If you have found your way here, you might as well know, it's a trap! Run away now! Just kidding—this is the template build of what is now my IT 237 final project, but will become my professional portfolio. Who am I? I am a writer, aspiring copy-chief, graphic artist, web designer, reviewer, journalist, and entertainer, with an especially strong interest in the gaming industry. Check out my bio to learn more.

I've done a lot of tests, but am withholding damage numbers and WS comparisons until I've had a chance to merit with a non mage sub. More on this later...

DRG is an incomparable force of solo destruction in Campaign. Good luck pulling these numbers on any other melee.

I warned him it would Mijin:

Event needs hand gear...

I finally added the writing section, where you will find several different stories I have worked on. If you like or dislike my work, please feel encouraged to tell me exactly what was right or wrong about it. I take all forms of criticsm very seriously and appreciate anyone who takes the time to read, whether their reaction is good or bad.

At West Gate, in Bastok Markets—

Careworn and covered in dust from the road, the adventurer stood at the end of his long journey (home at last, home at last), just inside the city gates, taking in the sights and sounds of Bastok as a man might do if he thought he were dreaming. He had been in the Near East for so long, but there was no way to forget the place he'd come from, and now he was back, be that as it may, for as long as he could stand the relative peace and quiet of his home nation. Still, it was a heady feeling, being so suddenly returned after being gone so long; his head spun with the overload of memories which had been deadened by the wonders of Aht Urhgan, but were now coming back to life all at once.

The sense of contrast was profound.

He made his way down the market bridge toward Firewater Circle. It was sunset, and the sky was the spilled egg of a phoenix, orange and red fire spreading from a ruby yolk that was now sinking into the western edge of the world. The conflagration was reflecting off the Bastore Sea and casting a hard orange glow onto Bastok Markets— over the cobbles, over the shoppers and the merchants— until everyone seemed a little bit on fire.

As he approached the stairs—a sturdy young hume wearing the leather Jaridah regalia of a near-eastern mercenary, and an exotic looking polearm with a vicious twin-scimitar head—he could hear the thrum and whorl of the save crystal. A woman stood before it, wearing the armor of an Iron Musketeer. She sensed his approach and looked up at him—a familiar face with a name he could not place—and said with a smile, "Welcome home, Kaska," before moving past him on her way to West Gate.

Kaska nodded as she passed, already feeling the warm embrace of being in a place where he was meant to be, a place which he longed for and which in turn felt want for him.

Up the stairs into Firewater, he saw the sun's red disc blazing in the reflection of the fountain, whose jets spit sun-touched water into the sparkling surface of a blazing pool, and he thought, dazzled again by its simple brilliance, that Bastokan engineers were more amazing than anyone outside of the Republic would ever care to admit. Here was a place whose name held no mystery. With the sunset blazing in the fountain, the whole thing looked like a mating dance of water and flame.

Shifting the heavy load of his pack from one shoulder to the other, he continued on past the fountain, toward the auction house. Here was a scene of note: Bastok, in the months prior to his absence, had grown relatively empty and quiet. Save for the laborers and citizenry, the streets were often vacant, and the steps of the auction house, once so choked by bazaars that he had to duck-duck-goose his way over the heads of merchants to get to the counter, were clear save for the occasional playbill, advertisement, or loose sheet of newspaper which had caught the wind and folded itself against a railing. But now? Now the adventurers were returning.

Drawn by the presence of the Cavernous Maw in North Gustaberg, and the prominence of new magic such as Level Sync, or perhaps by the lure of the Fall Festival, Bastok Markets was filling up again. Adventurers, both novice and veteran, milled in the space between the fountain and the AH steps, mingling contraposto in disarrayed circles. There were even a few bazaars on the steps. And did he not recognize some of the adventurers here? Gares the Dark Knight and expeditionary legend for sure; and did he not recognize the mithra Thief standing with the tarutaru Puppetmaster at the far end of the auction house, she holding an earth crystal just out of his reach, lowering it down and bidding him to jump for it, then snatching it away?

Kaska grinned and took the steps two at a time, and set his bag down with a heavy, clanky thud below the counter. Waving off the plume of dust rising from his bag, he pulled it open, and looked at the shuttered window behind which he could sense the presence of an auctioneer. "The Alchemist Guild is going to get a kick out of what I brought," said he, as he began to unload his wares.

Minutes later, Kaska descended the steps with a much lighter load strapped to his back. The sunset was almost gone, but a cool breeze was coming up off the sea, and in it was a taste of fresh autumn. Now the electric lanterns that stood on poles around the circle, up and down Market Street and Market Bridge, were coming on two by two, raising spheres of orange light that seemed anachronistic in the dingy atmosphere of the dusty mining town.

Nightfall coming, Kaska passed through the thinning circles of adventurers, many of whom had gone off toward the Mines District and Korroloka beyond, others who were now heading for Port and North Gustaberg, to the Cavernous Maw. Still, the streets were not empty, and it did his heart good to see it.

As he made his way down the street, angling away from the auction house and toward the residential area, he saw citizens carrying garlands of orange and black, buckets filled with candles, bales of pumpkins, and wheeling racks full of costumes—ghosts and ghouls, beastmen, fomor, and the like—and knew that they would be making preparations for the Fall Festival, in which Bastok would celebrate the closing of the season and the alignment of the stars and the moon, a night on which it was said that the boundaries between the physical and spiritual world grew thin, allowing for the appearance of spirits and the thinning between points in time and space; the perfect atmosphere for a haunting. It was said that it was mostly a thing for the children, but he could see the expectant grins on the faces of the adults as they filed past. Soon Bastok would be a veritable wonderland of the occult, a waypoint for traveling spirits. And he knew that there would be just as many adventurers, gate guards, and shop merchants playing into this holiday as there would be children.

