's wrong! She's wrong, she's wrong, she's WRONG!" It was a mantra to him at this point as he continued his directionless assault. He had shouted things back at her then - belittling her words, calling her a bully and a jerk once again, challenging her to hide behind her concept of "truth" again. Instead, she made as if she hadn't even been paying attention, and that had just infuriated him further. It was then he had fled, that he had made his egress that had ended up where he was now: venting bodily on a training dummy.

 

"I'm not a fool!"

 

Crash!

 

"I'm NOT stubborn!"

 

Clang!

 

"Doma is NOT gone!"

 

Bang!

 

"I... I still have a home."

 

Thud.

 

His shield smacked dully against the dummy, followed by the young Lalafell leaning weakly into it. He stayed there for a while, motionless against the training dummy beyond an occasional shudder. If one could make it out over the sounds of the other gladiators that had long since returned to their own training, one might have heard the muffled sound of sobbing.

[Kellach Woods]

The spark of Lightning ignites when it strikes, and thus Fire is born.

The heat of Fire renders to ash all that it touches, and thus earth is born.

The density of Earth shuns Sun and harbors cold, and thus Ice is born.

The armor of Ice melts away, and thus water is born.

The moistness of Water mists and rises, and thus Wind is born.

The gusts and sighs of Wind gather the clouds, and thus Lightning is born.

 

A copy of Essences and Permutations in hand, Kellach was in an inn room, poring over the tome. Pinchyshell was staring at the Emerald Carbuncle that he had summoned. The Carbuncle, a construct by nature, confused the otherwise valiant crab. The crab poked at Carbuncle, the Carbuncle stood there. The crab poked again and again.

 

Meanwhile, Kellach had noted down the prayer, and was comparing it to his own mythology. From the Book of Rites, it read :

 

There is a precedent with ceremony when thanking the elements for their contribution to the harvest. It is customary to perform this once a year, preferably before the blanket of ice falls upon the land though if it is impossible to do so due to the weather, it is customary to perform an Offering to Ice prior to this ceremony, as it would be intruding on its domain.

 

Honor Lightning, the spark of life, with creation.

Honor Fire, the light of passion, with love.

Honor Earth, the foundation of strength, with conviction.

Honor Ice, the mirror of calm, with reflection.

Honor Water, the flow of change, with flexibility.

Honor Wind, the whisper of motion, with wonder.

 

During the ceremony, perform the Offerings in order from Lightning to Wind, completing the Cycle of Offerings with the Illumination.

 

After that page, it continued in the various details pertaining to each offering which was quite uninteresting, at the moment, for Kellach. Although the Offering to Fire may be interesting if he could get his hands on a document pertaining to ancient Mamool Ja dancing rituals. What was interesting was that there was a common theme between the elements creating themselves in the Essences and Permutations text and the Book of Rites.

 

Though none had documented the history of his people and their settling the continent, they had obviously come from a similar background than the immigrants to Eorzea to classify the elements in the same manner. More importantly, if there was an universal truth to the order of elemental classification in historical and mythological texts, perhaps there could even be a practical application to this theory in arcane arts. More importantly, could he apply his cultural understanding of the elements to Eorzean practices of aether manipulation?

 

He'd already performed a feat of incredible knowledge and application of arcane arts, but this kind of heavy thinking was far beyond his knowledge. He decided to take his axe and start swinging at a nearby practice dummy.

[Jancis]

The air had an extra bite than the typical one in Coerthas that evening.

 

Jancis looked down the high slope she was on, overlooking the Observatorium, as the others checked the snow. It was stable enough, the shelf keeping its grip. It was her and four others, her assignment to cover any injuries and support supplies.

 

With all the troubles back in the Coral's house, her concerns with Iron Sea and L'aenoh, the nonsense with Darke and the impostor posing as him, she had been travelling back and forth for suns.

 

They were all weary from the long day, at least it was the last day of this expedition. Many spruce logs were harvested from in careful calculated spots. Some the entire tree, some of the heavier branches. But Halone's furious howl came from the Nail as the winds picked up.

 

Suddenly, in the wind, a chunk of the debris from Dalamund broke free, slamming down on the hillside above. Trees snapped and broke, leaving splintered branches about and made the snow shudder. Then it rumbled, and seconds later it was moving.

 

The team was already moving, two up higher than the rest getting carried away in the snow, hanging onto branches and paddling their arms, digging like a swimmer with the current. 

"Avalanche!"

 

Jancis and the other two were not so lucky, caught in the curve of the snow and pushed back against the rocks. Pulling themselves up together to the top of the snow, the other side started to give in, threatening to push them back underneath. Calling out to the elements, a large pillar of stone came up, making a ramp for the snow to tumble across while the three hid underneath the makeshift shelter.

 

Concentrating, the others held the conjurer firm with locked arms, bracing one another as she braced the snow back. Eventually the rumbling stopped.

 

And they were trapped in the snow.

[Melodia]

Melodia threw the cuffed prisoner into his cell and locked the door behind him, staring through the bars as she grinned. She was pleased by her work. She'd only bloodied him and maybe the bruises would go away before her superiors noticed.

 

"Enjoy yer stay. We're always willin' t' accomodate ye."

 

She chuckled and walked to the restroom, washing her hands, and winced silently at the pain her knuckles felt. Staring into the mirror she sighed. Her hair was a mess and glancing down at the yellow top she wore, a streak of the man's blood was present. With a scowl she reached down and wet her thumb before trying to wipe it away, only managing to smear the blood into the fabric, surely staining the uniform.

 

It was an apt moment of symbolism and wasn't lost on her.

[Berrod Armstrong]

"Yer an ambitious bugger, I'll give you that."

