The Hydlaa Market is an attempt at two things, primarily.

1.   Create a consistent place where merchants will be known to ICly dwell on a regular bases, so people can sell the items they craft.
2.   Make a place where merchants who only “Role Play” their trades (jewelers, tailors, peddlers of odds and ends) can sell their products to players for the purposes of extending role play.

The booths in East Hydlaa are going to be where this is set up. In essence, I intend to just start settling my characters there on Saturdays around 18:00 GMT. I have three that can sit around selling things (Evirea as a bookseller, Selicree as a tailor, and Teeleh as a jeweler.)

On top of using the peddling of products to create role play, I’m hoping to have a stage put up so that, when there’s a crowd, entertainers can come and try to make money off of their performances. Religious leaders can come profess the doctrines of their faith. Guilds can use it as a launching pad for their promotion. So on and so forth.

There aren’t too many players on Planeshift, and I think it would be really helpful to have something that happens consistently (on a weekend basis or every-other-weekend) that could stir up character interactions.

If you have a character who is a merchant, consider stopping by on Saturdays and setting up shop. I will be making promotional flyers in the game. If enough people demonstrate interest, we’ll set up a meeting to collaborate on how to make these events more organized, and even plan events around the Hydlaa Market in the future.

A rather tall klyros woman approaches the billboard. She stands with her back straight and with an aura of confidence, bedecked in expensive looking finery. After a pause, she nails a notice to the board, before walking off:



Upon seeing quite a few folks in game requesting tailors and on the forums doing the same, I figured it might be fun to dink around with it. When you order an outfit from Selicree, she will give you a book describing its looks and colors. But she'll also give you a simple drawing of what the outfit looks like, as though a modern tailor were sketching it on a base. It will be posted to this thread under the title of whoever ordered the ensemble. Here's a quick five-minute sketch of a male and female example:



Since outfits aren't supported mechanically, I figured this'd be a fun alternative for people to use until perhaps they are. I'll be using the same male/female base to conserve time, but if enough interest is shown I might vary up the bases for ynnwn, kran, klyran, dwarf, et cetera. Depends on what folks might want.

Most will be in greyscale unless color/further detailing is specifically requested.

Selicree won't charge much, but she'll expect payment (I don't know, five circles or something, whatever makes sense for the world economy) upon delivery. You can give her actual in game currency or just role play that you gave it to her.

Waning: Character thoughts of suicide.

People like to posture that they understand what it means to be alone. They like to lament it with poetry chalk full of angst and metaphorical jargon about being an island. Most times it's something about not having a significant other. Or not enough friends. Or maybe even traveling the road, and not seeing people for a few weeks at a time. They think they understand what lonely means, its definition, its application. They think they know what it's like to truly stand by yourself and have the disgustingly soul crushing epiphany that there is no one else out there, and that no matter how loud you scream, and scream, and scream, nobody is going to hear you, because there is no one to hear.

People don't know anything.

I know what alone is. Alone is madness. It's a creeping madness that gets in your blood. And you're alright at first, sure, you're just fine. Peachy even. A few months go by and you figure out how to survive in this new unforgiving terrain you're on and it's just grand. You can get food, and water. You can build yourself shelter from tropical torrential rains. I learned, though it took me a good while to get a system going. And while you're learning to survive, that's the easy part, that's alright. Because you have something to set your mind and your hands and your feet to, and it's okay.

It's what comes after that. The loneliness. It starts early, but it's just a niggling at first. You think now and then that you miss your friends a little. Then you miss them a lot. You're plagued by dreams of loved ones that you once had. For me it was my husband, my bright-eyed husband with all of his ambitions. You don't really realize how much you love someone until you're forced to live without them, until they're ripped right out of your fingers, or rather, you're ripped right out of theirs. You start pretending that you're talking to them when a year's up, and you allow yourself this leniency; it's okay, you say to yourself. You just need to fill in the silence, but everything is going to be alright, you'll make it through this.

Sucker. Stop lying to yourself.

You start answering back for them. You talk for them. You pick a tree or a bush and it becomes them, and you have conversations with it. It's just banter at first, just chatter. You don't realize that you've changed your voice to sound like theirs when they're answering you. But that's alright too, who cares that you're doing that? It's just talking about the weather, usually, or about the strange furry creature you managed to snare and eat for dinner. It's no big deal, just another way to pass the time when you've survived another day,  you've earned yourself a little conversation.