"Already signed you in," said Loulia at Kaska's approach.

Kaska raised his eyebrows. Usually he had to get the room renter to sign access back over to him. Had that annoying custom finally been abolished?

"You're good," said Kaska, tipping a salute as he jogged down the stairs toward the residential arch.

"You look tired, get some rest," she called out to his back. "Welcome back, Kaska!"

Yes. It was good to be back.

That was what Kaska thought until he was standing on the stoop of his apartment. For a second, he felt completely illogical. Why should he want to turn around and leave after the long trip home? Why should he feel suddenly like there was nothing here for him but trouble, all of it beginning behind this quiet, locked door?

He shook his head firmly, perhaps too tired to play these games with his instincts, or perhaps playing it off as a bad spot of anxiety after so many months gone. What if something was different? What if something was missing? What if? What if? He knew none of these worries were realistic, with a Moogle watching over his stuff, but there was no sure logic to the feeling. Still, he reached for the doorknob, and felt the emotion redouble, like a pulse from the knob to his hand, warning him: don't open this door.

His eyes narrowed, and he gripped the knob anyway. More of the same feeling inched through him like creeping frost. Something was wrong. It was not just that there was quiet darkness behind the door, or that his apartment was at the far end of a torch-lit hallway where shadows were long and deep, reminding him of how alone in the dark he was; something was palpably wrong.

His keys jangled in the door as he turned the latch. The bolt clicked and the door swung open.

He stepped inside, one hand on his lance, half-expecting an unwanted guest, and found no one. Not even his Moogle, which had gone on some errand for the week. Still, things seemed as normal as they could be. There were his saltwater fish, swimming in their aquarium atop the bookshelf; there were his national flags of the Kingdom, the Federation, and the Republic, hanging on the wall. Nothing was amiss… yet the feeling had only increased.

Then he saw it.

There, on the desk. Kaska shut the door behind him without turning. It made a hollow thump he did not hear. His eyes were fixed on the object which he had failed to see right away, but now couldn't unsee and couldn't imagine how he hadn't picked it out immediately. On the desk, between his ink jars and quills and a lantern, was a crisp white envelope. On its back, his name was penned by an unfamiliar hand that somehow broadcast with every perfect swoop and line, the utmost hatred; without any further evidence, Kaska knew that the one who'd written his name was not human.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped up to his desk, dropping his bag with a thump, and lifted the bound letter. It was light. He slapped it against his palm and felt nothing hard or rigid inside the envelope. By contrast, his guts were lead and he felt an abiding dread in this unwanted missive. Finally, he hooked his thumb under the bill and tore it open; then cupping open the envelope, he emptied out its contents.

A single photograph slid into his hand. It was black and white, but had a glossy finish, and a rare clarity of subject, which made it no less terrible to look at: it was a group of figures standing around a campfire in Grauberg. Standing at subject were two elvaan (both male) and four humes (one female). Behind one of the elvaan, a mithra stood with her back to him, gazing out over a bluff, looking entirely disinterested in the photograph. Of these figures, Kaska recognized all of them by deed—they were members of Black Talon, lethal raiders who betrayed the alliance to become mercenaries for the Shadowlord during the Crystal War—but only one of them by name. It was his father.

Here are some funny screenshots and model viewer comics I did during the height of Impulse (and a little beyond). Good times.

When Charitwo jacked a picture from Sorsis's blog and posted it on a bunch of different forums, I helped Sorsis get even by changing the source of the picture to this:

When I staticked WAR with Taku's MNK way back in '05, I critiqued his equipment harshly!

When I staticked MNK with Delila's BRD, she was always bitching about me grabbing the mob before it could put her into yellow HP latent activation. My riposte?

During that same static, I kept saving TP for the end of the fight so I wouldn't use too much of Aki's MP curing me. And fucking Taku kept cutting me off. Fuck you, Koolaid!

Before Alina left for Kupo, he whored all the gear he could get his hands on. He went on and on about wanting to be a Paladin and lotted up a bunch of Koenig adbjurations. To ridicule him, I made this comic (much too large for site, loads in a separate window).

Click for The Alina Show!

And last but not least, the Vana'diel History comics parodying various members of the Linkshell. Remember to click on each for the larger version!

When all the DRGs quit except Kaska, he became the King of the Dragoons.

Self-explanatory!

Tibien changes his name to Shinkijigyo.

Wiping to KS99 Behemoth.

That's all for now!

So today I decided to try out Level Sync. I knew that I wanted to get my level 55 Samurai some much-needed experience, so I levelled Shine's Black Mage to 10 the day before. But that's not all. I also did a little camping, hoping to get lucky:

I did get Katayama for my SAM, perfect for level 10. Lizzy, of course, is a no-dropping whore.

So the party started a few hours later, in Tahrongi, where I decided that dhalmels were too easy for a level 10 crew. We moved it to the Maze of Shakhrami, and when that exp got slow (around level 15) we jumped to Korroloka Tunnel. All in all, we did great exp in just four hours (camp changes included). Kaska went 55->57. Other party members went 46->49, 48->50. Most notable however was this:

Congratulations Kikuji!

That's all for now!

Bards can indeed score well in Campaign! This fight was only halfway over when I cashed in, too.

And because I didn't know what to do with her eight newest merits...

Dragoon is a solo hero in Campaign. Kaska will even duel things whole groups of players try to avoid.

That's all for now!