Y’shtola has Stone IV, Foul, Blizzard IV, Aero, Water, and Thunder spells, and is called a Sorceress.
Alphinaud is an Academician, so he gets to have Scholar spells while keeping his carbuncle. Minfillia was able to cast spells as a Rogue. Urianger has a Death spell as an Astrologian.
Basically, don’t let your dreams be dreams. Have your character know whatever skills/spells you want, and if people call it lore breaking or Mary Sue tell them you don’t care. And that’s that.
I remember thinking about this when they showed off the trust system menu. I thought about it even more going through the MSQ and seeing their other abilities in cutscenes. I get lore is important to some but this is throwing wide the gates of possibilities. Let your characters learn/do whatever they want and have fun!
IMPORTANT!
Because doing this with your own characters is actually not lore breaking/bending at all.
People who’ve known me for a while have probably heard this speech before, but what defines a Disciple of Magic class or job in this world has nothing to do with what spells they cast! It has everything to do with how those spells are cast. How do they manipulate aether? How do they focus that aether into a spell? And sometimes what medium are used to facilitate spellcasting. These are the things that define a mage, not what spells they cast.
For example, in lore a conjurer has access to all six elements: Wind, Lightning, Fire, Earth, Ice, Water. Y’shtola was originally trained as a Sharlayan conjurer. Thus, she has access to spells of all those elements. But how she casts those spells now as a “sorceress” might be different than what we, at a glance, might suspect from a conjurer, white mage, or black mage on the Source. It might be the same, just with a different name like how the WoD mage was a “Magus”.
Alphinaud isn’t a Scholar, because he doesn’t have a faery companion, or training as a Nymian Scholar. But he is a Sharlayan trained arcanist versed in healing magicks. Likewise, Urianger may be casting spells in the manner of a Sharlayan Astrologian, but he’s versed in other forms of magic from before, like arcanima. Those spells don’t necessarily go away just because you pick up a different tool… but you might have to reinvent how you work the spell!
A great example of this is Red Mage! They cast spells that were originally used by Black Mages and White Mages. The difference isn’t in the spells they cast, but again, it’s how they cast them that distinguishes them from their predecessors - casting using only internal aether.
So as @noscean-scholar said, don’t let your dreams be dreams! Just because we’re limited by the battle mechanics of the game, does not mean your characters have to suffer that same limitation. Mages invent spells. They come up with new incantations, geometries, and more efficient means of spellcasting. Just remember, it’s all about the “how” that defines the magic you use, not the “what” you’re casting.
Making your characters insanely OP is good for your soul sometimes. Just juice em up. Just crank the dial. Make them absolutely batshit terrifyingly good at what they do
I made notes while playing through 6.0, and you know what grabbed hold of me and wouldn't let go?
These are just notes, they'll be a proper fic later. TW for that whole ass quest. If you don't know what I mean, don't read it. 6.0 spoilers.
Zenos drives the car
Before he was even aware of the input of nerves, aetheric senses came to life. His ears twitched of their own volition, listening to… the pumping of blood, and a song. Distant. Wordless–not wordless. His Resonance handled the translation poorly, as he could not seek meaning in a soul that was not there, and he did not know the meaning of these words, but they were–sensations. Emotions. Grief, rage, love–not his, but Aden’s, encoded in this song, a hidden message. Above all else, though, defiance. Hope. Forward, together– This was an exhortation, a litany for battle–he imagined it might bolster allies, had they the ear to listen. Indeed, he could imagine it kept time between troops, and in some subtle ways might even convey the benefits of a more skilled fighter’s superior awareness, or prevent them from accidental friendly fire. It was… unexpected. No matter how much he studied Aden’s techniques, nothing had ever suggested this. It was an startlingly intimate part of himself to share with others from so infamously taciturn an individual–but then, he would only share it on the battlefield, wouldn’t he? And that was where he spoke his truth, in the ringing of steel and the cries of the dying.
It meant that without him, his allies would be all the more vulnerable.
Aden’s nerves finally flared to life, and then came the pain. He had expected some, perhaps–beneath his notice, and beneath the Warrior of Light’s as well, as seasoned warriors. But this was something else entirely, a deep, gnawing ache from Aden’s lower back, the sort of pain that never went away. With it came the hum of aether cycling through the two little twists of metal at Aden’s temples, a field that surrounded him and permeated him… and adjusted with every little movement, shifting strain away from the center of that pain. He’d thought them part of the Warrior of Light’s armor, or a single concession to vanity in a man utterly devoid of it, but the damnable things were holding his shattered body together.
And still the Warrior of Light had defeated him, for he had been wearing those devices from the moment they met, already broken–by which foe, he wondered. Who had done this–had they survived the attempt? Surely not, but that meant either that his allies had defeated such a foe–unlikely, though he could put that to the test soon–or the Warrior of Light had continued on while these wounds were fresh, his spine all but severed. The thought thrilled him, of Aden battered and bleeding, pressed to the very edge of desperation, all his righteousness fled in the name of survival, utterly feral. Aden’s body shuddered as Zenos imagined it.