 

The straw-haired Highlander sat upon a crate, perilously near to the sharp drop off of Highbridge. He didn't seem bothered at all by it, however -- clearly it was something he did frequently enough to have been accustomed. Berrod Armstrong stood nearby with arms folded, dressed in his usual black leathers. The wind carried the slight musk of exertion off into the canyon -- it had been a longer trip from Little Ala Mhigo than he had thought. "Who else would do it?" He asked calmly.

 

"Who else? Hells if I know, but people aren't just gonna bow and scrape and thank ye fer savin' them. You better'n most know how proud those bastards get." There was a note of derision in the other Highlander's tone, but he kept it minimal for Berrod's sake. "Besides. That's too big. Way too big. Yer jus' street dirt refugee trash, Berry. That's all anybody is gonna bring up when ya make yer move. An' what about that company ye got huh? Ye gonna use that as a front fer what ye got planned?"

 

The red-haired man shook his head. "No, it's not going to be like that. I have my responsibilities there, and I take them seriously. I don't intend to use them for my purposes and if I do, I'll make sure they're paid from my own pocket." He paused and folded his arms across his broad chest. "But the influence is useful. I'll definitely use it to as collateral when I'm ready."

 

A cold breeze swept up from the canyon, whipping the tied tail at the back of Berrod's head. The other Highlander experienced a much less orderly sweeping of his straw-colored locks. When the wind died down, the poor fellow had to brush the coarse strands from in front of his tanned face. "Ye can't do it by yerself," He warned. 

 

"Which is why I'll rally them around me. It's about high time that we united, don't you think?" The other man's action caused him to unconsciously run his hand through his own hair, "The enemy can't be driven out by scattered, prideful and begrudging fools who cling to what is lost. We need to build anew, acquire the aid of allies, and then push forward. Abandon hopes of taking back what is no longer there. We will take what -is- there, raze it, and build anew. The first step is getting people to see that, one at a time."

 

"That'll take lifetimes, Berrod -- it's crazy."

 

"Which is why I ought to start when I'm young."

 

"It'll never happen."

 

"Only if I don't try."

 

Another gust of wind harrassed them, rendering them in a silent arrangement of agreed disagreement. "I want the best for our people as anyone else, Berrod but --" 

 

"Then join me. Help me."

 

The other Highlander quieted for a moment before he mumbled meekly, "I'm okay where I am. I got a wife now, and two lil' pickneys ta feed. I found me a life."

 

It was Berrod's turn to remain quiet -- his expression was impassive, and gave off the impression of being hewn of solid stone. Finally, he spoke and turned on a heel. "I see. I won't take up any more of your time. I need to go find my ward and head back to Ul'Dah."

 

As he left, the other Highlander tossed a plea behind the leather-harnessed back. "Berrod -- jus' remember this. Ye got it good now. Settle down an' live yer life. Yer jus' a normal fella. Men like you ain't meant fer greatness. Jus' stay normal. Goin' after somethin' so big is gonna bring everybody down on ya before it even gets off the ground. Think o'yerself."

 

The departing highlander stopped and turned his head slightly, not to face the other, but only to grant a sliver of his profile. "I do think of myself, Berndulf. And I want my homeland back."

[cuideag]

"Perhaps I understand what it is to be hunted. But that is not why I am here."

 

Her quill rolled between her fingers. In more glorious days she was quicker, nimble, as much at ease with a blade as then pen that was so often her weapon of choice lately. The choices laid before her were simple. They had to be, else she risk hesitation. There was no doubt in her mind that her good fortune of evading the wrath of the law would one day run out.

 

May as well be suicide, she thought, This life as Sultansworn. "An easy scapegoat," she had told Ser Crofte, and she had meant every word. She was just as she said the most visible target in the game. As long as she remained in question, as long as Taeros held her leash, she stood in perfect position to burn for the error of her peers.

 

"What I propose is a race."

 

The more she pondered on it, the more ridiculous it seemed. How could anyone bury themselves so deeply and yet remain so completely unaware? The choice seemed obvious. In the silence of her room, Delial snickered before she sighed and gave her quill a quick dab of ink. 

 

"May the better woman win," Ser Crofte had said as she departed. It was true that Delial respected her fellow Highlander for what she tried to do. Of all the Sultansworn bar one she had met, Coatleque irritated her the least. In some small way, she wanted to sympathize.

 

It took every fiber of self-discipline she had not to laugh in her presence.

[Dogberry]

First patrol. His feet clank rhythmically against the cobblestone streets of Upper Limsa Lominsa. It's raining, but the hat and Maelstrom coat keep him reasonably insulated and dry. This is a new thing for Dogberry, being on this side of the law. Part of the new deal he worked out with the Maelstrom. They assist with the primal job, he gives them the fruit of whatever that job turns out to be. To keep him close, they posted him on foot patrols like he's some kind of yellowjacket. Whatever, so long as he gets to keep his ship.

 

"How's yer ma?" a passerby asks. Some punk kid, hoping to get a rise out of him. Dogberry just laughs. Limsa's still such a pirate town the police get no respect around here. The puzzled kid goes on his way, and Dogberry goes on his, checking through The Drowning Wench to check on things there. Maybe have a shot and a beer.

 

He hears a commotion as he approaches. Shouting voices. Chairs scuffing against the ground as people stand and push their chairs back. He's been at this just over an hour and already he's seeing action. He steps into the bar, finally out of this rain, and into the fray as one Roegadyn man holds another bent over the table, pressing his face against the surface. A Lalafell man is repeatedly kicking the poor sod's head while he's down. Dogberry slips on his brass knuckles and steps up behind the nasty business. He clears his throat. The Lalafell stops kicking long enough to look up.