And then suddenly you're throwing yourself at the tree that you were talking to, sobbing at it, beating it with bloodied knuckles, begging that it tell you why it let you get near that portal, why it didn't stop you, why it didn't tell you to stay back despite your own stupidity...

You're dying, you'll die here alone and it's all your own bloody fault.

It takes two years. At least it did for me. That was when the other thoughts set in. When you're walking near the edge of a cliff and you look down at those foamy, too-green waves of water, and you think, just one jump. That's all it takes. There's no dark god to yank your soul here, no Realm. All it takes is just a jump, and then you'll be flying, and you'll hardly feel the rocks exploding through your useless hunk of meat when you hit the bottom. And you can finally forget about how the loneliness is crushing you, following you, grinning down like a contented beast and licking its jaw as it feeds off of your growing mania.

But you're stubborn. Oh yes, you're stubborn. Always have been. Confident, powerful, resolved. Every day you walk by the cliff and you just keep walking. You laugh in the face of your own dementia and depression and you just keep going because no, no you won't let it win. You're stronger than that, and some day he'll pull you back again. You tell yourself he's going to pull you back again, he loves you. Days tick by and you keep telling yourself that over and over and over again, and it helps you fight. In the beginning, it helps you fight. Tick, tick, tick, days go by, you've shaved off the trunk of a tree, chipped off the lime of a rock, kept track. But then one day you wake up and you don't see why  you should make another mark. They glare at you mockingly, they glow out of wood and rock and they whisper to you.

He's not going to come for you. Nobody's going to come for you.

“Shut up. He loves me, he'll pull me back. He will.”

If that's true, why are you still here? How long's it been? Poor Eleese. Poor Eleese. You're alone.

“I won't be here forever. Any day now, he'll bring me back. He'll take me home.”

He's forgotten about you. Everyone has. Your friends, your family. They think you're dead. And you are dead, aren't you Eleese? Poor Eleese. You're already dead, and you just don't know it yet, you don't know it yet...

You wipe the tally's away. You tear them off the trunk, you smear the stones with mud and dirt and dung. You run and it chases, your solace is now your torment. He's given up, of course he has. You can't search for four years, you can't. How could anyone even expect you to have still been alive? He's mourned you and he's recovered, and so have the rest. They laid your coffin bodiless down, they put a marker in the ground, and you're alone now, you're just walking dead. A ghost, a wraith, you don't really exist and it's all over now, and you're running, and you're dying.

And you fall. Through the floor you fall, vines snapping and catching on your flailing limbs and roots tugging on your hair. You dangle there, in the air, suspended, a fish caught and laid out to be eaten. The room is aglow with light, a room carved by hands. Someone built this, you realize, they built it and that means someone was here, someone that wasn't you. Oh, it's so beautiful. You want to reach out, to touch it, your grubby, bloody fingers grope for it like an animal clawing its way towards the sun. You can only imagine what you look like, Feral, is there even anything sentient left about you? There is spittle leaking from your mouth, your teeth are stained, your nails are long, your hair is a ragged mess. You twist and squirm, and fall to the floor in a heap of dirty flesh and aching muscle. You crawl, you drag yourself over the cracked stone floor towards one of those lights, you heave yourself up the wall and try to press yourself against the glass, to see what's inside.

A face. There is a face. Your heart lodges in your throat. Tears sting your eyes. You run your fingers down the glass; you want to touch it, to feel the skin beneath your fingers. You want to cup it in your hands. It doesn't matter who it is, you must have it. Desperation seizes you. You find a stone and you begin smashing at it, at the glass separating you, you peel it back and you don't notice the blood running down your fingers from the sharp edges. You pull and pull and pull, and a door opens, hinges creak. Strange runes glitter to life on its surface, awakening. Liquid pours out, steaming, curls of it rising from the ground. And there he is, lying there, glowing, colorless and strange. You rush towards it, grope for it, but you cannot touch it, your hands go right through. You become more desperate, it begins to dissolve before your eyes, you're crying again, begging, just wanting to touch it, to touch...

Eleese.

You're not alone anymore. You can feel it in your head. There is a presence, your hands are glowing, your eyes. It's consuming you. You're not afraid, if it kills you it doesn't matter. Death would be preferable, because you cannot go back to the all encompassing alone when you feel them there, in your head, smoothing intangible fingers over your broken mind. You feel their pity, pity grows to compassion. They are gentle and kind and benevolent. The light is on your hands now, up your arms, behind your eyes, inside of you. It's so warm, so very warm. You cry from the feel of it, the relief of it, being plucked out of the ice and laid before a roaring fire. It's repairing...me. It's fixing...me.

