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What You Are In The Dark【Complete】 - Printable Version

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RE: What You Are In The Dark【Closed】 - Nero - 04-29-2015

(04-27-2015, 03:30 PM)Melkire Wrote: The letters were everywhere. They seemingly went out to every residence, every box, every drop point to have ever been known as associated in some way with one Sebastian Redgrave. Each letter was accompanied by a small, blue marble of a linkpearl, and each letter was written by the same hand, in the same script, with the same ink, on the same vellum.

Each letter read as followed.


You asked for an audition. I delivered the requested performance. The man has been swept off the board. Whether you are still invested in the end-game or not, you owe me the chance to give the little ones, those who are now as you once were, a moment's shelter from the coming storm.

How often did you pray in those suns, only to be disappointed? How often did you curse the gods, if there were, in fact, any to be cursed? Do not lie to yourself, Nero.

Had there been a helping hand, would you have taken it?

Let me be that helping hand now, for them.

Several days later, a small parcel arrives. The parcel is unmarked save for the insignia of the Immortal Flames and Osric Melkire's name written directly on the surface. Inside contains a small, thick sheet of Garlean steel, and several envelopes. Inside one envelope is a map of Ul'dah, criss-crossed with circles, lines, and notes. The blue linkpearl had also been placed inside it. A second envelope is considerably thicker, containing several sheafs of paper. The words are written in a carefully constructed cursive script.

I had originally planned on simply bailing on our deal, but considering all that's happened--and your surprising utility as an assassin--that would simply be unprofessional. I suppose, then, that I owe at least one person a full explanation. Most people would assume that that person should be Roen, but I've decided it to be you.

Do not be flattered by the notion. You are simply less emotional than that woman, and may perhaps appreciate my intentions over my actions. I will admit, though, I was rather surprised to have mail waiting for me--or rather, waiting for Redgrave--when I had dropped out of business a few moons ago.

The basic formula was thus: economic pressure and violent anarchy would give way to political upheaval, with a failsafe of sorts. I believe you already know of the several months in which I had hired corsairs to choke out Ul'dahn trade ships leaving via the Rhotano Sea and the Strait of Merlthor. I will leave out the details; you are, after all, interested in the violent anarchy and my original planned failsafe.

Refer to the map of Ul'dah that is attached to this parcel.

A row of buildings is circled in red ink in Pearl Lane. Several arrows point from within Pearl Lane to other parts of Ul'dah, namely the Sapphire Avenue exchange, the Gold Court, and Onyx Lane.

The primary instigator of said violence is an Ala Mhigan Highlander by the name of Ernis Randolph, though you may know him better as Scythe. The referred-to location in Pearl Lane is where he and his gang are holed up. For several moons now, they have been covertly battling the other gangs for territory and influence, using Lominsan firearms that I supplied to them as a threat. That incident with the Hammerbeaks was the first instance of them actually using said firearms. As far as I could tell, the threat was enough to cow most of the bandits in the Lane to submission. Note that the firearms were not intended to be used against the Ul'dah--the purpose of the firearms was expressly to allow Scythe to unite the various factions of Pearl Lane with force, which brings me to the next part of the plan.

Scythe was to wreak havoc primarily in the Sapphire Avenue exchange, specifically targeting those merchants not directly associated with the Monetarist faction. The bandits will make a show of violently extorting non-Monetarist merchants. I had also taken pains to arrange things such that the majority of Brass Blades in the Sapphire Avenue at that juncture would turn the other way or merely be absent. It was my intention to instigate the idea that only Monetarist merchants would be safe, which would spur widespread and open resentment to their practises. In addition, it is common knowledge that the bandits in the city are permitted to stay so long as they can bribe those who would remove them--that is, the Syndicate, and the Brass Blades. If it appears that the Monetarists have lost control of those bandits, then the Syndicate's control of the city will be questioned, especially if innocents are killed in the conflict. 

Following the first attack, Scythe and his group will retreat to Pearl Lane, where there will inevitably be a swift response by the Brass Blades to re-establish order, and hide themselves among the refugee populace. With enough chaos, the Blades will not distinguish between proper bandits and simple refugees, and a slaughter at their hands will take place. This will further add to Ul'dah's instability, and such a blatant display by the Monetarist's private army will force the hands of Raubahn and the common folk. Simply put, with their open support, we would gain the momentum that is needed to overthrow the Syndicate, or at least expel them from Ul'dah.

At this point in the plan, I expected that the Flames, the Sworn, and perhaps even free companies may be roused to finally clean out bandit influence in Ul'dah. Scythe and his gang will be killed, as I had intended, for they had served their purpose. I have also had evidence planted in Pearl Lane that suggested that Scythe's gang was hired by the Monetarists to drain non-Monetarist merchants of gil, in order to supplant the losses they would be suffering from my corsair attacks at sea. This would, theoretically, be the straw to break the chocobo's back, and civil war would take place within Ul'dah.

The message, though complex in execution, is simple in its intent: if Ul'dah is to have any measure of lasting peace, then the Syndicate cannot rule there.

I would have of course supported Raubahn and the Sultana, though in my own way. I had gathered a small group of Lominsan entrepreneurs to collaborate with to supply the Raubahn's side of the conflict. When the smoke clears, if everything has gone according to plan, then the only remaining members of the Syndicate will be Raubahn and Manderville. The latter cares not for political whimsies, but the former will throw everything he has in support to Nanamo ul Namo. Thus, the Sultana will be in full control of Ul'dah, and from there, true measures of reform can take place.

A despicable way to spur change, perhaps, but it is only after destruction that new creation can take place.

As for the failsafe, see the enclosed blueprint.

A third envelope contains a large piece of parchment, folded several times to fit it into the envelope. When unfolded, the blueprint details the outline for a large, Garlean-style dreadnought. Design notes on the back of the parchment and written in the margins note that the vessel would not fly in the manner of an airship, but would hover such that it would not be hindered by most terrain. The dreadnought is armed with all manner of armaments, and would be a massive project in scope and scale, utilising revolutionary ideas as to the flow of aether and experimental ceruleum reactor designs.

The sheet of steel is a sample from this project, though you should know that this project has been cancelled for obvious reasons. The dreadnought was to be my safety net: if Garlemald took advantage of Ul'dah's unrest to invade again, then the dreadnought would be a strategic asset with which to repel invasion. After all, the Immortal Flames makes up the most sizeable portion of the Alliance's military strength. Until conflict with the Garlemald ceased, the dreadnought would take their place in combat.

In addition, if things in Ul'dah came at a stalemate, then this dreadnought would be my ace in the hole. The Monetarists would surrender or be destroyed. A cliche ultimatum, and to be honest I've no idea if such an ultimatum would have worked, but that was the intention behind it. Note that I do recognise the political implications: if it appeared that Raubahn was taking over Ul'dah with backing from the Garleans, then all of my plans would have backfired and the Monetarists would be painted as the heroes. To be honest, I hadn't planned that far if such a thing had happened.

In any case, Flame Sergeant Osric Melkire, you have now heard the full extent of my plans and what I had originally intended to do.

I suspect that this explanation will not satisfy you, as you wish to know what it is I intend to do now.

The dreadnought project has been scrapped, but the spare materials have been repurposed by my arcanist associate into something similar of a smaller scale. I've given this device to Scythe, whose mission is largely the same, with one alteration: the dreadnought, in a much smaller form, will attack Hustings Strip and attempt to capture or kill the Sultana.

A different, blue arrow on the map of Ul'dah highlights the most direct route from Pearl Lane to Hustings Strip.

It paints a pretty picture, doesn't it? The Monetarists finally attempt a violent coup, using their bandits and Garlean technology to try to seize complete control of Ul'dah. And the Eorzean Alliance is too dependent on the Flames and Ul'dah's economic benefits to question who rules the city. This, too, will force Raubahn into action.

