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Mischa Wolfinger
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level 50 BLM get. I am the most magnificent of black mages. 




#finalfantasyxiv   #finalfantasy14arealmreborn  
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hey, Keeper of the Moon here, it's right there in the description.
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this is worldbuilding (specifically a magical system) for a setting I'm working on for a writing project for my creative writing class. The seer writeup involves mutilation, as a note for anyone who would like to avoid that. 


Thaumaturgy - literally “wonder-working”, it is the most common magic left to humans post-the Sundering - however, being the “most common magic” humanity has doesn’t mean that it is common, even if it isn’t the true sorcery that taps into the underpinnings of creation. A single thaumaturge is capable of great wonders, properly trained - and can be absolutely devastating on the battlefield, even with their simplest, least complex spells. 

Thaumaturgy is worked through glyphs - visual patterns based on light, sketched in air or water or earth or even in fire. The language of glyphs doesn’t use sentences or conventional word-structure to describe the effects that it creates - instead, the glyphs form mandalas which contain within them the structure of the spell, which grow more and more complex with increased complexity of scale. 

The main difference between thamaturgy and Elegy is a matter of scale - thaumaturgy is limited by the reach, vision, or strength of a single person. While the theoretical limits of thaumaturgy are far less than the limits of Elegy, the practical limits are rather less wide - unlike Elegists, who usually have to learn on their own, enough of a body of knowledge of thaumaturgy survived the fall of the Age of Miracles that apprenticeships do occur, and thaumaturges, on a general whole, are far better schooled in their magic. 

Thaumaturgy tends to naturally be a solo art: while it is possible for thaumaturges to work together, and it has happened, it doesn’t lend itself well or easily to multiple practitioners working together. Despite this, ways have been found - most commonly between masters and apprentices - for thaumaturges to work together. 


Elegy - “true sorcery”, is the most powerful magic humans have access to - but by far the rarest, even rarer than seer powers, and it was still the rarest - merely “uncommon”-during the Age of Miracles. It was formerly known as Melody, and its practitioners as Melodists, until the Sealing, when most Melodists died and humanity as a whole sacrificed much of their magical power: since then, the art has been known as Elegy, in honor of their sacrifice, and has been extremely rare among the already-rare magicians. 

Elegy is worked primarily through song magic, though music in general is a required medium for casting spells, and it taps into the underlying fabric of reality. If a properly trained thamaturge is capable of great wonders, a properly trained Elegist is capable of miracles - however, most Elegists are entirely self-taught through trial and error, and will never approach the true potential that their art holds.  

While Elegy has no theoretical limits, at least none that it admits to - it is magic on an epic scale, and its limits would be those of the Three-in-One - its practical limitations are considerable, the least of which being that it does a potential Elegist no good to have the potential to wield true sorcery...and be completely unable to sing or play music. They must be an accomplished singer or musician in order to even use Elegy - and the magic itself requires a huge amount of skill, control, and finesse.  While there have been Elegists capable of singing elegies and singing down death upon armies, offensive magic requires the most skill and finesse - and no human Elegist currently alive has that capability. 

Seers - Seers see visions of the future and past: the talent has never been a common one, even in the Age of Miracles, but unlike with thaumaturgy and Elegy, the numbers of human seers have remained constant. Unfortunately, in the wreck of the world that followed the Sundering and the Sealing, humans lost most of the methods that they used to train seers in how to use their powers. 

The only method that remains is cloistering seers and ensuring that they remain cloistered, celibate virgins the rest of their life - as seer powers tend to emerge at early puberty or even just before, it’s usually the case that they’re found fairly young and vowed to celibacy and eternal virginity before they even really start developing. This has resulted in a widespread belief across the world that seers must remained cloistered to preserve the purity of their gift: this isn’t strictly true, but it is, unfortunately, the only reliable method of controlling that power as of right now. Depending on where they are, a seer outside the cloister and who isn’t a virgin may be discounted as a charlatan. 

Depending on the country, extreme methods may be taken, such as rendering a seer literally sexless, simply removing their capacity to feel desire, or magically freezing them at the age they were when they entered the cloister, never allowing them to age physically. 
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A little introductory monologue/fiction bit for a setting I'm working on. (which can basically be summed up as "colonialism + giant robots"). 