He must feel Aden’s blood, hot and slick on his hands, this time. But not yet–not yet. He could do better than this unknown foe who had made a wreck of the Champion of Eorzea’s flesh. So, so much better. There was a ring under his gauntlet, on his left hand, and Zenos remembered–some trivial bit of news that had only met his eye because of the subject–Aden was married. He had a husband. One of the Scions, the… the miqo’te with the crystalline staff.
Zenos took a deep breath, and opened Aden’s eyes, smiling–for there he was, of course, in the spirit, but not the flesh, nearly there. Nearly.
Oh, yes, he could do much better than break his body.
Aden gets the keys back
Something touched him, and he lashed out with a shout. Something grabbed his hand, wrenched his whole arm back, and he swung with the other, hit home with a meaty smack and a loud crack across the knuckles of his glove and a crunch of bone. “By the Fury, he’s strong!” He curled around whatever had grabbed his arm and drove his knee up into it. Metal rang off metal, and whatever had him grunted with pain. Something else grabbed his other arm, hauled him back and pressed him down, down--the first convulsion hit him, every muscle locked up tight in pain, and his back was suddenly agony, and he tried to curl up around the pain--weight settled on his shoulders, his arms locked, and as soon as he could he bucked, but another convulsion hit him mid-way and ripped a cry from his throat as he collapsed.
He had--he had to--gods, he had to--get up--to fight--they budged, with twin grunts of effort, one male, one female, but another convulsion ripped through him and he lost all his gained ground. He went limp with a desperate cry.
“Is he--”
“It’s not a seizure, I don’t think, but he is going to hurt himself if he hasn’t already.”
“We can’t let go of him, he’ll take Estinien’s jaw off if he hits him again!”
Another grunt, this the male one. They seemed thoroughly distracted so he pushed with all his might, and--
--they moved--
--they pushed back--
--he growled, a feral, guttural sound, and kept going--
“Halone grant me strength!”
--another convulsion, and he grit his teeth, screamed through them, but kept going--
--more weight settled over his hips, warm hands on his face. “Aden, you’re safe, please, Aden just--”
“Y’shtola, should you cast a sleep spell? What if he--”
“Absolutely not, not after that, let G’raha--”
“I can’t hold him much longer!”
--something shifted in his back, and he knew that if he kept going he’d--
His ears twitched to a sweet, familiar song. The hands on his face were warm, and slightly calloused, and they radiated a gentle, soothing healing aether, and one thumb brushed the tears from his cheek and the smear of light and color began to resolve at the edges of his vision and slowly fade inward. Lucia bore down on his left side, straining with all her might, and Estinien on his right, nose streaming blood. A convulsion ripped through him, jarring his curl, and he cried out, and let himself go limp, sobbing involuntarily. Raha was still just a smear of color over him, a low, gentle voice, and the sunset warmth and hearthfire of his aether slowly chased away the blur. “Am I me?” he managed. He tasted blood in the back of his mouth.
“You’re you,” Raha said, soft and sweet, and kissed him on the forehead. Another convulsion wracked him, and his sob hitched. That was enough, if Raha said it--but he felt like he had no control, between the convulsions and the crying. He couldn’t stop either.
Raha sat up, but kept his hands on Aden’s face, fingers smoothing at the trim, neat line of beard along his jaw--familiar enough to ground him a little more.
“Let go.” Lucia--he only knew because he saw her lips move, voices weren’t processing right yet--and the weight lifted from his shoulders as she and Estinien withdrew. “We should move him somewhere more private,” she said, “while he recovers.”
I made notes while playing through 6.0, and you know what grabbed hold of me and wouldn't let go?
These are just notes, they'll be a proper fic later. TW for that whole ass quest. If you don't know what I mean, don't read it. 6.0 spoilers.
Zenos drives the car
Before he was even aware of the input of nerves, aetheric senses came to life. His ears twitched of their own volition, listening to… the pumping of blood, and a song. Distant. Wordless–not wordless. His Resonance handled the translation poorly, as he could not seek meaning in a soul that was not there, and he did not know the meaning of these words, but they were–sensations. Emotions. Grief, rage, love–not his, but Aden’s, encoded in this song, a hidden message. Above all else, though, defiance. Hope. Forward, together– This was an exhortation, a litany for battle–he imagined it might bolster allies, had they the ear to listen. Indeed, he could imagine it kept time between troops, and in some subtle ways might even convey the benefits of a more skilled fighter’s superior awareness, or prevent them from accidental friendly fire. It was… unexpected. No matter how much he studied Aden’s techniques, nothing had ever suggested this. It was an startlingly intimate part of himself to share with others from so infamously taciturn an individual–but then, he would only share it on the battlefield, wouldn’t he? And that was where he spoke his truth, in the ringing of steel and the cries of the dying.
It meant that without him, his allies would be all the more vulnerable.