Scythe himself doesn't care who he attacks. He is a man with much built-up rage--not unlike yours truly--and he will inflict it on anyone he perceives as wealthy or privileged. Ernis Randolph is a man who believes that successful people only gained their success by trampling on the less fortunate, and he has much anger to inflict.

And because I am such a nice person, refer to the second map.

Another identical map of Ul'dah is folded behind the first. This map has several areas circled. These areas notably overlap with the areas marked as targets by the first map.

I've already taken the liberty of assessing which districts of Ul'dah would be in the most danger, and thus you can evacuate that civilian populace. Or try to, anyway. I am not sure who will believe your ridiculous claims of "A Limsan pirate is planning a coup with a Garlean device and bandits, you need to leave the city". But it's worth a try, right?

In any case, I have fulfilled my end of the deal. There are no more tricks, no more lies or deceptions. This is my plan in its entirety. I know not when you will receive this package, nor do I care. For all I know, it's already too late and Ul'dah is a pile of ashes, or is entering a golden age of reformation. And do feel free to share this message with whomever you'd like. The things I've put in motion have come too far to be stopped.

Oh, and you can have your linkpearl back, too.  This will be my last correspondence. Regardless of whether or not my plan succeeds or fails, I am leaving Eorzea for Othard very soon.

So now that things are coming to an end, we've reached the part where you make a choice.

You can choose to pursue me. You can hunt me down before I leave Eorzean borders, and thus condemn the civilians you claim to care about to a violent, merciless uprising. People will die, yes, but the villain in all of this--that is, me--will finally be subjugated and forced to face justice for all of the crimes I have committed

Or, you can stop Scythe. Save the people, the women and children. Bring Ul'dah back to some measure of order, if not peace. But in the mean time, I will escape with no difficulty, and face no punishment for the wrongs I've committed.

I am curious as to what matters more to you: justice or mercy? I am vaguely aware of the bloody knives and cloaked bodies that lay in your past, Melkire. Not the details, of course, but enough to know that what you are in the dark is something very different from what you present in the light, and that the choices you make when no one is looking paint you as a man not too dissimilar to I.

Do your best, Flame Sergeant.

N.L.

P.S. If at all possible, do present the dilemma I have offered to Lady Crofte. Though I will never learn of it, I imagine her reaction will be priceless.

RE: What You Are In The Dark【Closed】 - C'kayah Polaali - 04-29-2015

At first C'kayah thought the package had been misdirected, until he remembered the name that Nero had gone by in the past. Sebastian Redgrave. He turned the envelope over in his hands as he walked back into the squat, blocky house. His fingers massaged it, feeling the lump inside. A lump the size and shape of a linkpearl.

Oh, this is simply too good to be true, he thought to himself. He padded down the stairs, his soft-soled boots silent on the steps, and set a kettle on the stove. It was mid-day and the headquarters for Tylwyth Narah were cool and quiet, most people either resting or out. He set the envelope on the bar while he ground coffee, then prepared a pot and set it aside to brew. He picked up the envelope again, holding it gingerly by his fingertips, and held it over the spout of the kettle. He slowly moved it back and forth through the column of steam rising from the spout until he saw the telltale wrinkling, the glistening shine that told him the wax holding the envelope closed was soft. He set it back on the bar, carefully teasing it open with the sharp point of his knife.

Inside was a letter and a linkpearl. He poured himself a cup of coffee, then unfolded the vellum and began to read. He picked up the coffee, blew on it and sipped, then set it back down while a smile slowly crept across his face.

The man has been swept off the board.

Whatever else might have happened, Melkire had come through on that, while Roen Deneith had managed to escape Taeros' pit at some point before Melkire's attack had taken place.

C'kayah picked up the coffee again and sipped. This was simply too good to let sit. Ul'dah today was a different animal than it was a year ago: merchants without strong Syndicate affiliations had begun to disappear. He still possessed a charter, but he knew it was only a matter of time before either the Syndicate or Crofte - or both - revoked that. No matter, he thought to himself. The charter had let him grow fat and wealthy on the coin of Ul'dah, but Tylwyth Narah would survive that loss so long as he was able to take advantage of opportunities when they arose. And the loss of Taeros was a powerful opportunity, indeed.

The man had had creditors, he knew. Taeros' estate was likely bankrupt without him, while the mansion itself had already been sold. The Miqo'te made a mental note to check on the status of Taeros' butler. He had heard nothing but good things about the loyalty and resourcefulness of the man. He chuckled to himself then blew on the coffee again, imagining Kenthy with a butler.

He refolded the letter, tucking it and the pearl into his vest. Pouring a second cup of coffee, he carried both cups upstairs to the suites where he and Kenthy sometimes slept. There was a new power vacuum in Ul'dah, it was time to plan how best to exploit it.

RE: What You Are In The Dark【Closed】 - Melkire - 05-01-2015

Hustings Strip was an oddity in some ways. The same red carpets that spoke of prestige and nobility also muffled his footsteps as he walked right up to Ser Coatleque Crofte, his right arm still hanging limp at his side, an envelope held precariously in his left hand. ‘twas the very same envelope he’d torn open not a bell ago. Perused its contents, even.

The woman just looked at him at first. Very nearly a glare, her regard. As he’d counted on, though, rather than sneer at him in public forum, she merely nodded. Poise, deportment, Twelve knew what else, she hadn’t left any of it behind her. Improved upon, rather. Perhaps.

“Good evening, Sergeant.”

Osric Melkire opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. Eyed her back. Considered. Weighed his options.

“Ser. Pardon if I don’t salute.” He glanced over at his right shoulder, his head canting just enough to accentuate his point. He held out the envelope and shook it slightly. “Lazarov delivered. There somewhere private we can talk?”

She peered at the envelope with narrowed eyes. “In Ul’dah? Never. Unless you consider my office private enough.”

The Sultansworn gestured for him to follow, then rounded the corner behind her and strolled a meager ways to a door down the adjacent hall. He followed, then waited a mere moment or two for her to open the door and formally invite him inside. The sound of that portal falling shut behind him set him on edge, but he beat down those insticts. They’d been honed a lifetime ago, and had no place her. Not right now, anyroad.

Crofte rounded her desk and took a letter off the top before sitting across from him. Her sword, she unbuckled and leaned back against the wall behind her. She gestured for him to sit. “Understand if I am still not keen on trading words just yet.”

Ain’t goin’ t’bother with pleasantries.

He marched on up to the desk and dropped the envelope there with a flick of his wrist. “No need for words. Just some trust in common duty. I haven’t made copies.”

He caught sight of her eyes as they lowered to the envelope for a moment.

“Very well. You should be quite pleased with this also.”

She took the letter and, as she did, she offered him the one she held. He took it with a wary glance. Some fumbling with the fingers of his left hand soon had it open. He barely moved as he mouthed out the contents.

Crofte,

Kinslayer yet lives. Barely, but Wolfsong interfered at the last minute.

I should have known better than to expect him to come to his senses even after knowing what she had done.

Be wary. I know the snake will look to strike back.

~ Shaelen Stormchild

“…so that’s where he was. Bastard never…”

Wolfsong had never responded to his last missive. Had that missive never reached its intended recipient? Blasted buggerin’ post could be unreliable even on the best of suns. He glanced up in time to spot Crofte’s brow furrowing as her expression turned from disgust to outright anger. He could see the tension in her jaw as she ground her teeth and collected the various contents back together into the envelope and slid it back across the desk.

“So that’s it, then,” she finally said. “The man eludes justice, but his plans are foiled. Until he returns with another guise, alias, and renewed thirst for blood.”

He smirked. “You look no happier than m’self when y’told me Jameson might still be out there.” He sobered. “Here and now. Mercy.”

Her eye twitched, but she took a slow, deep breath. “Sergeant. Osric, if I am not too bold. We can speak of Jameson another sun when our tempers have cooled enough to do so.”