It's...it's...

Aldurne. My name is Aldurne, and I'm here now, Eleese Batrachian. You're alone no longer.

The day is warm. The crystal is shining, and the elf is leading a child by the hand, walking through fields of green. He helps her through rough patches. He lifts her and swings her over broken tree limbs, smiling as she giggles at the weightlessness. He plays the monster, growling comically and chasing her around as she squeals and laughs and dodges his attempts to grab her. He catches her and tosses her about gently, rocking her left and right within the protective circle of his arms, and then falls down in the grass, breathless with mirth.

He is disgusted, watching the display. He, hidden for now, behind tree bough and mask alike. That beautiful, smooth mask, made to render him in the image of that wonderful deity which he follows. That powerful hand guides him now, ever omniscient, towards this goal. So much proof he'd collected on this legend. A monstrosity, an outrage. His time has come, and it as time to face the music of the fate he'd constructed for himself.

The movement is swift. Out of the bushes his followers trickle, one, three, six in all. A seventh is there, but hidden from view. A necessity. This is a tricky one they must destroy. Already he is turning towards them, has noticed them. His eyes, green, bright, and keen, make a note of their positions, weaponry, bracers. Behind his mask, the priest smiled. Vindication was now close at hand. Justice lingered deliciously within his grasping fingers, and the pleasure of his god would surely be gained by this victory...

The flash of bright light disoriented him. Screams and cries of shock echoed about, and the clash of swords added to the hysteria. Blinded, he sees nothing but shadows as the beast rips through one of his men, their head coming unglued from their shoulders, their body falling to the ground. He is a whirl of steel, this elf. The sword flashes with the expertise of someone accustomed to battle. More than accustomed; one who holds a mastery.

By the time the light fades, three of his red-garbed companions have vanished to the Realm. The child that was with him is gone without a trace, lost in the confusion, fled. A terrible loss. The likelihood of her being an abomination in need of destruction is high, and to put off her annihilation an affront to cherished order.

The fourth falls. He must intervene. Forward he strides, while the man is in mid-swing, his steel singing in the air. A strike is made. With utter contempt, he realizes that with the fingers he severed, a ring has fallen. A band of matrimony. This perverted being had so garbed himself in innocence as to trick an unwitting fool into making love to him. Further, into undeserved devotion.

The loss hardly fazes the beast. Into the other hand he shifts his sword, grip just as sure as the other, demonstrating practiced ambidexterity. Blood gushes from the throat of another of his cloaked fighters, a brother of his fold, the cherished and respected holder of peace against the sway of the wicked. Has the archer he stationed been blinded by the blast? Too much to fire the killing blow? There is little time to think of it. He is the last now, facing this inhuman entity.

Blood drips from the end of his sword. A pale face looks back at him, a pair of infuriated eyes, framed in dark hair loosened from its clasp. Only anger is there, in pools as deep as the night sky. The man's chest heaves, and his lip curls into a feral snarl.

“You will soon realize your mistake,” he speaks. It is not grating. It is not low. It is cold, measured, and easy. The glint in those icy eyes speaks of murder. Forward he moves; the first strike feels like a shattering blow and radiates down his arm into his shoulder. He hammers at him, and he retreats, foot over foot, back and back and back again. The sword is ripped from his fingers, and before him looms the prey-turned-predator, sword drawn back as he falls to the ground, looking up towards the length of impending steel...

Through his brow the arrow comes, the bolt, as though moving through so much clay. Fired from a crossbow unseen, silently, from a vantage not taken to note. There is no time to react. Death is immediate and beautiful, and he watches as those bright eyes glaze with it. The blade falls, as does the man, like a great and terrible monument finally crashing down and brought to its knees. The grasp of Dakkru is nearly tangible; with glee she claims him, greedily, dragging him down into her crushing embrace.

Rising to his feet, the priest watches the vanishing corpse. Only when it is gone does he walk across the blood-strewn ground. Blood spilled in the name of undying Order, the only thing worthy of immortality beyond the gods.

It is a victory for all.

[What I totally listened to while writing it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SXpnI52cLEc]

I have dealt with many very complex cases in my time. When the local authority is about as brilliant as a dithering Dosor snorting up clacker leaves, it's not difficult to find a place where the law simply can't lay it down, as it were. Oh, I've made my way up the proverbial ladder of evidences to find many a fascinating lunatic at the top. I once had a conversation with a fellow while tied to a chair, listening to him introduce the various personalities supposedly sitting around the dinner table. It would have been more endearing if they hadn't all been representations of the people he'd ritualistically murdered. Needless to say it was an entertaining evening.

