The Dancer! A class based on the Dancer job in Final Fantasy Tactics. It is complex but ultimately based around performing consistent dances every turn in order to debilitate and distract enemies. As they level they become even more adept at this and learn to use their influence to impose all sorts of effects. I kept the general concept behind a dancer the same and made nods to their use as seduction and stealth users, but they work just as well on the battlefield as on the stage.
What to make me do a happy dance? Consider commisioning me or donating to my Ko-Fi.
Art credits: 5th Image: turtle-arts.deviantart.com 8th Image: Aromhawk Designs
My boyfriend is trying to explain cricket to me again. “He’s only got two balls to make 48 runs”, he says. The camera focuses on a man. Underneath him it says LEFT ARM FAST MEDIUM. A ball flies into the stands and presumably fractures someone’s skull. “There’s a free six”, my boyfriend says. 348 SIXES says the screen. A child in the audience waves a sign referencing Weet-Bix
The first time he showed me this I assumed he was pranking me
if people haven’t been exposed to cricket before, here is the experience. The person who likes cricket turns on a radio with an air of happy expectation. “We’ll just catch up with the cricket,” they say.
An elderly British man with an accent - you can picture exactly what he looks like and what he is wearing, somehow, and you know that he will explain the important concept of Yorkshire to you at length if you make eye contact - is saying “And w’ four snickets t’ wicket, Umbleby dives under the covers and romps home for a sticky bicket.”
There is a deep and satisfied silence. Weather happens over the radio. This lasts for three minutes.
A gentle young gentleman with an Indian accent, whose perfect and beautiful clear voice makes him sound like a poet sipping from a cup of honeyed drink always, says mildly “Of course we cannot forget that when Pakistan last had the biscuit under the covers, they were thrown out of bed. In 1957, I believe.”
You mouth “what the fucking fuck.”
A morally ambiguous villain from a superhero movie says off-microphone, “Crumbs everywhere.”
Apparently continuing a previous conversation, the villain asks, “Do seagulls eat tacos?”
“I’m sure someone will tell us eventually,” the poet says. His voice is so beautiful that it should be familiar; he should be the only announcer on the radio, the only reader of audiobooks.
The villain says with sudden interest, “Oh, a leg over straight and under the covers, Peterson and Singh are rumping along with a straight fine leg and good pumping action. Thanks to his powerful thighs, Peterson is an excellent legspinner, apart from being rude on Twitter.”
The man from Yorkshire roars potently, like a bull seeing another bull. There might be words in his roar, but otherwise it is primal and sizzling.
“That isn’t straight,” the poet says. “It’s silly.”
“What the fucking fuck,” you say out loud at this point.
“Shh,” says the person who likes cricket. They listen, tensely. Something in the distance makes a very small “thwack,” like a baby dropping an egg.
“Was that a doosra or a googly?” the villain asks.
“IT’S A WRONG ‘UN,” roars the Yorkshireman in his wrath. A powerful insult has been offered. They begin to scuffle.
“With that double doozy, Crumpet is baffled for three turns, Agarwal is deep in the biscuit tin and Padgett has gone to the shops undercover,” the poet says quickly, to cover the action while his companions are busy. The villain is being throttled, in a friendly companionable way.
An intern apparently brings a message scrawled on a scrap of paper like a courier sprinting across a battlefield. “Reddy has rolled a nat 20,” the poet says with barely contained excitement. “Australia is both a continent and an island. But we’re running out of time!”
“Is that true?” You ask suddenly.
“Shh!” Says the person who likes cricket. “It’s a test match.”
“We won’t know THAT until the third DAY.”
A distant “pock” noise. The sound of thirty people saying “tsk,” sorrowfully.
“And the baby’s dropped the egg. Four legs over or we’re done for, as long as it doesn’t rain.”
The villain might be dead? You begin to find yourself emotionally invested.
There are mild distant cheers. “Oh, and with twelve sticky wickets t’ over and t’ seagull’s exploded,” the man from the North says as if all of his dreams have come true. “What a beautiful day.” Your person who likes cricket relaxes. It is tea break.
The villain, apparently alive, describes the best hat in the audience as “like a funnel made of dove-colored net, but backwards, with flies trapped in it.”
This is every bit as good as that time in Australia in 1975, they all agree, drinking their tea and eating home-made cakes sent in by the fans. The poet comments favorably on the icing and sugar-preserved violets. The Yorkshire man discourses on the nature of sponge. The villain clatters his cup too hard on his saucer. To cover his embarrassment, the poet begins scrolling through Twitter on his phone, reading aloud the best memes in his enchanting milky voice. Then, with joy, he reads an @ from an ornithologist at the University of Reading: seagulls do eat tacos! A reference is cited; the poet reads it aloud. Everyone cheers.
You are honestly - against your will - kind of into it! but also: weirdly enraged.
“Was that … it?” you ask, deeming it safe to interrupt.
“No,” says the person who likes cricket, “This is second tea break on the first day. We won’t know where we really are until lunch tomorrow.”
And - because you cannot stop them - you have to accept this; if cricket teaches you anything, it is this gentle and radical acceptance.
I can confirm this is 100% factual
If the announcers were high, would anyone be able to tell?
I have finally managed to find a moment to read this entire thing aloud to my mother.
She smirked and said ‘you don’t know what a silly is? I know what a silly is.’
And then she patted a dog’s head while saying “no, no they won’t know by the second tea break on the first day, no, will they Vivienne, of course they won’t a Test Match lasts five days, five whole days Vivienne!”
Vivienne wagged her tail and looked up at mum adoringly, thoroughly agreeing with her (Vivienne actually slightly disapproves of cricket; as far as she is concerned, people throwing ballies should be throwing them for her, and not for someone with a stick to hit).
I can therefore now not only confirm that this is 100% factual from the point of view of the person who doesn’t understand cricket, but also from the point of view of the person who likes cricket.
the thing about shakespeare is that when it’s done right, when it’s done well, it should sound like it’s coming from the soles of your shoes, being dredged up from the dark places in your lungs and exhaled in a rush, before it burns your mouth. There are pauses, swallows, reverberations, inflections, because how else are you to laugh and sing and snarl and spill forth these lines?
shakespeare done well by actors who know what they’re doing stops sounding like shakespeare. It slips inside your blood, inflects you brain, raging through your system until this is the only language you have ever known, will ever need. It makes the theater the world entire.
shakespeare should sound like lightning; it should turn the air silver.
and once you’ve witnessed that, it’s hard to accept anything less.