The Immortal Flame stared down at her for a long, frigid while. “Fine. To business. How t’approach our Ernis Randolph problem. I’d say we ought t’bring the Blades in on this, but I’m not sure mobilizin’ anyone is a good idea, given the original outline.”

The paladin leaned back in her chair and bit her lip while glancing around the office walls. “Given the current situation in Ul’dah, mobilizing anyone could draw the wrong attention. Public opinion is already on a knife’s edge. And the Sultansworn are all but paralyzed.”

Melkire planted his palm on the desk, fingers splayed, and leaned forward. “Let me make this clear. I brought this t’you because regardless o’ personal differences ‘tween you and I, we owe this sultanate and her peoples our service. We took… nah, we swore oaths. I brought this t’you instead o’ Jenlyns because…” He took a deep breath, then swallowed something foul. “…because y’ain’t green anymore. You act. You know how, even if I disagree with the ‘why’ and ‘what for’. So. Suggestions. I’d like yours.”

She finally managed to look him in the face, and her expression softened somewhat. “You know I was nto trying to shirk such duty, of course.” She peered down at her desk in thought. “Blades are too hamfisted. You have more connections within the Flames, perhaps a smaller elite group could infiltrate these key points in turn.” She gestured to the envelope and the maps contained therein. “Of course you need to decide what the goal is first, before action may be taken. Are we rounding up these men for the gaols? And as always, I will not sit and watch from the sidelines. The Order may be paralyzed as a whole, but I may still act undercover.”

He reached up and slipped his turban off to meet her gaze. “We don’t give Lazarov what he wants. Not at this cost. Not ever.” He sighed. “Gaols seem impractical, but we can’t be the ones spillin’ blood. What we really need is Ernis apprehended, and his weapons and that… and that abomination of a machine seized.”

Coatleque nodded in agreement. “I would suggest, foolish as it seems, a direct assault. We know where he is. Do not gamble with the city’s lives. You know I am always hesitant to spill blood. But the picture I have been painted by that letter is of ruthless men.”

“We know where he’ll be, o’ course, but if we wait too long, we risk too much. Havin’ his name makes things easier… I have an idea, but you won’t like it.”

“Speak then.”

“We have Randolph’s name. I have milkweed seized from… certain warehouses.” He canted his head to one side again, curious to see her reaction to this suggestion. “Bribes work well in Ul’dah… especially with addicts.”

She blinked and quirked an eyebrow. “I am confused as to your intent. You want to merely pay him to abandon his plans and dismantle these weapons?”

“Course not. Meanin’ t’wet a few appetites for information. Where he’s holed up, if he’s still where Lazarov said he was, his movements, and so on.”

She pursed her lips, then chewed the inside of her mouth in thought. “As much asI loathe the idea of handing out contraband, I cannot disagree with your logic. I would present one additional option as well. Namely, Roen Deneith.”

The sergeant’s face went hard. “Oh?”

“…do not think worse of me for what I’ve done to her. I chastise myself enough as it were. From what I’ve gathered, she was trying to stop this ‘Scythe’ fellow as well. Nero was supposed to do it himself, but when he changed his mind, she came back. I do not know where she is now. I would imagine she has not gone far.”

“Were I her, I wouldn’t want to be found… and the Keeper went lookin’. You’re suggestin’ we risk losin’ time findin’ her? To do what?”

Crofte shrugged. “I am suggesting no such thing. If your Keeper is already on her trail, that should suffice. I imagine the woman would rest easier knowing the truth.”

He squinted. “What truth?”

The woman sighed and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “That her former lover has gone insane and escaped justice. That no more blood will be shed on his account, for now at least. Sergeant, you know I am not good at gathering information. If you think these bribes will get us what we need…”

“There’s the other option you suggested. A smaller, elite group.”

She nodded once. “That may be our only viable recourse at this time. I cannot act openly without drawing unwanted attention to the palace. But if you tell me where you need me, I will be there.”

He nodded back. “I’ve no pull with the Red Wings these suns, but m’self and the other castoffs, we might serve. Shite, Swift did throw us in the same unit. Why the hells not?” He pushed himself upright and ran his left hand back up through his hair. “That and the contraband. Two tasks. Find Ernis, evacuate the civilians.”

A slight smirk creeped across Crofte’s face. “For what time but this have the Twelve seen fit to bring your people together, then?”

Osric snorted. “Ser, you don’t want t’know. Movin’ on... how d’you want this done? You know more o’ security on the streets than I do. We Flames are more o’ less glorified thugs, after all.”

Not entirely truthful, that… but concessions were key in soothing one’s marks.

“Knowing is one thing. Pulling rank is another. I had a small advantage with… with Taeros’ influence of the Blades. Alas, that is gone now. The more quiet we can keep this, the better. Judging by the confession, some of those guards have already been paid not to be present either way. That could work to our advantage.”

He took a slow breath. “It could. Listen. You said the ‘sworn are paralyzed. You ain’t. The Flames ain’t. I ain’t worth tuco’s piss leadin’ a street cleanup right now.” He smiled for the first time since entering her office. “Would y’like t’meet the Dauntless?”

She returned the smile. “If I am going to be working with them, it is only prudent.”

He nodded and reached up to tap at the linkpearl in his left ear, his turban still in hand. He turned and strolled to the far end of her office, speaking in hushed tones and whispers. Simple matter to contact the lieutenant and the others; their pearls were never far. Company policy kept things that way. He grinned at the voices in his ear, as if someone had just told him he’d won at life, then he turned back for a moment.

“Chamber of Rule? Meet them at the lift?”

She looked up at him rather incredulously. It was clear she hadn’t been expecting guests this soon. “As you wish.”

He glanced at the door expectantly. “They’re here t’meet you, not me.”

She all but jumped in her seat, then stood and rounded the desk again, taking up her sword as she went. He pulled his turban back on and adjusted the mask as she pulled the door open for him.




Kanaria Galanodel met them not a dozen paces past the door to Crofte’s office. He wasn’t surprised. She was always near when needed. The three of them made their way over to the lift, only for the sergeant to frown as he spotted two Miqo’te dressed in casual attire.

“Not even in…”

Gods, not even in uniform.

“I was in the middle of working on the rings,” retorted the redhair as he shrugged at his sergeant. “You’re lucky I didn’t show up in my lab coat… though I thought about it.”

Osric cleared his throat as he stepped to one side. “Ser Coatleque Crofte, might I introduce Lieutenant Korofi, Lady Siha Xinkei, and Lieutenant Galanodel.”

The Sultansworn looked to each in turn and offered a slight bow in greeting, which was, thank the Twelve, promptly returned. Siha smiled in apology as she cleared her throat. “A pleasure, Ser Crofte.”

“Osric said you wanted to meet us for a mission,” the redhair asked as he inclined his head curiously.

Coatleque smiled. “Yes, though I can hardly be the one to lead it. It seems you have quite the assembly, Sergeant.”

He grumbled under his breath. Something about lack of uniforms and improper address and rutting salutes being forgotten and gods knew what else.

“Truthfully,” continued the paladin, “I do not know much about your unit besides what Sergeant Melkire has told me.”

“What has he told you,” asked Korofi as he shot the sergeant a curious look.

“Small,” Osric grunted in answer. “Elite. Professional,” he growled in a biting tone.

“Ah… not very professional today. I’ll admit I didn’t take the time to change.” The redhair coughed awkwardly and looked down at himself.

“Don’t need professional, rightly speakin’. Need competence.”

Siha lifted a brow briefly at Osric, then glanced back to Crofte with another smile as she took a step forward. “Sometimes we don’t have the time. We keep as busy as we can.”

“We’re definitely competent,” said the male.

“In this case, I must agree.” Crofte nodded. “Can you also be discreet?”

“We can.”