 

"Looks like he's had enough, mate," Dogberry says casually. "Let him up now and we can all get back to our drinkin' aye?"

 

"Sod off," the Lalafell says. "This don't concern you!"

 

"I'm afraid it does, see, bein' as this breaks the law an' all," Dogberry says. This time the Roegadyn lets go and turns around. He remains silent, trying to stare Dogberry down.

 

"Law's not all that's gonna be broke here you don't run off and hide behind the Admiral's skirt," The Roegadyn says finally. The Lalafell laughs.

 

"You got a point," Dogberry says, and kicks out at the perp's knee, making it bend the wrong way. The Roegadyn howls in pain briefly until a right hook connects with his temple and sends him like a sack of popotos to the floor. The victim, the one with his head on the table, panics and does a tuck and roll out of the way. Dogberry produces a pair of manacles from his belt and cuffs the unconscious Roegadyn. By the time he looks up, the Lalafell is gone. Dogberry puts a hand to his ear, pressing a linkpearl into it.

 

"We got one needs pickin' up at the Wench," Dogberry says. "Bring a wheelbarrow, he ain't walkin'. I'm in pursuit of a Lallafell, male, about three and a quarter fulms, brown hair, red shirt."

 

Dogberry took off walking in the direction the victim was pointing. He nodded in thanks, taking his time getting where he's going. No need to run, he thought. He'll find him eventually. Walk these streets long enough, you'll find any damn thing if you know where to look.

[MikoBehnen]

((I'm not entirely sure how you guys deal with this here but... Possible TW: Suffocation))

 

It was a beautiful night. The moon had never been a favorite view of hers, preferring the warmth of the sun, but despite the chill it was quite lovely. Perhaps she would go home and make a nice cup of tea, something spicy to go with her mood. She had a new blend of chai she’d been meaning to try, and a friend of hers had recommended using spiced milk in it for an extra kick which sounded perfect.

 

She shifted her position slightly and through the thin curtains caught a glimpse of a couple laughing, walking hand in hand down the street. It was so nice to see people happy. She let her mind wander and started making up stories about the pair while she worked. They had met when they ran into each other in the streets of Ul’dah. She had been chasing a dog and he had been reading a book and they’d fallen in love at first sight. They’d become bonded in the middle of winter, their ceremony surrounded by snow. They had a child a year later and he was a handful. He liked frogs and cheese and pancakes and... Miko sat up slightly and wondered why she had just made the couple's imaginary child a young male version of herself. She grunted as something hit her side and leaned forward again, putting more weight on her hands. Maybe she was projecting her desire for a family on this poor anonymous couple who had been walking by. She knew she had family issues, she had worked that out in her own mind while eating a bowl of soup one day, but she wasn’t used to so obviously putting herself in her own daydreams. Though it was night time, she reminded herself. Does that mean it was night dreaming? She wasn’t asleep however. What would one call a daydream at night? Perhaps she could give it a fun name like a dazzle, or an evening… something. She’d have to ponder that issue when she got home and settled down with her tea. Perhaps she’d also make a cake. She put more weight into her knee, leaning over a bit more for balance and tightening her grip. Miko had never been fond of sweets but recent events had made her reconsider that particular aversion, and she did like strawberries. She blushed at that quick flash of memory and glanced back out the window, curtains softly swaying in the night breeze. She had some new fruit from the market in her sack on her chocobo outside, she could likely make something with that. One of her friends would need to teach her how to bake however.

 

Her job finally done, she looked down at the now lifeless body beneath her. She removed the pillow from her target's face and gave him a quick pat on the head.

 

“I’m sorry. That was likely unpleasant, but I was told you weren’t a very nice man and did bad things to children.”

 

She’d leave the window open and let the cool air in so when his housekeeper found him in the morning he wouldn’t stink. With a slight frown, she pried the man’s mouth open and removed the feathers that had stuck in his teeth when he’d bit the pillow covering his face. The pillow was shoved in her bag along with a mental note that she'd need and new one now, and a single silver painted gil was placed on the man's tongue. Silver's stupid, pointless calling card.Scanning the room to make sure she did not leave any sign of her visit other than the man's current state, Miko climbed back out the window and skipped over to her waiting mount. Now she could go home to her tea and cakes, and debate on what a waking dream at night would be called. It really was a beautiful evening.

[Gegenji]

Chachanji sneezed, kicking up a small powdery cloud of white around him.

 

The Lalafell moved to wipe at his nose with his forearm, but remembered how doing that had just caused this sneeze to quickly follow after the last one. He stared at his upraised arm, where a light snowy dust still clung here and there along with a more sizable alabaster smear near his wrist, before re-purposing the motion into opening the door to his room instead. This left a faint ivory hand-print on the brass knob, to add to the almost imperceptible same-hue trail that led back down and out of the Hourglass. Chachanji's lower lip jutted out slightly into an unconscious pout as Momodi's laughter about his current state rose unbidden to his mind.

 

"What happened to you?" she had asked, one corner of her mouth hiked up into a bemused grin. Chachan had done his best to divest himself of his white coating after the accident, but enough had stubbornly clung to him to catch the eye of the Quicksand's owner when he returned. He had looked himself over, noting where the pearly clumps of powder defiantly held on. He had harrumphed and brushed at some of the larger bits with his hand, sending an artificial snow floating gently to the tavern floor. Momodi was not one to let the matter lie, though, continuing with a lighthearted: "Didja get in a fight with a baker?"

 

Despite his obvious fluster and embarrassment, Chachanji managed to explain why he was suddenly shedding so much alabaster. He had been helping one of the vendors on the Exchange pack up after a day's work. The Hyur woman's wares consisted mostly of culinary supplies like spices and such, including a hefty bag of flour that the Lalafell had wound up toting back to her section of a local warehouse. He had tried to ease it up on top of a crate a fair bit taller than him. It had tipped and, well...