Nevertheless, I digress. Despite my rather lengthy and, some might say, questionable career of rounding up random ne'er do wells, I was not precisely prepared for the case that wandered in and plopped itself into my lap one unfortunate evening. There are certain truths that investigators like myself can typically rely on. Most criminals have a particular method to their madness. They follow specific patterns and threads, many of them revolving around some type of religious zealotry. Or if they're not totally insane, they have set goals like any common person, they just tend not to care who they trample to get to them. The point is the case is tractable, traceable, and if you work hard enough at it everyone makes those little mistakes that you can find and figure out. Within the parameters of certain magics, sometimes you get thrown a few curve fireballs, but in the end it all tends to work out.

Sadly this wasn't so in this particular situation. It would appear that this project wasn't going to follow the typical guidelines, the typical stereotypes, the typical criminal mindset. Or, you know, the laws of physics. It wasn't going to follow the laws of physics either. Which is horrifically frustrating to someone like me, who tends to operate best in such situations in which there are at least the loose definitions of our world's “reality.”

Oftentimes I have actually wondered to myself if I have not jumped off the edge of my own sanity. I tell you it would have been a long time in coming. Frankly I'm not entirely sure how my psyche has managed to handle as much as it has. If it has. Certainly not without cracks. Perhaps it's simply held together with badly watered down mortar and that sticky resin that pine trees generate. It might be in small pieces by the time I'm finished here, but at least I shall be able to say I finally got to face a challenge that really engaged what's left of my mind.

It would involve things like an endless void inside of a large conical hat, setting atop the head of a bard who was either a complete buffoon or too brilliant for me to understand. A man far too large for his or anyone else's good that could break through walls at will, and another whose own history remains shrouded in mystery even to my prying eyes, though I think I know who might hold that knowledge even if I'm too cowardly to ask. And of course the one with that blasted rapier. Good gods I hate that one. What I wouldn't give to get the chance to bugger him with his own over-glorified pointy stick.

Where was I? I fear the rambling is becoming a poor indication of where this series of events has left me. Oh yes, right, that was how it started. With the elf and his goofy grin, silly accent, and voluminous travel cloak. I'm still not sure what that instrument of his is supposed to be. Looking back I probably should have fled for the hills at first contact, but I mean, who would be afraid of a greeting like...

“Evenin' scalemarm.”

Gah, manners. Some people like them, I find their disarming quality most unfortunate. But that's beside the point. I should really begin this tale before I leave you drooling over the pages. I know the average attention span is minimal at best, and mine is worse. Let's see.

It all began with a song...

[There was an entire RP which I might sort through and post which essentially led up to Mariana being drugged to sleep. I figured I'd post what she dreamed here. This is part of a developing RP that somebody (I'm not telliiiiing) is running. A specific thread should be up soon.]

She knew she was dreaming. A dream that was a memory, and vivid as life itself, but still a dream. She knew because she'd dreamed it already, many times before, and because the phantasmal ghosts of nightmares were no strangers to her sleeping world. Sadly, just as many dreams before this one, the artificiality of her circumstances only served to make them more frightening. More surreal. Here, stuck in her own mind, she relived every excruciating detail of her most recent death, compounded with horrific visions that not even her own personal reality could contend with.

Blood was everywhere. Blood on her paw and feet, which were splayed out in every which direction. Her severed arm landed somewhere with a decidedly wet smack against the pavement, and she was vaguely aware of the sounds of fighting below her. The bleak gray wall was above her head, and the little juncture between stony gate and cobblestones was being steadily infected with the vibrant red color.

Blood. Her blood. She could feel it pouring eagerly out of the gaping hole in the side of her torso, out of those cruelly severed arteries and veins. There was pain, of course, an unbelievable pain, but it was dulled by the rapid loss of her life's blood. She could feel it seeping from her with every pulse of her heart, and she willed the beating to slow, despite her rising terror. It didn't of course. The traitorous organ just kept pumping, and she just kept dying, only here it was much slower than she actually remembered the act had been. The blood was traveling its way up the wall now, defying the meager forces of gravity, highlighting craggy cracks and fissures within the old city masonry. It was forming a gory, macabre image, letting it float above her head where she could see it plainly even as her other senses faded into the cold embrace of death. An eye, an eye wide open and weeping scarlet. It stared at her, through her, and if there had been a face present with lips to twist in a mournful way, Mariana was certain that they would have done just that. Or perhaps they would have been opened in a cry of rage. Certainly anger was present in the air around her, thick and tangible, and the strangest notion washed over her that if she were only to stick out her tongue, she would taste the bitterness of it.