“We’re not hiring Ki again,” the sergeant all but barked, adamant and steadfast as he stood his ground. “As long as we’re not hiring Ki again.”

Korofi looked over at Osric and smiled thinly. “Ki has other things to worry about.”

“Quite a few things to worry about,” murmured Galanodel.

Melkire sighed with relief as the redhair grinned.

“No, if it’s discretion that’s needed I know who to assign.”

“Back to the office, then?” The sergeant shifted his feet. “This is… sensitive.”

They all nodded, Crofte in particular. “Yes, especially given the circumstances.”

“Step lively, then.”




Crofte closed the door behind them and rounded her desk again, as Xinkei tucked herself into a corner at a comfortable distance from Korofi and glanced curiously at the paladin. Melkire strolled up to the desk, Galanodel right behind him, and lifted the torn envelope from the desk before handing it over to the lieutenant. Korofi took the envelope, his ears flexing back as he pulled out the contents to read.

Crofte leaned back in her chair again and crossed her arms as Osric strolled over to the other corner to stand in front of Kanaria. “Of course, none of this information is to leave this room… for the time being. If this plot gets out, there will be mass hysteria on the streets.”

The redhair stopped reading and glanced over at the sergeant. This time, his ears flattened with purpose as the tiny Miqo’te studied the midlander before looking back to the documents in his hands. Behidn him, Siha’s brows drew together as she frowned, but she remained quiet.

“I’m listening,” the lieutenant responded, stopping long enough to pull a small gold pearl from his ear.

“Sworn can’t handle this right now,” Osric explained. “You know why. Blades we can’t trust with it. Flames in numbers will result in mayhem.”

“Our mission is clear, at least,” interjected Coatleque. “We must find this man and stop him before anyone else suffers, or worse. And the Sergeant is correct.”

“The man and his weapons. He’s not theonly fanatic t’consider. There are his men.”

Korofi slowly passed back the first page of the letter to Siha and muttered, “pass it to Kanaria when you’re done.”

Crofte shifted in her chair. “You cannot look to the Sultansworn for aid, unfortunately, since the balance has tipped in this city. But I will aid as much as I can under cover.”

The small calico bristled as he read through the second page. “…I understand. The current situation puts all of us in a bind, but it will be easier for us to move swiftly and efficiently, especially with our civilian attachments. We have the luxury of being faces in a crowd.”

He passed another page to Siha.

“Sergeant Melkire had an idea on how to flush this man out of hiding, or at least find a lead back to him.”

Siha passed off the first page to Kanaria as the hyuran woman stepped over to her. The pale Keeper’s frown deepened as she perused the second page, her eyes widening in shock.

“Private Od’hilkas and I seized some contraband back when he was still a lieutenant and we were still with the Red Wings. Milkweed,” Melkire explained. “Pearl Lane has its fair share of addicts lookin’ for a fix, and Ernis Randolph ain’t that common a name.”

Korofi stopped reading long enough to pull out the steel. He shook the blueprints free as he tucked the remaining pages of the letter under his arm so that he could look each one over in earnest. He sighed heavily through his nose, eyes scanning the blueprints before folding them back up and swapping them with the letters. He passed the third page off to Siha and moved on to the next.

“I need not say more to emphasize the gravity of this situation,” said the paladin.

“Shite, you ain’t kiddin,” retorted the sergeant. “Brought this t’you first thing. Couldn’t sit on it.”

“And for that you have my thanks. This man has been a thorn in Ul’dah’s side far too long.”

“You’ve read all of this? Both of you?” Korofi pulled out the second map and started glancing between it and the fourth page of the letter. Siha shook her head behind him and passed another page to Kanaria as she read the next, muttering under her breath.

“Aye, though I might o’ skimmed over some details.”

“We can keep these?” The calico passed the fourth page back to the Keeper.

“Better with us than here in the palace, I think, no?”

Crofte smirked. “The Dauntless should keep them, yes. You will be the primary agents that stop this man. Scythe. Ernis.”

“Good,” said Lieutenant Korofi. “I want to have a better look at some of it back in my lab.” He handed off the last page to Siha before tucking the maps and blueprints and steel joint back into the envelope. “And what about Nero?”

“Gone,” answered t Melkire. “This takes priority.”

“It is as the Sergeant says. We cannot afford to go after him while so many lives are at risk.”

Siha shuffled another page over to Kanaria. She nodded in agreement, as did Korofi. They all looked grim.

“Agreed,” said the redhair. “Ul’dah is our priority.” He glanced at the sergeant. “You’re right, though. Grimsong can’t come this time… and neither can Khalo.” His shoulders sagged, ears flexing and flattening again as he looked back at Crofte. “But if anyone can take care of this, I’m confident that it’s us.”

“Mm, I would have to agree,” Kanaria said as her eyes rose to meet Osric’s. The man grinned.

Coatleque nodded once. “Would that I could lend you more than just my blade. I have every confidence in you, though.”

Osric turned to Korofi. “Can we use Samuel for this?”


The lieutenant shook his head. “He’s indisposed. If we have to, we can use A’laric.” The Miqo’te’s gaze shifted back to Crofte. “You’re in too tight of a position right now to take care of this. That’s understood. Don’t fret over it.”

“…havin’ an Ala Mhigan might help, though…”

“Jin is Ala Mhigan. I’ll message him, Osric. If he’s back from his sabbatical.”

“Oh, I was thinkin’ we’d have Crofte here be our plant.”

“Hn. But being a ‘sworn….”

“Plant?” Crofte blinked and sat upright as she interjected.

“Are bearings and voices so easily concealed?” Siha passed the last pages off to Kanaria and gave Crofte a small smile.”

“…and a face I know is well-known,” the lieutenant continued. “Even I’ve seen it, and I don’t know anyone.”

“Exactly,” the highlander woman said.

“Unless you intend to use some method of concealment.”

Osric shook his head. “We need t’find Ernis, and we need a voice t’start folks movin’ if we need to evacuate. Dyes and haircuts are cheap, I should know. Throw in some dirt….”

“If we need a voice,” asked Korofi, “what about your contact from the Quicksand?”

“My whaaa?”

“Aya?” Kanaria glanced between the two men.

“Yeah, her.”

“…that might do. Hold on.” The sergeant turned and fiddled with the linkpearl in his ear for a bit as Kanaria returned to pouring over the last few pages.

“No offense, Ser Crofte,” Korofi said. “I’d rather not endanger anything on this mission. You included. And a Miqo’te would pick you out by your scent if they knew you.” He tapped his nose.

“None taken, of course,” answered the paladin. “I am known by many throughout this city by now. The further away from Thanalan, the better my chances.”

Korofi nodded. “It’s understandable. Besides, it would look suspicious for you to disappear abruptly…. The only way we could work it is if we found you a double for quiet appearances while we found a way to alter your scent. Which is not beyond the realm of possibilities.”

Crofte shook her head. “Overly complicated for the scope of the mission. Someone else will have to suffice. I can certainly stay nearby and disguised, in case a blade is needed.”

Lady Xinkei looked thoughtful. “I’m not sure how much time we truly have, but… Nero did say that the other bandits were subjugated by force and fear, did he not? If we are careful and thorough, maybe we can find someone willing to turn on them? It is… not the best solution, but if we had no other choice, there is that. Fear is never the best way to hold someone’s allegiance.”

“We would have to know who is susceptible, first,” countered the ‘sworn.

“It would be wise to have you near, on retainer. I’ll admit… if things do get to the point of the Blades turning blindly on the refugees…” Korofi bristled. “Public opinion may be poor, but they don’t deserve to die for a fear monger.”

“Agreed.”

Osric dropped his hand from his ear at last and turned back to the assembly. “Aya’s in. Rousin’ folks and getting’ them movin’ out o’ harm’s way’ll be her job.”