 

That's when he had learned that there had been a tear in that bag. The sudden flour shower and the white cloud that erupted afterward quickly caught the eye of the vendor, who ended up being more upset over the loss of the flour rather than her helper's well-being. Fortunately, such materialistic concerns were easily rectified with gil, and the apologetic Lalafell had departed with his coin pouch quite a bit lighter than he had entered. And his lovely snowy coating.

 

With a smile and a laugh, Momodi had sent him off into the Hourglass to clean up, and that was what lead to him trudging into his room trailing sprinkles of flour behind him. His cheeks felt hot with shame, making his freckles stand out even more beneath his unintended blush alternative. The number of visible freckles had always a good sign of how embarrassed Chachanji was, and his constant toil out under the Thanalan sun had added quite a few more to the collection. A vast dusting of self-disappointment that complemented the light dusting of flour quite nicely.

 

As the Lalafell puttered past the provided bed, Gran looked up lazily from his perch atop the pillow. He gave an inquisitive snort, caught a nose of loose powder, and sneezed once himself. The light pawing at his snout in an attempt to get the tickle out before a second sneeze shook his petite purple person got a small chuckle out of Chachanji, at least. It was in that slightly lightened mood that he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the inn room window.

 

While most of the flour had been removed through shaking, walking, and brushing, there was still enough hanging on to still be noticeable. Well, that much was obvious considering how quickly Ms. Momodi had picked up on it, but he also noticed that it wasn't just his clothes that had a decent bit of artificial frosting on it. A large amount of flour still clung to his jade-hued hair, giving him a look not unlike a pine tree in winter. And, to the Lalafell's surprise... he kinda liked how it looked.

 

A few bells later, Chachanji was washed up, cheered up, and sporting a less flour-based change to his hair. How festive!

 

Chachan has a slightly new hairstyle, and I wanted to provide an IC reason for it. :blush:

 

[DoomsdayClock]

The massive red coated frame stood before that small house by the waterfall, The Jewel of the Desert. After such a long night of talks with Ameline Valtin, Iron had followed a trail of memories that lead him to that place once more. He had walked the halls, pressed hands to the walls...he had spoke of Nat, of Franz...of Kage..of Honzo..and realized that for a time it felt like those days were a lifetime away.

But time had not forgotten them. The structure still stood, and the memories of their voices still held within the stone.

That night had brought him to the parchment he held within his hand, lens hidden eyes reading the words carefully, over and over.

Jewel of the Desert, purchased and now held by Iron Sea. Kneeling down he plucked the for sale sign from the earth and tucked it under one arm, as he strode over to the placard and traced a metal gloved finger over the names. This would remain, her name, their names, the cheerful greeting. He would preserve the memory, make sure these halls found new strays in need of shelter and compassion. It was in his own way, some small service to the woman who had given him so much. It was the right thing to do, to even be able to truly move forward.

His coffers were empty now, Lady Edda was gone back to her father, his job ended. The coin had all fell into this last attempt to hold onto something dear. He gazed off at that waterfall, as he had so many times before with friends and allies, and smiled faintly.

" I'll keep the cannons Nat, figure you would want it this way...."

[Jancis]

Resolution of the avalanche.

http://ffxiv-roleplayers.com/showthread.php?tid=5431&pid=124678#pid124678

 

Jancis showered, keeping a tub under her feet and soaking in the makeshift bath she had created from it in the hot water. It was a luxury.

 

Things could not have gone better, she felt, once she saw Sigurd's face lit up in the tunnel of snow. 

 

The other two scouts were injured, but recovering. The lalafel had a minor case of frostbite, but was successfully rescued from the mothering goobue without injury to anyone, including the monstrously large creature. The elezen had a broken shoulder and arm from clambering away from the hungry wolves, which were chased away as the man was recovered. The other two with Jancis were fine, huddled together for warmth as they waited for rescue.

 

Along with Master Sigurd were other familiar faces, all responding to the call over the linkpearl. He was appropriately dressed in his typical robes, hands wrapped and unnaturally hot from channeling aether to dig through snow. His composure in the possible crisis was admirable.

 

Master Franz was there, his clothes tattered and ill-prepared for the snow. Surely he was compensating for the lack of layers with his own abilities. A little struck from the encounters, he was more stoic and intimidating which worked to the small advantage of keeping the wolves at bay as the broken elezen was rescued, a comforting sort with the ability to speak in the man's native language.

 

Another smaller lalafell, dressed in Flame's coat, was there soothing wounds and helping to keep the biting winds at bay. Jancis failed to recognize the man, but she heard the name Kupel given to him. Very supportive to people he had only just met in their time of need, she admired and was grateful for his assistance. As soon as everyone was safe, the man was gone after a quick joke about wanting an ice cream treat.

 

Finecia, the strong highlander woman, was one of the first to answer Jancis' call for help. She was strong and confident, keeping her cool at the feet of a humongous goobue and even had the tack to lure and draw the creature away to rescue one of the others. Tending to the wounded until they were taken by the healers at the Observatorium; and kept everyone on track as time slipped away, crucial time that Halone's furious cold was eating quickly.

 

R'lexia, her size truly not showing her true might, was pivotal in finding not only the wounded elezen, but finding Jancis and the other two lumber-workers trapped under the snow. Her dress was less than appropriate, many openings in her clothes and thin layers more meant for the shelter of the forest. But her mind was sharper than her sword, clattering to scare the majority of wolves away and having the foresight to demand help from the locals. Without her and Finecia there was sure to be casualties.