The eye blinked, and the tear snaked closer towards her, bubbling and foaming as it was extricated from its place on the wall. She could not move, and she became aware of pinpricks of pain in her arm and legs, as though someone had nailed them down in multiple places to hold her immobile. The pain was what terrified her; dreams were not supposed to make one hurt. But these ones did. They made her burn all over; her body was filled with a steady, roasting fire, and some innate sense told her there was something unnatural about that fact. She should be concerned about it.

But what she was concerned about now was that giant trickle of blood. It filled her vision. It hovered just over the edge of an awkwardly jutting bit of stone, and Mariana wanted to thrash her neck back and forth. She could see her own reflection in the iridescent surface, she was aware of the fear in her wide and desperate eyes. It was waiting, mocking her pain. She could do nothing about it, and like a vengeful entity it was taking a moment's pause to revel in her sheer and debilitating apprehension. Then, after it had had its fill, it jumped merrily from its perch and splashed into her eyes.

If her limbs had ached before, it had been nothing compared to the sensation that followed. Someone must have heated sharpened daggers and then driven them aggressively into her skull. The pressure and the heat might have made the rational part of her mind wonder why her head wasn't entirely shattered, but the agony shredded any notion of logical thought. She heard herself scream. The sound was almost alien in its quality. It was dragged out of her soul on the point of a metal hook.

She felt herself falling, totally blind, into a pit of blackness. The weightlessness made her stomach flop around and around, and the urge to vomit was strong. She had nearly lost the battle when she landed, the bones in her body jarring upon impact. She'd broken bones before, and knew that her spine should have snapped with the force of the falling, but it did not. Instead the pain reverberated up and down her vertebrae and crested over her head, a splitting sensation that made the darkness shine with unbearable light. Another scream ripped out of her throat, and she covered her face with her paw, curling into a fetal position on the ground and waiting for it all to end. Surely it would. She could not survive long after losing that much blood, and even the depths of the Realm were preferable to this.

Sadly, she was again denied the solace of death.

The light that was filtering through the gaps in her fingers was subsiding, and the tell-tale crackle of fire filled the empty space. She removed her paw from her face, and a gasp flew out past her lips. Scuttling frantically backwards on her haunches, she tried to climb to her feet, but the muscles gave out under the strain and she found herself unable to get more than a few paces away from the tree that stood burning before her. The flames licked angrily at the air, illuminating the ravaged pieces of rubble that lay entwined amidst the its roots. Some of the pieces reflected the furious orange color, so it seemed that the ground too had caught aflame. Mariana began to drag herself backwards again on instinct, and one of the shards pierced up into her palm, sending a shock to her system. She had to dig out the broken bit of glass with her teeth and spit it to the side.

It glinted a brilliant purple before it was utterly lost in the darkness.

By force of will alone she scrambled to her feet. She clutched at her armless shoulder, wavering, trying to get some sense of her bearings. The world around her gave a disorienting whirl, and the tree, with its broken bits of statuary, vanished into the distance like a forgotten memory.

She was left in nothing but darkness, and the assumption that she was alone in that darkness was a blessed and short lived delusion. A new sort of hissing crept into the silence around her, followed by a strange scuffling sound, like feet being continually dragged upon the floor and never lifted, or a body being drug to its grave. Her ears rotated as she shifted on her feet, and she squinted, but her vision could not pierce the darkness. She tried to summon a spark to see by, but the magic that she usually felt hovering in the air and ready for use was not there. Her paw grappled at her side for one of her sabers, but they too were gone, leaving her even without the comfort of cold steel against her fingers.

The hissing was growing louder. It was cacophonous now, it was deafening. She pressed her paw to one ear. It hardly helped, since she had nothing to shelter the other from the noise. Just when she was about to consider slitting her throat with her own claws, movement caught her eye. The slightest of glints, faint light refracting off of a smooth surface. She caught it again, and again. The darkness itself was moving, shifting and undulating around her. Something brushed by her arm, something cold and lifeless, and she shrieked despite herself, backing away stumblingly. She fell into more coldness, was embraced by it falsely. A crushing sensation wrapped around her limbs, and she felt lifted, the breath pressed forcibly from her lungs. With no more are available to allow for screaming, she could only sit in trembling foreboding, her neck craned upwards.