"Our gods left us long ago," the elders grumble when they think they aren’t heard, looking around furtively for the veiled priests and priestesses of the Dreaming God, for anyone at all who might object, "No, not left: they were murdered."  As a child, I used to like to listen to the fragments of their whispers, their stories, as nothing more than made-up stories, nothing real about them to me: why should they be? The only gods I knelt to was the Dreaming God, the only names I knew one of His Ninety-Nine Names,  and I was bathed in the sea as a small child to return anew, or so I always heard at the temple.  

Mother never let me listen long, when she caught me, grabbed me by the ear and scolded me not to listen to those stories.  I grew up with the stories that she told me, but she never told me anything about the gods who came before.  There’s a lot she didn’t tell me, I know now, that I didn’t know growing up, when I was small and my mother the most beautiful woman in the world and my father the bravest man there ever was. 

She wanted me to be raised in Father’s traditions, raised in his ways, and so I was. She never taught me how to speak the language of her people, though I learned a few phrases here and there, because she didn’t want anything of them in me. Hard enough, I know now, to be as I was, when my father had gone against all propriety and tradition and married her,  too brown to ever be part of his people but too much his to ever be part of hers.  

("Hold your head high," she taught me, "No matter what they say," and I heard all the whispers, especially once I was older.  The whispers from all sides, calling them traitors, that a high-caste daughter of the islands married the second son of a bone-pale aristocrat, that he’d married beneath him, that she had, may the sea refuse her ashes and the earth her blood-)

I didn’t know the secrets she’d kept. I didn’t know, until my mother died of the lingering fever in the rainy season, and my father gave me the things she’d wanted me to keep. Among her jewelry was a small lacquered box that I’d never seen before, though I’d played with all her jewelry as a little girl, dress-up games when I tried to be as beautiful and serene as my mother and always failed. My father handed me the box the very last of all, and gave me such a look over his heavy glass spectacles. 

"She would have wanted you to have this, " he said, and I didn’t recognize the weight in his voice at first, solemn as my father is, but I know now though I’ve never questioned him, that he knew just what was in that box. That he had to have known all along, and still gave it to me. "Keep it safe. "

I resisted the urge to peek, despite the fact that (or so my mother said) I was always as curious as a kitten, until I was safely in my room, alone, having sent my maid from me. I opened the box, and nestled in careful wrappings was a small tile.  When I unwrapped it with shaking fingers, I saw the more than simply beautiful face of a man, dark of skin and dark of hair, painted on the tile - the icon- with flawless precision and care, the most precious of materials used in its creation,  and nearly dropped it.  Someone in the past had: the tile was cracked slightly, the only imperfection in the whole piece. 

One of the things that I did know, from my lessons with the veiled priests, was that the Dreaming God was not to be depicted, not to be called, not to be spoken of without veils. His True Name was not for any to know, though His Ninety-Nine Names were the first I had learned as a child, before I was even allowed to pray. The sacred calligraphy of the gods that had come before had been smashed, the icons rendered into so much dust underfoot, and yet I was holding one in my hand. 

I did not know what to do: I knew not to ask my father, nor the priests, nor anyone else that I might know. Instead, I simply hid it away, holding my breath against the idea of anyone finding it: perhaps it might have stayed there, box gathering dust for another woman’s lifetime, except that unlike my mother, who had set down the burden, I would, in the end, pick it back up. 

It hadn’t been my intention, of course: more an accident the first time, really. In the southern jungles lived a people that were determined to be independent, even if it killed them: the army had been sent against them once already, sent their Manifests against six hundred men, women, and children, killing every single one. Steam, steel, and stolen magic against spears and blowguns and fragile bones.  

The White Lady had ordered capture or kill, if they could not be caged: her commanders only heard the last. And again deployed against another group of these fiercely proud people: this time, however, I’d seen them go, and my heart couldn’t take it, as I knelt with the box clutched to my chest. I couldn’t let them die, I couldn’t, and the god sealed inside the tile heard the prayer I had not made and found me worthy. 