 

Iron had heard Jancis and came from the far reaches of the Mist with great haste, despite his own troubles. She had not seen him since the encounter with Cici, but his visage was welcome and encouraging as he held the way for Jancis and the others to escape their small unstable snow pocket. She couldn't hold onto his armor hard enough, even if it was packed with snow and water. He had no sense of direction, absolutely none, and in his haste had caused a disturbance with the Ixal, surely their losses to be felt by the locals later on, had sunk into the snow chasing the wolves, had been completely passed over - literally - luring the goobue away. But he had come out from his own pains and torment for Jancis which truly mattered. And even as everyone was safe, he moved on with purpose and leaving the inn first. 

 

Wrapped up in extra layers, Jancis rested in her own bed. She was grateful; it could not have gone better.

[Kage]

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

 

His breathing matched the little bellows of oxygen he fed the coals as he worked the metal over. He wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his gloved hand wielding the hammer before he brought it down, striking the hot piece of metal. He worked it over. Again and again. The process had become one he found familiarity and comfort. Not unlike the blunt strikes he'd taken to using while fighting with a large broadsword. Not unlike the axe swings he'd started to take his anger out on, though clumsy as they were. He'd started to collect the resources needed for his coal. Blue and red hair fell across his face. He didn't pay it any attention until he had time away from working the metal. He swiftly pulled it back under the bandana holding his hair back and continued to work.

 

His isolated, large home was serving him decently... His business in creating works of steel was only a fledgling out of his basement workshop. But once he started... He growled in anger and frustration as Kage realized some of his imperfections in his work. He wouldn't be able to get the wooden handle polished and fitted well. The knife was a ruin.

 

At one point Kage had thought about leaving the Jewel forever. Leaving Ul'dah behind. Perhaps returning to his family estate but no... this was his home. No matter how much he felt like it was a dark bane, it was still his home. Kiz was here too. But... He'd had to leave the place he had bought and made his home. He could not live there anymore. Everything hurt too much and he'd decided that the best way to have it not hurt as much was to lock that outside of his life. Perhaps it would work, but his nights were still filled with nightmares and demons. He'd taken to carrying his axe into the city, not willing to have those nightmares become daymares.

 

No matter anyway. His [smithing] master had told Kage it was up to himself finish his learning. But from whom? Where would he find another master anyway?

[Aris]

(( I planned on submitting this as an open RP thread, but my nerves have gotten the better of me. This is the first time posting anything publicly, I hope it's okay. ))

 

As Aris trekked towards The Weeping Saint, fully geared with lance on back and fists wrapped, she considered what Haurchefant had told her.

 

"..We’ve had several reports of sightings of the beast..no exact location but it seems to move in pattern..giving locals more reason to be nervous..I’ve sent patrols out but no luck..one person confirmed missing and, well, I’m beginning to fear the worst.."

 

Well, it wasn’t the most heartening assembly she’d had with Haurchefant, that was for sure.

  

She pulled the furs further up around her face, stopping to take in her position. If she continued at this pace she should be an hour away from the grotto, and judging by the light it was late afternoon. If, if she found the beast, would she even have any chance against it? Perhaps if it's smaller, but the Knight couldn’t confirm its size. He couldn’t confirm any details, in fact.

 

As is usually the way with rumors.

 

She sighed and continued to trudge through the snow. She hated the cold. Perhaps it was her father’s Seeker blood in her, or perhaps simply because it was so damn uncomfortable and inconvenient. Only twice had she visited Coerthas and each time she had been on an assignment, staying in the Fort of Whitebrim Front. Not quite as welcoming as The Drowning Wench perhaps, but at least it had huge, warm, fires..

 

It was as she daydreamt about sitting in the warmth that she realised how wrong this task was for her. She never daydreamed in the middle of an operation. She never allowed herself to be caught off guard. In a location she didn't know, she was already making mistakes and it had barely even started. Doubt crept up on her and she halted, trying to get her mind back on track. 

 

This was going to be an interesting mission indeed.

[Coatleque]

The prisoner backed away to the far wall of her cell, clutching her chamber pot as the only weapon available as the Sultansworn and the Brass Blade Captain squared off in the hallway beyond the bars. His look was one of rage at being denied his own wishes. Her's a look of bitter annoyance at yet one more crook trying to circumvent her authority.

 

Stepping up close to her and with a lowered voice he hissed, "You should be nicer to me. We have the same friends, you and I."

 

Her voice lowered to the same level yet carried a hint of smugness. "Do we? I heard differently."

She cleared her throat, speaking so all present could hear again. "Have a pleasant trip, Captain Anduron."

 

He blinked in surprise at her comment before his expression turned hateful. Their shoulders connected violently as he shoved his way past her before turning with a pause. "He does not precisely speak in glowing terms of you either, in certain fashions. I suppose practice does not make perfect." With that, Anden Anduron strode away, hands clenched.

 

She stared at him with mouth agape in disbelief for a moment before she was able to compose herself again.

"Good DAY Sir!"

[Melodia]

The deckhand, a weary-looking male Miqo'te, finished unloading the cargo from the ship and and with tired hands looked to the tall Hyur, an older man with gray hair, who stood looking out over the ocean he'd just escaped from.

 

"Sir...all of it's been taken off. Yer settled." The voice of the deckhand was trembling and more than a bit weary.

 

With a glance back over his shoulder and a warm smile touching his lips, the Hyur replied, "Settled you say? As in 'Everything is in its proper place, sir' settled? All I see is a pile of boxes sitting on a dock. Thaeus, go and fetch me your deck chief." His voice was pleasing to the ears, but deep in tone.