“Good,” the lieutenant said. “Siha has a point, though. If we can find the weak link in the chain of command… we need to assemble a team and a plan.”

“I agree,” said Crofte, but she shook her head again. “But not here, of course. The walls have ears, and even eyes at times. If you have somewhere better suited, we can meet there. With everyone at once.”

“Headquarters?” asked the sergeant. “Next sun?”

“Our headquarters, yes. By then it will be sufficiently warded, too.” Korofi glanced towards Siha and Kanaria as if to confirm this.

“Goblet,” provided Melkire. “Ward Four subdivision, southwestern district.”

Crofte jotted that down on a random paper on her desk. “I shall be there. Out of uniform, of course.” She folded the paper and quickly hid it away. “If there were no further questions for the night, Sergeant…? I believe we all have much to think on while we still have time to think.”

“No, not unless y’hard any for us.”

“Not as of yet. I will review the letters in detail overnight.”

“Not much time at all,” mumbled Korofi as he moved to gather the pages from Kanaria. The midlander woman pulled them away slowly, hugging them to her chest while she blinked at her fellow lieutenant.

“You can have the blueprints and the steel,” Osric told Korofi. “Let her hold onto the letter.”

“I want to to read it again. Rather, I need to. So I’d like to have a look at it soon.”

“…Crofte, if you’ve more ink, I’d suggest copying down what you need now.”

Kanaria nodded quickly. “I, uh… um… when you are done, then, could I have them back so I can lock them away?”

“Yes,” Korofi answered. “But we need to be able to peruse them for now.”

“I will write down what I need, and send a runner within the bell,” Crofte said. “Re-sealed, of course.”

“Would you take it amiss,” inquired Melkire, “if I said I don’t feel right, leavin’ those pages alone here with you?”

“…Sergeant, at this time, I do not feel right leaving myself here alone, either.”

Good answer.

Kanaria handed the letter over to the lieutenant. “You’ll have them back,” he promised her, before moving to the desk and passing them to Crofte.

“Don’t send a runner,” Osric said. “Come yourself. Private by name o’ Mortar guards our door. Y’can leave them with him.”

“Elsewise, there’s Plumb as well,” supplied Korofi.

“We’re trustin’ Plumb with this? Gods above.”

“Plumb’s loyalty to Ul’dah is unquestionable. He’d never let these fall into the wrong hands.”

“I shall deliver it personally within the next bell,” the paladin interjected. “Just be sure you have the right man waiting.”

Melkire turned and saluted Crofte as best he could with his left arm. “Dunesfolk both. They’ll be in uniform. We’d best be off.”

“Ser Crofte.” Korofi saluted. The gesture lacked the finesse of a seasoned soldier, but it was a marked improvement from before.

“Yes, I shall see you next sun if not before. And remember…”

Ser Coatleque Crofte rose and walked round her desk to let them out.

“…watch for the snake’s return.”

RE: What You Are In The Dark【Closed】 - Banquo Viaquo - 05-02-2015

The distinction between loyalty and faith is a fine one indeed.

As North reflected on this, he also realized--rather too late--that Final Prayer made a poor refuge for one dedicated entirely to the former, with none of the latter. And yet he had somehow been led here, walking aimlessly through Eastern Thanalan, passing Drybone with nary a shudder or a glance. The last time he traveled that road resulted in the inexplicable attempt on his life--an incident that, even after all that had happened, went unanswered and unclear. No culprit, no motive, no trace.

He had known from the very beginning that Taeros was little more than a momentary convenience; a shark onto which the remora latches. The man's crimes, both moral and literal, were as numerous as his adversary's. North had even been actively working against him--that had been his sole purpose in entering his employment in the first place. He had clearly been marked as a target from the start, and thus--Gideon set the wine bottle onto the dusty ground--he was not to be mourned.

But he had been a master, hadn't he?

He had ensured North knew his place. Above all, they both played their roles as best they could, and that, the butler had expected. But, over time--and yes, especially there at the end--it seemed as though he had truly valued not only North's life, not merely his well-being, but his happiness. He had apparently endeavored to keep North from those who sought to take him from Taeros's service, with all the suspicion due of one of his station. He had not treated North as more than a servant, but... that, he had given a strange dignity. A nobility. An understanding, North finally settled upon, that was almost painful in its long-missed familiarity.

When Master Taeros had, at the end, called out Gideon's name, bleeding blue and black, the valet had hesitated out of shock. The healing aether never came, and Taeros had fallen. But had the valet been obeying his instincts... or fighting them?
Whatever the motivation, he had not acted quickly enough, and now another master was gone.

He stared blankly into the etched stone before him, absently fumbling the golden maple pin out from within his jacket and rolling it between his fingers. Perhaps this was simply the natural way of things. One may only serve until they fail, and thus lose that right to serve. Two masters served, and two masters gone.

No. Something resounded in his head. One master served. And one master betrayed. His fist closed over the badge, and his head swam with sudden, overwhelming dizziness--thoughts churning with violent emotion and cold, detached appraisal. Preserving one loyalty does not pardon the betrayal of another. His face remained implacable as always, but a sudden bile rose up within him at the thought. Almost hastily, he took a long gulp from the bottle at his side, pushed more by impulse than true desire, and sagged as he returned it to its place on the ground. He sat silently among the gently humming fireflies, the open bottle at his side and his eyes on the ground. His eyes flickered to his silver grimoire, carelessly set on the dusty ground alongside him, then returned to the etched stone before him--staring blankly into it, hoping for some flicker of clarity, or even merely some relief. However (that same, cold part of him reminded), that was a luxury intended only for men of faith.

His shoulders rose and sank in a brief sigh, and he pocketed the badge. Lingering too long on such questions would be provably unhelpful, and--more to the point--beyond his station. He closed his eyes, listening to the hum of the fireflies... then paused, paying closer attention to the sound as they drifted somewhat further away. "...?"

The Miqo'te nearby took a few more steps, gradually more audible the closer he came. The ground was dry enough not to betray his footsteps, but he still walked with some measure of caution. Approaching, the young stranger spoke, noticing the valet's curiosity--his eyes obscured by a practical leather facemask. "Mister North...."

"Ah." Of course; a place for reflection like this would no doubt serve others, who would also value their solitude. He instinctively began gathering his things up, politely nodding behind him. "A thousand pardons, sir..."

"Please, no need for such apologies..." The rebuttal was pleasant, almost apologetic itself. Gideon watched the man dip into an apparent bow... then break almost seamlessly into a predatory lunge, vicious clawed gauntlets gleaming in the light of the fireflies.

The valet scrambled back in shock, the bottle spilling from his arms and staining the ground wine-red as he raised the book as a makeshift shield, desperately trying to block the sudden strike. "Wh-What--" The clawed stranger's strike hooked against the side of the book, and he immediately twisted his arm back, deftly trying to rip the tome from North's hands.

Something flashed in North's eyes, and he tilted the book just the slightest, letting the attacker simply rip open the front cover. One half of the book was all but shredded by the vicious claw, but the pages swiftly fell open to a random angular diagram. Concentrating his aether, he hissed darkly, letting the instant reaction of Bio course through his arms, into the book, and towards his assailant. "...Assassin."

The accusation, predictably, had no effect on the Miqo'te--however, he clearly recognized the sudden flow of aetheric energy. He quickly dropped to the ground, both hands stopping himself directly before impact. Twirling nimbly on the ground, his foot blurred through the air, arcing towards Gideon's jaw. Twisting desperately, the valet attempted to deflect the blow, but North was no martial artist--the strike connected, sending him sprawling flat on his back in the dirt, coughing in pain and breathless rage. "Ghnnh... is it you...?" His face bore a strange, wide-eyed smile as his head snapped up to face the assassin.