Aden’s nerves finally flared to life, and then came the pain. He had expected some, perhaps–beneath his notice, and beneath the Warrior of Light’s as well, as seasoned warriors. But this was something else entirely, a deep, gnawing ache from Aden’s lower back, the sort of pain that never went away. With it came the hum of aether cycling through the two little twists of metal at Aden’s temples, a field that surrounded him and permeated him… and adjusted with every little movement, shifting strain away from the center of that pain. He’d thought them part of the Warrior of Light’s armor, or a single concession to vanity in a man utterly devoid of it, but the damnable things were holding his shattered body together.
And still the Warrior of Light had defeated him, for he had been wearing those devices from the moment they met, already broken–by which foe, he wondered. Who had done this–had they survived the attempt? Surely not, but that meant either that his allies had defeated such a foe–unlikely, though he could put that to the test soon–or the Warrior of Light had continued on while these wounds were fresh, his spine all but severed. The thought thrilled him, of Aden battered and bleeding, pressed to the very edge of desperation, all his righteousness fled in the name of survival, utterly feral. Aden’s body shuddered as Zenos imagined it.
He must feel Aden’s blood, hot and slick on his hands, this time. But not yet–not yet. He could do better than this unknown foe who had made a wreck of the Champion of Eorzea’s flesh. So, so much better. There was a ring under his gauntlet, on his left hand, and Zenos remembered–some trivial bit of news that had only met his eye because of the subject–Aden was married. He had a husband. One of the Scions, the… the miqo’te with the crystalline staff.
Zenos took a deep breath, and opened Aden’s eyes, smiling–for there he was, of course, in the spirit, but not the flesh, nearly there. Nearly.
Oh, yes, he could do much better than break his body.
Aden gets the keys back
Something touched him, and he lashed out with a shout. Something grabbed his hand, wrenched his whole arm back, and he swung with the other, hit home with a meaty smack and a loud crack across the knuckles of his glove and a crunch of bone. “By the Fury, he’s strong!” He curled around whatever had grabbed his arm and drove his knee up into it. Metal rang off metal, and whatever had him grunted with pain. Something else grabbed his other arm, hauled him back and pressed him down, down--the first convulsion hit him, every muscle locked up tight in pain, and his back was suddenly agony, and he tried to curl up around the pain--weight settled on his shoulders, his arms locked, and as soon as he could he bucked, but another convulsion hit him mid-way and ripped a cry from his throat as he collapsed.
He had--he had to--gods, he had to--get up--to fight--they budged, with twin grunts of effort, one male, one female, but another convulsion ripped through him and he lost all his gained ground. He went limp with a desperate cry.
“Is he--”
“It’s not a seizure, I don’t think, but he is going to hurt himself if he hasn’t already.”
“We can’t let go of him, he’ll take Estinien’s jaw off if he hits him again!”
Another grunt, this the male one. They seemed thoroughly distracted so he pushed with all his might, and--
--they moved--
--they pushed back--
--he growled, a feral, guttural sound, and kept going--
“Halone grant me strength!”
--another convulsion, and he grit his teeth, screamed through them, but kept going--
--more weight settled over his hips, warm hands on his face. “Aden, you’re safe, please, Aden just--”
“Y’shtola, should you cast a sleep spell? What if he--”
“Absolutely not, not after that, let G’raha--”
“I can’t hold him much longer!”
--something shifted in his back, and he knew that if he kept going he’d--
His ears twitched to a sweet, familiar song. The hands on his face were warm, and slightly calloused, and they radiated a gentle, soothing healing aether, and one thumb brushed the tears from his cheek and the smear of light and color began to resolve at the edges of his vision and slowly fade inward. Lucia bore down on his left side, straining with all her might, and Estinien on his right, nose streaming blood. A convulsion ripped through him, jarring his curl, and he cried out, and let himself go limp, sobbing involuntarily. Raha was still just a smear of color over him, a low, gentle voice, and the sunset warmth and hearthfire of his aether slowly chased away the blur. “Am I me?” he managed. He tasted blood in the back of his mouth.
“You’re you,” Raha said, soft and sweet, and kissed him on the forehead. Another convulsion wracked him, and his sob hitched. That was enough, if Raha said it--but he felt like he had no control, between the convulsions and the crying. He couldn’t stop either.
Raha sat up, but kept his hands on Aden’s face, fingers smoothing at the trim, neat line of beard along his jaw--familiar enough to ground him a little more.
“Let go.” Lucia--he only knew because he saw her lips move, voices weren’t processing right yet--and the weight lifted from his shoulders as she and Estinien withdrew. “We should move him somewhere more private,” she said, “while he recovers.”
paladin & sage
Had a drawing party and the prompt I was given was, ‘Endwalker Jobs!’ Reaper got left out because…PLD and SGE’s colors match…and I am but a simple fool.
I’ve never understood the “don’t add genders bc of lore” argument bc like do people not realize that lore was originally written that specific way to explain the gender locking. Like, they weren’t gender locked bc of lore point x, lore point x was written because they were gender locked and needed to justify it. I’m a huge lore nerd, but lore written to justify that nonsense isn’t real lore to me. It’s easy to just erase the “there are very few of them” nonsense line that was used to gender lock Miqo’te originally while still keeping the lore about their actual nomadic lifestyle. People can do the same for viera and hrothgar.