 

As the deckhand scrambled off to the get the deck chief from the vessel, the man continued looking back at the boxes before scanning the city-scape before him of Limsa Lominsa with a smirk. He kept his hands clasped behind his back and heard in the distance a set of footsteps, heavy stomps heading from the vessel to the dock.

 

"Aye, sir, boy says ye needed me?" The chill night air made his gruff voice seem to echo across the surface of the water. The Hyur grinned and let his arms hang free before gesturing at the cityscape. "What do you see here, Kai? Tell me what you see?"

 

The deck chief looked and shrugged. "Dunno, sir....a city? Look, it's late and -"

 

"Hush...." The index finger to the Hyur's lips, still grinning as he put his arm around the deck chief's shoulders in a friendly gesture. "It's not just a city, Kai...that's the answer I would expect from someone that lacks vision to say. No....that my friend, is opportunity. Especially for a group of spirited people with ambition." He turned and the grin left, replaced by a disappointed frown, as he faced Kai.

 

"Merely a 'city', Kai? I'm disappointed." The sound was soft and yet seemed loud in the quiet late night air. *Shhuckk* The knife sank easily into the deck chief's chest as the Hyur continued to stare disappointedly before a tiny smile touched the corners of his lips and then he nodded softly.

 

"Yes...your man failed to understand that words have meaning...and that is a failure of your leadership." His next words were a whisper, close to the deck chief's ear. "Means you lack vision. Not the sort I want here with me." As the deck chief grunted and finally collapsed off of the knife to the dock, lifeless, the Hyur looked about and saw no one about before casually kicking the corpse into the water, clasping his hands behind his back again and walking toward the ship, whistling a happy tune.

 

Limsa, he thought, would be a good place to settle indeed.

[Delilah Scythewood]

Lili's hold on the rock face nearly crumbled, the blonde shirking against the red and brown stone so as to have some place further she could grasp a hold of. After a moment, the unsteady quiver of the small divet stilled and she felt comfortable placing weight on it again to hoist herself up once more.

 

It had been a full day of nothing but scaling the rocky hill and mountain sides beneath the scorching Thanalan sun. Even with it being later in the season, the heat did not diminish and the blonde had resorted to using her spare shirt as a turban of sorts to protect herself from the scorching sunlight. With a grunt and wheeze, she rose up onto the plateau she had been scaling and sprawled out in a grateful heap. The rocks were too warm to rest against for long, but her arms shook too much. She needed rest.

 

Through the strands of her hair, the woman noticed a nearby scorpion. It was a rich red color, possibly poisonous, and stared at her with its claws held as high as its little body would allow. Lili didn't blink or move as she watched it, and the simple act of staring distracted her from her thoughts and where she was.

 

In the middle of the Thanalans. Lost. Caked in dust and sweat and enough body odor to suit a grown Highlander male in his prime. All with only one purpose in mind and one objective.

 

She had to find him.

 

Seeing that the scorpion didn't seem interested in actually getting close to her, Lili rose up onto her hands and knees before gathering the strength to get to her feet and continue walking. The little scorpion waited a few steps before skittering behind her.

[DrPoxo]

A large roegadyn woman with a pale green complexion hung acrisp parchment on the bulletin board of Ul’dah. The lettering is printed clearly and precise.

 

[align=center]Seeking Cadavers forResearch Purposes[/align]

[align=center]Payment based onQuality and Freshness[/align]

[align=center]No Questions Asked[/align]

[align=center]Deliver to Warehouse#54 A in Ul’dah[/align]

[Kage]

He had finally made his way to it. Her resting place. After his conversation with Salem... he needed to do this. He'd been holed up for so long... hiding and not grieving properly. It hurt; it hurt so much still to not see her. She wasn't around Ul'dah. She wasn't around -anywhere-. Not anymore. Not since then... Not since he'd fought in the Grindstone while she went off without him. Without telling him.

 

A wedding... a bonding... He bit his lower lip as his fingers touched a warm piece of smooth steel in his pocket. The ring of steel. He'd made that... Twelve, Kage had made it moons ago. When it wasn't just a dream being with her. It had been a reality. He wanted to show the whole of Eorzea how much she meant to him. His fist closed around the ring as he brought to his chest and his feet buckled beneath him. He wept, bowing his head. He wept, letting every feeling he had flow.

 

Kage slowly rose to his feet, wiping his face a little with his free hand. He steeled himself and whispered, "They're right. You're in a better place now. You're free. I hope when it comes to it... you'll let me be free by your side."

 

He slowly made his way to his new home, his shoulders just a bit lighter than when he made his way to the place.

[Steel Wolf]

It had been a restless night for Steel Wolf, despite her being in her usual room at the Drowning Wench. Still, her mind was racing before she laid her head down, which had not been conducive to a good night's sleep.

 

The sounds coming from outside her door were not helping the matter, either.

 

It had started innocently enough, though bafflingly. A long, slow creaking noise. Then a long pause. Then another, this time shorter and sharper. She thought afterward she had heard some giggling. Then another pause. Another croak, first low and deep, then rising in tone as if wood were being bent sharply. This had been met with unmistakable giggling.

 

It was about ten minutes of this before Steel finally had enough and had to investigate.

 

She hurriedly threw on a long overshirt to cover herself and slowly opened her door, peering through to spy what was going on. Just a bit up the hall, outside her door, were two Hyur and a Lalafell, all gathered around themselves in a small circle, muttering to each other.

 

"Right then...yer turn." ,spoke the blond-haired Hyur.

"Gimme a damned minute, I'm still workin' on up!" ,replied the black-haired Hyur.

"Oi oi! I got one I got one!" ,interjected the Lalafell, hopping a couple of times in apparent excitement. The two Hyur hushed as the Lalafell bent himself double, eyes wrenching shut in apparent concentration. Then, a long, loud flatulent blast came out of him, ripping across the air. The threesome dissolved in to mad laughter, both Hyur patting the Lalafell on the back in congratulations.