The momentum of the kick let the acrobatic Miqo'te twirl back up onto his feet--with not a word at North's senseless question; only replying with another lunge forward, claws out and angled towards the Hyur's neck. With barely any time to react, North twisted to the side, gasping--the razor claws tearing through his jacket and shoulder instead. Blood stained the pristine black of his formal jacket, and he breathed in soundless pain; fumbling with his free hand for the fallen bottle and swinging it towards the assassin's face in retaliation. With his free hand, the assassin lashed out to strike the wine bottle mid-swing, shattering the glass, sending shards and wine splaying across both North and the dry soil. "Ghh!" He recoiled, the shards of glass and wine provoking a brief, reflexive cringe. "Three YEARS, and--!" Seeing the Miqo'te bringing the claw down once more, he threw his head to the right, in a desperate attempt to protect himself--the claws raked across the left side of his face, slicing easily through his eye and cheek. He roared, in pain and anguish.

The assassin hissed quietly, clearly somewhat irritated at the valet's persistent survival. He paused for just a brief moment, then twisted the claw embedded in the Hyur's shoulder, ripping the flesh--more blood, soaking the black. Almost instantly, he brought the other claw back down, shearing through the air to the man's chest, but North wrenched himself to the side in a desperate spasm, further twisting the claws in his shoulder. The man's other claws pierced him, but grazed off his ribcage, avoiding fatal damage once more. He arched on the ground, a ragged whimper of pain escaping him--incongruously feeble for the depth of the wound.

"HALT!" Through the haze of pain and adrenaline, North heard the voice of Roen, of all people, cut through the fray. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a redhead figure in the uniform of the Blades charge towards the chaos, and the masked man's gaze rose to her for just a moment... before ripping both claws from North's body with a sickening sound of severance. He darted up from the crumpled valet, dashing towards the Blade as if in attack... then, at the last moment, he leapt and flipped over the Blade in an adroit flip, landing on his feet just behind her. Without another moment's hesitation, he bolted down the hill, out towards the plains. Roen seemed to hesitate, her gaze darting from the fleeing assassin to the valet, bleeding out on the ground.

"Gyaaghk--" North arched again, panting in pain, and fumbled for the remains of his book. A mangled roar of fury rose within him as his fingers closed in a claw over the page, crumpling the paper--his other hand blindly firing out Ruinous bolts, green tinges of Bio, sickly green Virus--anything requiring no more than a second's thought. Roen ducked the aetheric onslaught, hastily rushing to the side, but not a single spell connected--the masked man sprinted away, not looking back. "YOU FINISH... YOUR JOB!" North roared out, choking on more than just his words. "DON'T YOU... RUN... N-Nnghh..." As the assassin vanished from view, the bloodied servant devolved into wordless howling and gasping.

Roen's eyes followed the last crackling Ruin as it blurred down the path alongside her... but she rushed toward the fallen man instead, the assassin no longer in sight. She fell to her knees next to him. "Mister North!" Pulling off her turban to survey his wounds, she tried desperately to number the injuries. A gash in his shoulder... jaw badly bruised... both cloth and flesh shredded... one side of his face all but sheared through... "Gideon!" The valet did not respond, hands remaining where they were--clawing at paper and casting out in furious aetheric stabs at the air, though the spells no longer came.

She grabbed onto one wrist, as if to bring him to the present from wherever his mind was at. "Gideon!" She leaned forward, wide eyes going from his face to the growing crimson stain upon his shoulder. Then inevitably, it returned back to his... wounded eye and face. She grimaced.

Gideon writhed feebly, hand twisting in her grip. "M-Master, they're... here. Run, please... please..."

Seeing his distress, she pressed him down a bit more forcefully, her tone firm despite the alarm upon her expression. "Gideon. Stop. Let me heal you... You are..." She swallowed. "You are injured badly..."

North twisted his head from side to side, the frantic tears mingling with the fresh blood. "Master, you cannot stay!"

Hurriedly, she fumbled her gauntlet off, to lay her hand upon his... shoulder? Face? Eye? There was so much blood. She swallowed to steady herself. "Gideon. Please. Calm. I am going to stop the bleeding first..." She put a steady pressure upon his shoulder, glancing warily over her shoulder to where the assailant had disappeared. Facing Gideon, she frowned. "He ran. I am not letting you bleed to death."

"Master, they could return... at any moment! Think of... your parents! I promised them I would... I would look after..." North hissed out in pain, staring blindly up at the sky, the tears not stopping.  After a moment, fully registering his words, Roen exhaled. She did not budge, holding him still as best she could as she summoned the aether onto his shoulder wound. Throughout, she remained silent, closing her eyes as the aether flooded his injuries. "Stop... stop, please..." Though he shook, jolting one way and then another, his movements gradually slowed--his hand falling to the ground, and the paper tearing with a slow rip as his other hand closed into a fist.

Seeing the flesh closing, Roen breathed out in relief. "Gideon... you did everything you could..." she murmured.

"I knew he would come back, Master... but he knew I'd be looking for poison this time, so he... he chose another means..." North muttered indistinctly, still panting with effort and pain.

Roen's expression saddened as she met Gideon's unseeing eye. "Do not blame yourself..." she said softly, moving to treat the wounds on his chest. The severity of the damage made her falter for one brief moment before the aether rose within her once more.

"They always come, master... wherever I go... they're always there, you can't escape them. No servants, only masters. Never servants, only masters." North whispered in horror, staring blindly skyward. "Him, her, her, him, her, him, her..." He shuddered, shaking uncontrollably. "I have to, I have..."

Her shoulders slumped, the treatment having drained her somewhat. She laid a hand upon the man's jawline, turning his face towards her. "Gideon," she said softly. "Please. Come back." The valet swallowed, hard, and went completely still. Her gaze darted from his jaw to the long gash ripped across his eye, face twisting in worry.

"...Miss Deneith." North opened his eyes, speaking with sudden, unshakable calm and composure, despite his wounds and the situation.

Roen Deneith finally released a long sigh, her shoulders slumping and relief washing over her face. "....Mister North." She curled a faint smile, although it was still tinged with worry. "Please hold still, let me at least... close these wounds. Your jaw and... your eye..."

"Very good, Miss. Please do as you see fit." The valet stared politely forward, his injured eye slightly rolling.

Surveying the damage, Roen winced. His jaw appeared to have suffered the least of the damage, but his eye... "We should get you to the infirmary."

North appeared unconcerned, speaking while gazing blankly ahead. "Pardon me, Miss, but would you possess any insight into the identity and purpose of that man?"

Roen Deneith glanced past him to where the assailant had disappeared. "He wore a mask. I did not recognize him."

He watched the fireflies, seemingly entranced. "Of course. Of course that would be the case. Thank you, Miss."

"We should get you to the infirmary, Mister North. You have been injured badly." Roen swallowed. "I mended what I could but..."

"The infirmary? My goodness, I AM in Drybone again, aren't I? You'd think I would have learned!" North burst out laughing, his good eye somewhat wider than usual.

Roen blinked, a bit incredulous. "Ah. But you have survived. Yet again."

"Yes, Miss, indeed! It is just my luck!" He laughed merrily, closing his eye with a broad smile... then grunted in quiet pain, hauling himself to his own feet.

She blinked again, looking to her hand, then back to Gideon. "I take it you did not recognize the attacker."

"No indeed, Miss. I'm afraid not. A bit of a waste, isn't it?"

She watched him cautiously, then picked up her gauntlets, redonning them as she rose as well. She gave him an odd look at the words. "What do you mean..?"

"I yet live, and I have not the means to find my assailant, nor keep it from happening again! I daresay nobody has gotten what they wished for tonight!" He shrugged good-naturedly, chuckling with uncharacteristic mirth.

Roen frowned instantly. "You are wrong. You live. At least that was my wish when I came upon the scene." Pausing, she stepped forward, lowering her voice. "This was the second time you were attacked. Perhaps we can find a pattern. A rhyme or reason..."