Underneath the gibberish of the continual hissing there was a word:

North. North. Nooorrrrttthhhhh...

Two large pinpricks of red light burst into existence. It took a moment for her to realize she was staring at eyes, the pupils slitted in narrow, vertical lines. It took her another to realize that she was staring at the head of an enormous snake, its forked tongue flicking eagerly from its mouth as it tasted the air and anticipated how palatable this morsel might be. Its grip tightened, and Mariana felt herself snapping. The finer bones went first, then the stronger, her fingers to her femurs. Still she could not scream, as she stared up into the cold, ruddy red eyes. The thing lowered its head closer to her, and words filled her mind, blocking out all other thought.

Look to the North. I am coming.

The words made dread consume her, even though she did not fully understand. There was not time to contemplate it however, as the snake's jaw came unhinged, widening to expose its hideous maw and gleaming, venom-impregnated fangs. It posed over her meaningfully, sizing her up, deciding which angle would be best to attack from.

With a small twitch and a single gulp, it swallowed her whole.

Hello hello all! I've come to pose another question to the masses in the hope of helpful feedback.

Soon (hopefully this weekend) the first part of the butcher RP will be coming to an end. (Weep weep  ) However, in order to run the RP properly, I need to have to be able to control two characters at once.

I cannot do this. I can barely control one without crashing every five minutes. So, rather than deal with the crappy client/system/whatever, the idea is to host the roleplay elsewhere. A google+ document, IRC in a chatroom, et cetera. Hopefully that would make the entire experience be more fun and smooth, rather than having to wait to load for half an hour repeatedly and wasting gobs of time, as usual.

So I suppose there are two questions:

1. Who would be willing to go outside the game in order to accomplish this, so long as the setting was clearly established?

2. Which media would be preferable in hosting such an event?

Thank you kindly for your replies!

Hey. So yeah, this will be somewhat difficult to write, as I in no way actually want to quit planeshift. Sadly, I don't have much of a choice. It seems I cannot get much of a sentence in any longer without crashing spontaneously, no matter what magical technological trick I try to fix the client. I had hoped to at least finish up some role plays beforehand, but the issue of trying to get the client to even load, which itself takes about half an hour on bad days, and then having it crash instantly, is becoming increasingly aggravating.

So, no. I don't want to quit. But I feel that I don't really have much of a choice anymore. I used to be able to run multiple clients, up to three, at the same time without any hassle at all. Now I can not even run one for any length of time. And yes, I have tried multiple reparations. A special thank you to Sasigher and Rigwyn and all those others that have tried to help me so many times on IRC to get the dang thing running. I'm sure talking a tech-idiot like myself through such things was incredibly annoying, but your effort was most certainly appreciated.

I've met a lot of really neato frito folks on this game. It's a unique community, and I think that's it's main draw, really. A powerful pull. You make friends both Icly and Oocly, and that's something that's pretty rare when you're just playing some MMO. I learned a lot from a lot of people, (considering I was horribad at role play when I joined, having never ever done it before,) and learned even more about writing. It was a unique tool, really, and I hope that when I try to write a book it'll help me out, especially in the way of character development. Thanks to the Adani Order for all of their help as well, and inviting this nooblet into their guild. I'ma miss all the zainy personalities in there quite a bit, though they all know where to find me if they still want to chatter.

I am sorry I didn't get to finish the role plays that were running. Lots of interesting stuff was occurring. Maybe if sometime in the future PS gets the client more stable I'll try again, but in the meantime I simply can't justify the hours it takes staring at the black screen of death to get the game to load. I may try to start some forum role plays in the future if anyone might be interested in it, and I'm perfectly willing to role play on the IRC chat for those who are up for it. If folks would like to seek out a continuation of the Butcher RP via that method, just send me a PM.

And...that's about it, folks. I love ya, have a good one, and have fun gaming. Peace out.

Sincerely,

Barsidious, Rhianon, Rheyai, Evirea, Ziljhi, Cezote, and a bunch of other personalities that you don't get to know just in case the player gets the gusto to try fixing the client again.

Edit: Found another computer to run it on for the week I'm on break, so I'll try to finish some role plays, and possibly get it to run on mine. I make no promises, though. I will at least finish the Butcher (barsidious) part of the RP so it's not a big ugly IC scar with no end.