 

Steel's teeth gritted as she swung the door wide, the wood of the portal slamming noisily against the wall of her room as she stormed forth. "Oi! What in th'seven bloody hells are you doi--?!"

 

It was then that the horrid stench greeted Steel's nose. It was like a burning peat bog and a congregation of Morbols had conspired together to make the air unbreathable. Steel gagged visibly, stumbling back as the malodor offended her backwards. This was met by even more howling laughter from the trio.

 

Steel glared furiously at them as the blond-hair stepped forward. "Beggin' yer pardon, miss! Just 'avin a bit of sport after a solid night's drink, ey? Surely yer not goin' to stand in th'way of a contest?"

 

"Oh, aye. And here's yer prize."

 

Steel swung at the blond-hair, clapping a huge fist across the man's face. He fell like a bag of wet sod, thudding on to the ground. The other two stood, dumbstruck, giving Steel the opportunity to close distance. She landed an uppercut on the second Hyur, the momentum of her charge carrying forth in her swing. The black-hair was sent flying, landing noisily on the hall floor. He staggered to a scrabbling run, hands and feet blurring as he fought through the fog of her strike to get away. The Lalafell, meanwhile, had already made a headstart, running up the hall in terror before he could be punted out of the window.

 

Steel closed her eyes and growled, shaking her head at the sight. She turned and walked past the sprawled out form of the blond-hair, who groaned as she walked by.

 

"...I...can see up yer shirt..." ,he spluttered.

 

Further observations were silenced by a sharp strike with Steel's foot across the man's jaw.

[MikoBehnen]

Two weeks until the Stairlight Ball and Miko didn’t even understand why she was going. She remembered being drunk and telling a friend she’d go with him so he wouldn’t be… attacked? Miko frowned, that didn’t make sense. Who would attack him at a party? That would be rude. But she did remember saying she’d go, and if there was one thing Miko was good at it was keeping her promises.

The shopkeeper had been babbling on about lines of some sort for a while now and the way he was talking made it seem as if she were meant to have some sort of response when he was done.

“I don’t really like lines,” Miko interrupted his babble, “I get quite bored in them. Is there anyway I could get a dress without a line?”

The man stopped, silenced in his confusion and slowly walked her over to a selection of giant tent like things made of fabric. He selected one and with a curious look in his eye, handed it to the now nervous Miqo’te. Miko had seen dresses before of course. The Elezan that had raised her sometimes wore these sleek, elegant gowns of silk and lace. She had loved how the dresses hugged the older women’s curves, and the fabric glittered like the moon, but that had been before the Calamity when things like silk were available in greater supply. This dress had ruffles and bows and a lot more fabric than she had been expecting. Miko held it up by the sleeves and looked at the shop keeper with a hint of fear. It looked so feminine! She was going to look ridiculous in this thing, and she’d never be able to dodge a punch or dagger thrust wearing this much fabric. The merchant smiled reassuringly and gestured to a small room where Miko could try the gown on.

 

A few moments later Miko walked out of the room with a frown on her face and the bow tied awkwardly around her head. “I don’t… I don’t think I did this right.” she blushed.

A bell like laugh drifted over from the other side of the shop followed by an accented voice and a tall sunkissed Miqo’te with a kind grin.

“Uwah... Yangh no think is correct dress...”

 

(Let me know if you want me to move this to a thread so we can play

)

 

[Berrod Armstrong]

The air was bitter with the smell of smoke and blood. All around the small gathering of individuals laid the wreckage of a campsite -- some of it burned, some of it torn down, but most of it being actively salvaged by the victors of the battle that had raged not a bell ago. Men and woman alike picked through the covers, crocus and supplies. Water and meat were regarded as precious. Tarpaulins, blankets and clothing even more so. 

 

In the midst of it all knelt a young boy. He could not have been more than fourteen years of age, probably thirteen, given the deceptive development of his strong build. Ropes bound his hands tightly behind his back, mercilessly cutting to wrists stained with blood mostly not his own. All he wore was a pair of ragged pants and the blood of many of those he had felled. The lad was a Highlander through and through, with shaved brows, a strong nose-bridge and intense eyes that stared up with unfiltered hatred. 

 

The subject of his loathing stood before him, looking down with an infuriating calm. The other Highlander dwarfed him in comparison; mightily tall with thick muscles wreathed about his tanned and  broad frame. A wild, battle-harassed mane of red hair fell from his shoulders, and green eyes regarded the captive with cold scrutiny. Behind him, a hardened looking midlander woman restrained a sobbing highlander lady. She blubbered and pleaded for the life of her son.

 

"Do you know who I am?" The red-haired Highlander asked of the boy. 

 

By the way the lad spat at the other's feet, yes, he did. There was no reaction on the part of the captor, and he continued. "Do you know how many of my men you killed?"

 

"Nine," The boy answered with pride. "I cut down nine of your bastards." His golden brown eyes blazed with the fire of hatred.

 

"Nine," The captor repeated, "You are a warrior indeed. Very rarely does one your age accomplish such a thing. You remind me of myself."

 

The words seemed like the gravest insult to the young man, who lunged forward impotently with a snarl. "I am nothing like you."

 

"Hm. You're strong. You've murdered mine, which brings the penalty of death. Yet, your mother begs for you, for  you are her only child." He jerked his head back to the pleading woman -- her own captor had no need to hold her anymore; she had prostrated herself behind the man, uttering her most desperate plea. 