"I suppose if one wishes for constants to remain the same, Miss, then one can be thusly satisfied. But this... why, nothing really changed, did it? Nothing changes." North stared at the fireflies for a moment. At his words, Roen blinked again, her movements slower. Her gaze quietly fell to the ground. A moment of silence passed... before North turned to her, smiling politely. "...Miss, I believe it would be unwise to remain here for much longer."

Roen pressed her lips into a thin line, then nodded in agreement. "Aye. Let us at least get you to a more skilled healer than I."

"If it is needed, Miss. I daresay I feel... fine." He chuckled faintly, striding forward.

She regarded him again, her eyes narrowing. "I would feel better if you were checked. And your eye, Mister North..."

"Please, Miss. What do I have to worry about with one eye less? Certainly, if tonight is any evidence, I should have been making better use of them in the first place!" He laughed heartily again, making his way down the path without looking back at her. She watched him oddly, following silently behind him.


North sat on the bed, smiling blankly as he stared forward. They had even placed him in the same room as the last incident. Perhaps they were coming to recognize him.

Roen glanced around, standing by the bedside--clearly remembering similar circumstances. Seeing the healers bustling to and fro, she sighed, relaxing somewhat. She took an uncertain step forward, towards the wounded valet. "Please, let them help you in however way they can, Mister North."

"Of course! Familiar comforts indeed, Miss, familiar enough." North nodded vaguely.

She parted her lips as if to say something, then stopped. Instead, she lightly placed her hand upon his shoulder, her voice softening. "I am glad you are alright." She studied his face. "And even if nothing changes, does not mean we should stop trying," she murmured.

"Miss need not worry. I know precisely what I must do." He nodded, smiling--still staring into the middle distance.

"Nothing foolish... I hope?" Roen stared at him, unsure.

"Do I seem a fool, Miss Deneith?" North stared back at her. For a brief moment, his eyelid twitched.

She slowly shook her head. "Nay. Anything but." Her voice lowered.

"Then I shall leave you in peace." North smiled, the expression apparently fixed in place. "Now. I believe it is time I rested!"

She shook her head again, just slightly. "Do get your rest, Mister North."

"I shall endeavor to."

At last, she stepped back, but paused once more. "I will check on you soon." She smiled almost meekly at him, as if in reassurance.

North stared, smiling, at the wooden screen. "Thank you, Miss. Goodbye."

Roen paused at the doorway, giving the man another strange look, then made her way out of the infirmary, steps slow on the worn stone.

For a long while after, while the chirurgeons and healers attended to him, North remained staring blankly forward. He could not fail them--fail those who had stood alongside him--as he had failed his Masters. Though faith remained beyond his reach, now moreso than ever before, he would always have loyalty.

RE: What You Are In The Dark【Closed】 - Roen - 05-03-2015

Roen stood at the edge of the wooden walkway looking out over the waterfall. Its constant roar bothered her not, and an occasional twirl of cherry blossom petals that danced through the air tamed the majestic view of the rapid’s long descent.

It seemed to her that Lavender Beds nurtured peace and tranquility in every nook of its grounds, and it was here that Roen had found herself recuperating after her escape from the Black Cells. She barely remembered leaving Taeros’ manse, her thoughts spinning and her body leaden with fatigue. She found herself on the doorsteps of Cliffperch, looking up at Brynhilde Wulf’s surprised expression. The Highlander took her in without question and gave her respite for a few suns, allowing her to sleep and eat within their protected walls.

Roen was thankful for Miss Wulf’s discretion. The Highlander did not ask for details and she offered quiet words of wisdom if only to give the paladin some reprieve from her disquieting thoughts. It was also because she was afforded a few more suns in Thanalan that she was able to find Gideon in time to stop the attack on him. But despite the valet’s reassurances of his own health and capabilities, Roen could not help but worry for the man, and wondered how much of his troubles stemmed from her. But in truth, she herself was in no shape to protect him, and she feared that being near him would only put him in more danger.

So as soon as she was able, Roen left Thanalan, traveling to Gridania in search of her friend, Kiht. Gideon had told her of what happened in the tunnels, how she had been present, along with Osric and a few others. They had gone beneath the city to try and rescue her, and to lure Taeros out into the open. How she must have worried, the paladin had thought. It was not the first time her dear friend had gone out of her way to try and help her when she was in trouble. So when she felt strong enough, Roen sought her out in Lavender Beds.

A cool breeze tossed her long forelocks past her eyes as Roen leaned against the wooden railing. She recalled their warm reunion, surprise and relief clear in the miqo’te’s dark gaze. But soon their tidings had turned somber, as Kiht began to ask about her affairs. The words the paladin had exchanged with her friend still rang in her mind, as loud as the pounding echo of the waterfall.

"I know that you believed in him. I do not know what to say other than he failed you. The only mistakes you made were mistakes of faith."

Kiht’s words had not lent her any comfort. Guilt still weighed heavily on Roen, and yet she was hesitant to set the course to lift it. But a part of her knew what awaited her. What she must do.

"Do I find him now? Make him answer for the wrongs he has done? If all he had done amounted to nothing, then…should I not at least try and bring him to some kind of justice?"

It was as if Kiht could sense the paladin’s unease. "Is he still a threat to anyone? Mayhaps you should not ask me because I would say that you have done enough. Let others find him. I know plenty wish to."

“He has killed before. He...likely will again. For reasons he has justified to himself. I tried to justify it, forgive, it, and tried to help him atone for it when I thought he wanted such things. I stood by him through this. Should I not atone for my own mistakes in that?"

Her friend had looked upon her, her gaze hardened. "You once told me that if you met your father, you could not hate him. Or was it that you could not kill him? Either way, could you truly kill Nero now? Because that is what will be done to him, one way or another. Arrest him and he will be killed. What if he fights you? That is why I say you must only pursue him if you can accept doing the deed yourself. As Osric did, with Taeros."

"I...I thought I could kill Taeros," Roen had confessed, shame constricting her breath even then. "When I escaped. I went to go find the noble when I realized there was a hidden tunnel into his manse. I thought that was something I could do, after all this. But…I could not."

"You found Taeros...but you did not kill him?"

"I was somewhat delirious. I thought it would right some wrongs...but to just kill him, that would not be right. To sneak into a man's home with the sole intent to end his life, he did not deserve that."

"You could not kill that bastard, so I am now even more convinced that you could not do so to Nero. You are a Protector, Roen. Not a hunter."

"He and Nero should be brought to trial. Judged by the law. It should not be delivered at the end of a vigilante's sword. Taeros was defenseless. Without weapons, without soldiers...could you cut down a defenseless man?"

Roen could recall Kiht’s expression then. It had grown cold. Her eyes held the look of a predator.

"If it is someone like Taeros...yes. I could.”

Those words spoken by her friend still shocked her now. But Roen had to remind herself of what mattered: the virtues she upheld and the ideals that made her who she was.

"I am a free Paladin. I swore the Oath of a Sultansworn once. Nero put the people I promised to protect in danger. He planned for riots in Pearl Lane and arranged for deaths of women and children. I need to make certain he will not do that again."

Kiht’s voice softened in response to the paladin’s steel. "Then what can you do? You made mistakes. Mayhaps you should share what you know with Gharen or Osric. They can do the deed. You still have other things to worry about, do you not?"

"And let others take the burdens that should be mine?" Her own response had been quick, almost a knee-jerk indignation.

Her friend had looked forlorn, there was only pity in her eyes. "I only see two choices before you. Leave him, or chase him.” She took a deep breath in before she continued. “...If you chase him, you need to be willing to kill him."

Kiht’s voice was suddenly drowned away in the constant din of the waterfall, and another spoke in her ear. A face rose from her memory, one of ice-blue gaze behind soot black locks with their fiery orange highlights, and his eyes bore into her. She found herself standing at the edge of the pier at Crescent Cove with a blade between them that he had stuck between the wooden planks.