"Our gods are dead", the elders say (and for the man who betrayed them, may the sky lose his name, may the sea refuse his ashes and the earth his blood-) "dead but never quite dying."  I hadn’t understood what their whispers had meant until I called forth the god from the icon, had myself surrounded by great armor of meteoric iron, floating in the midst of it though I wasn’t conscious of my own body, felt it breathe to match my breaths. 

I did not pilot a god: I was a god. I did not control the sky and the storm: I was the sky and storm, tearing through steel frames like they were nothing, speaking in tongues of lightning and thunder as I sent the remaining Manifest pilots fleeing for their lives. And then, after, I was myself again, and wept with the enormity of it all, for I knew now what it was like to be something greater than myself, knew the burden that my mother had given me, and knew what I had to do. 

Our gods are dead: but what was left of them, their blood, their unbeating hearts, were placed inside what had once been their offering-vessels, giant armor crafted from meteoric iron, powered by magic stronger than what had been stolen from us, stronger than the visions of their seers, concealed inside the smallest of tile icons. The icons are destroyed, but the Icons yet remain, and the gods only live again while they are piloted, while pilots like me become their avatars. 

I couldn’t have chosen anything else, after, but to fight: I couldn’t go back to how it was, though I still live as my father’s daughter, still walk between two worlds, neither of which accept me, and it is the furthest thing from easy. There’s still too much that I don’t know. Will never know. I don’t even know the name of the god who I become, however briefly. 

"I’m sorry," I told him once, the first time I heard his voice in my head: I couldn’t understand what he was saying, echoes of a long-dead ghost in a language I can barely speak, pressing my hand against a body of meteoric iron that hisses with the blood of a slain god through metal veins, "I’m sorry I don’t know your legend. I’m sorry I don’t know anything about you." 

I still don’t know that much about him, even now, even after subsuming myself and my memories to channel him: being him isn’t the same as knowing him, and I may never know him, will never know him the way my ancestors did. But I’m all he has now, to keep him alive even if only in a small way, even if- 

There’s a lot of things I don’t know. There’s a lot of things I will never know. 

I don’t know, if after, there will be a place for me and all the children like me, in the new world that we’re fighting to build. I don’t know if I’ll ever have a place, anywhere. I don’t know what the shape of that future will be, no one can even agree on it, but it will be a future we’ve chosen, not had chosen for us. 

And maybe, maybe, if we can keep the gods alive, even if only for a little longer, even if only something of them, we can keep ourselves alive, too. 

-Lady Esperanza del Corazon 
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Mischa Wolfinger

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http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/marygoing/saint-harridan

Kickstarter for suits and other men's clothes made and tailored to fit XX-chromosomed bodies: trans men, genderqueer people, etc.  I have been eyeing this since I saw their introduction post a while ago, and I'd love to see it succeed. 
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Whoa, that's cool. Sharing.
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Mischa Wolfinger

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In California, in +Aaron Paul 's people zoo. Not sure what I was expecting from North California but it's certainly really different from SoCal. 
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Yes.
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Have him in circles
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in more "what the fuck is my catboy wearing", I really cannot wait until I get my black mage job gear. only six more levels. Because one of the last things Senah'ra Amariyo needs to put up with right now is asshole elves yelling about unbelievers while staring at his legs. 

#finalfantasy14   #finalfantasy14arealmreborn  
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If I had more control over the clothes, the banana-yellow robe they tried to make me wear at level 10 would not exist. And all the clothes titled dalmatica would be prettier because those aren't dalmatics, they are abominations. 
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Someday my poor catboy black mage will wear robes that aren't potato sacks. That day is not today.


#finalfantasy14arealmreborn   #finalfantasy14  
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+Bri Anderson I wish I was of level for the black mage job gear. Sadly I am only level 38. 
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Mischa Wolfinger

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Some days, I really hate Windows. I've narrowed it down to something wrong with my bootloader, I think. 

But seriously, the fuck? I thought I was seeing things when I first saw this pop up. 
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Mischa Wolfinger

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Elder Sign: either we are playing this game completely wrong or the dice mechanics are pretty terrible. Or both.

(It didn't end well.)
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I've played a half dozen games of Elder Sign. I enjoyed it quite a bit, right up until the ancient one wakes up. Then, the dice chucking gets tedious. 
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