 

He saw that it bothered the boy in the way his lips pressed thin. Battle drenched as he was, the bond between mother and son was ever a weakness to be exploited. The red haired Highlander knew this all too well. He took a deep breath and exhaled, putting on a show of contemplation. "I would like to spare you. But you must join me, and fight for me. Your worth is those nine lives. Spend them in my name."

 

Behind him, the boy's mother erupted into a new spurt of pleading. "Yes! Please. Please, he will serve you and fight for him, so long as he has his life. Please, Redhammer! Spare him!" While she was ignored by the Highlander called Redhammer, her own sun flashed her a grimace of deepest loathing. The glare did not last long; after a moment he seemed unable to bear the sight of her. Instead, he turned his burning eyes to his captor.

 

"I won't serve you. I'll kill you, just like I killed your men."

 

Redhammer looked down at him in placid silence, devoid of all emotion, yet rife with scrutiny. "Are you sure?"

 

Another wad of spittle fired at his feet. "Gods take you and swive you bloody, you bas--"

 

He wasn't allowed to finish his final curse; Redhammer's hand swept out in a blurring arc. The scimitar clutched in it severed the poor lad's head from the top lip go up, spattering an untidy trail of gore as the top of his head rolled in the sand. He had done it so quickly that it took a few moments for the boy's mother to realize what had happened.

 

And when she did, her wails into the smoke-thickened air did not cease.

 

As the young man's body crumpled into the floor, his mother's captor treated Redhammer to a disapproving scowl. "We don't kill children, I thought." She was barely audible over the anguished ululations of loss.

 

"He was a man," Redhammer said, "And given the chance to live, he would have been the end of us all. Take her away. She'll learn to live from her loss, or die from it. We have work to do."

[Gegenji]

If one would travel down to Moraby Drydocks this evening, one might find themselves witness to a sight quite fanciful. Nestled up to one of its much-less-dry docks was a Clipper of a most unusual design, its deck and masts and every other conceivable surface above the waterline was decorated in lights and streamers and all manner of festive ornamentation. Even from the brick and mortar, those that cast a glance its way was rewarded with a wondrous sight of balloons and fireworks.

 

This was the Stage Left, the ship of an up-and-coming traveling troupe of acrobats and fools. A step aboard its deck was a step into a fanciful world full of tricks and treats, brought (nearly) free of charge by a delightful crew of face-painted performers. Mostly Lalafell and Miqo'te, with the occasional Highlander or Roegadyn showing off feats of superhuman strength. All there to lift your spirits for a reasonable handful of gil from your obviously deep coffers in return. This evening was no different, slowly drawing in a crowd of curious common-folk with their lights, colors, and music.

 

Watching the gathering numbers from the sizable stern-side window of his personal quarters was the Captain and Ringmaster of the troupe who were tentatively referring to themselves as the "Ocean Opo-Opos" - one Hohoyoho Nonoyoho. He, like all those under him, wore a mask of face paint that made him seem quite friendly and approachable, which was certainly no lie. Its assortment of colors would've clashed with his normal ship captain's attire if it wasn't also just as flamboyant and colorful. All to appear appealing to the audiences he so loved.

 

His favorite performance these past suns, however, was something a bit more special. The stage was a yawning bridge connecting the two halves of Lower La Noscea. The audience was a group of Ul'dahn visitors transporting quite the most interesting cargo. Even constraint to just two of his helpful assistants, Hohoyoho had managed to amaze and befuddle, attract and distract, like he ever so much loved to do. The payment he had gotten for the job was just icing on the cake, though he had to admit that it was a tasty icing indeed. After all, all these shows - and his love of the latest advances in showmanship - couldn't run solely on the paltry coin that ticket prices brought in.

 

Well, they probably could, but Hohoyoho was more than happy to avoid seeking a more mature, fiscally responsible solution. As long as his clientele agreed to his terms - such as minimal harm to his "target audience" so that they might enjoy the show he and his put on for them - then the Lalalfell was more than happy to participate in dealings that seemed much more at home in the shadowed alleyways of his hometown of Ul'dah. Oh, and what a dealing - what a performance - it had been!

 

The Lalafell smiled his trademark Cheshire grin as he thought about it, slipping his over-exaggerated twirly mustache onto his face and affixed his monocle to its rightful home where - not many suns at all ago - an eye-patch had alighted itself. Tonight's performances, though of a more mundane nature, also required his full attention to ensure the entertainment of the populace. And, who knows, maybe there would be a calling again by those needing the skills of the Distractin' Captain and his Jolly Rogers.

 

After all, who'd ever expect the pirate to be a clown?

 

I may have gotten attached to an NPC I made to help someone out in an event. :blush:

 

Have some (in)appropriate music:

 

7KLE8ddzV_o

 

[Oscare]

"Ugh."

 

 

"Emotions."

 

 

The dark toned highlander aggressively exhales, shooting at a vase in his room that shatters into probably quite a couple of hundreds of pieces. "Who fuckin' needs them?" He holsters his pistol again, looking at the mess he made. "Weaklings, that's who. I have no need for 'friends' or feelings. I've signed them away -- why do they KEEP FUCKING COMING BACK?!" Oscare slams his foot on the ground, the pure force put into his plus his irritated mood causes the whole room to tremor just an ilm[inch]. 

 

"They shouldn't be coming back. I've signed them away, disposed of them like the waste of space and time they are. I've let myself soften upon these people -- I need to remember my goal. Keep your eyes focused and your shots steady. Channel the anger and the joy alike into nothing but energy, yeah? I need to steel myself again. I can't succumb to what my life is meant to be."

 

A silence followed.

 

"I've got to. I will never fulfill to what I've been destined to do. My love Reina -- I will seek your vengeance and take blame of all those you want dead. Your last dying wish will succeed. I will kill them all."

 

 

"All of them."