"Blood and war will fill the streets. And if you want to prevent all of that from happening…if you want to save Ul'dah, take that blade and eliminate me now. I am a threat. I will tear down everything you hold dear about that wretched hive of a city.” The cold fire in his eyes had not wavered then, nor his conviction. Had he known then, what would happen?

“It's within your power to stop all of this now.” Nero did not relent. “Because I will not turn away from my path. Not ever.” She remembered his smile then, it was without regret, without a sense of forlornness. “If you care about Ul'dah as you claim, then prevent these ravages from happening. Do not do what is lawful, not what is justice, but what is right."

Roen found herself shaking, her hands gripping the edge of the wooden railing so tight in her silent objection. She could not fathom it then, so many moons ago, killing the man who only wanted to see all the suffering come to an end. But now…now all she could see were the bodies that were left behind in his wake, and visions of more bodies that would litter the streets if he was not stopped.

Could I…? Her head shook inadvertently as if already answering herself. And yet, she knew inaction was not a choice she could accept. What is the right thing to do?

“Roen?”

A familiar voice broke the paladin from her thoughts as footsteps creaked upon the wooden bridge. A sidelong glance revealed two figures approaching her: Kiht, with Osric Melkire in tow.

RE: What You Are In The Dark【Closed】 - Roen - 05-03-2015

Roen said nothing at first. The Flame sergeant came to stand on one side of her, Kiht on the other. He leaned against the railing with one arm, the other hanging a bit limp at his side. He sighed as he looked up at the sky that had darkened quickly with his arrival, raindrops beginning to spatter against his vest and tunic.

“I heard what happened, sergeant.” The paladin kept her gaze on the distant waterfall, not minding the rain. “In the tunnels.”

“...And?” Osric glanced her way, his voice lowered.

“Was that what you promised Nero?”

The sergeant did not answer right away. He turned back to the waterfall. “In exchange for everythin’ he could give me on Scythe? Yes, that was the bargain.”

This made her pause and look to him, surprised. “Did he give you what you needed?”

“He gave me everything. No one else needs t’die for their sqaubblin'.”

Roen sighed, her shoulders sagging with some relief. “At least he honored that promise.”

Osric snorted. “Think he took it as some sort o’ professional courtesy.”

“So what now, Sergeant? What will you do?”

The Flame turned his gaze back to the paladin once more, meeting her eyes. "That's not what y'truly want t'ask me, now is it?"

"I do not even know where to begin. I have been trying to sort this out in my head. The point of..." She paused. "What you did. What I have done. What Nero has done. I suppose you got what you needed from him. So your actions were justified? I am not here to judge you for what you did in the tunnels. I just...I just need to know what you intend to do now. Are you going to stop Scythe?"

"Should I? Suppose I should. Or perhaps I ought t'stick to m'word and just pull the innocent out o' the man's path o' destruction." He shook his head. "One thing y'learn when it comes to these things, Roen? When titans clash, the little folk suffer. And that ain't right. That ain't ever been right.”

"And what. Let the bloodshed happen?" The paladin scowled. "Bandits shooting at whoever in the streets just to make a point, it is not what I ever had in mind. Do you understand? For all the suffering Nero said he wanted to end, he promised me he would try to be a better man in doing it."

“Aye, and that's why I'm puttin' an end to it. We'll have Ernis and his bastards within a few suns." Osric narrowed his eyes for a moment longer upon her, before turning back to lean against the railing.

Roen still continued to stare at him, shame and guilt heating her cheeks despite the rain soaking her. "But he lied. He never intended to spare anyone. He thought it acceptable."

The Flame lowered his head, his next words nearly a whisper. “If he thought it acceptable, he wouldn't have given me Scythe. He would've sailed on to Othard, as he's plannin' on doin' if he weren't lyin' in his letter, and he would've let them all burn." He gave her a sidelong look. "I told you once he 'n' I were more alike than y'knew. You never asked me how.”

“Tell me.”

"We grew up without hope," he said simply. "I sent him a letter, askin' him t'help me save the little ones. The ones just the way he used t'be." He pushed off the railing and and reached beneath his vest with his left hand. "I have both letters here. Would you like t'read them?"

Roen could not say no. She had to read for herself Nero’s words, those that would save Pearl Lane, and stop the bloodshed that he himself had planned. When she nodded, Osric handed over sheets of parchment rolled up in leather, bound by a thin knot. The paladin undid them carefully, but when opened, she read them eagerly. The more she read, the tighter her grip had become on those letters.

"I don't think y'can deny it, Roen," the Flame said softly. "Was always odd, his hatred o' Blades. I think you 'n' I know perfectly well where 'n' how he grew up."

The paladin did not look up from those letters. "Does...does that justify the women and children he had killed?"

“No.”

"It still does not change the fact that he sold those guns. His plan was to bath the streets in blood.” Her voice was beginning to shake as she stared back at the sergeant. “Would he have given these to you if you had not done what you did in the tunnels? If not for the professional courtesy?!"

Osric met her gaze for a few moments, then curled a small smile. There was no mirth in it, only a profound sadness that reached his emerald eyes. "We struck a bargain. For some folks o' his ilk 'n' mine, such things are all we understand. All we can ever understand. Sometimes, here 'n' there, someone shines a Light, and we wake up." He slowly bowed his head. "I'm sorry that he never woke up, Roen."

She shoved the letters back into Osric’s hand and spun away from him, her hands shaking by her side. She quickly swiped at her cheeks that were moist with rain and emotion. It was after a long pause of silence that she spoke again. “I stood by him,” she rasped. “Even after what he did.”

“Acceptance ain’t a sin,” Osric’s words held an audible scowl.

“I swore an oath once.” Roen wrinkled her nose to forces the sadness away. “To protect the helpless, to raise my sword and shield to defend them against those who would harm them." She inhaled sharply. “And then I stood by, while he planned that very thing. Because why? Was it my hubris? Did I really think I could change him? Did I just imagine the goodness there?"

She shot the sergeant an indignant glare. “He warned me from the very start. What he was. What he wanted. It was me. I did not want to believe it.” She placed a hand against her chest. “I thought...if he wanted to damn himself to end the suffering...if I could see that he hated himself for what he wanted to do..." She shook her head, shameful. "I thought I could turn him from that."

"Tis not a sin to love or hope either,” Kiht finally broke her silence from behind the paladin. She sounded morose.

Roen turned from them both, staring back out to the waterfall. She blinked away the raindrops from her lashes. "That is my folly. That is my mistake. One I must atone for."

"You offered forgiveness 'n' mercy 'n' acceptance to a man who'd never known any." Osric turned towards her. "You have t'hit rock bottom 'fore y'can recognize those gifts for what they are, Roen. Take it from someone who knows."

“And what GOOD DID IT DO?!” The paladin whirled back toward the Flame. Her voice had risen and she was yelling; her anger, disappointment, regret and sorrow now spilling forth along with her tears.

Osric growled as he pushed himself off the railing, stepping towards her. His left hand seized her jerkin by the collar and shook her slightly. “You care that much?!”

Roen glared back at the sergeant, her lower lip quivering. “I swore an oath,” she said hoarsely.

“Then COME BACK TO IT!” He shouted back at her. “"Some of us are no good," he panted, sweat shimmering over his skin as if he'd run five malms. "Some of us ain't blessed with freedom, 'n' choice. The Order let you down, 'n' so you fled 'n' took up someone else's cause. Pick your own ground and stand on it, gods damn you." He finally released her and stepped back, one hand going to the wooden railing for support.

The paladin stood stalk still, her chest rising and falling with heavy breaths taken. Her eyes glazed over the man in front of her to the distant cherry blossom tree that was being pelted by the rain. Could I…?

A long pause of silence passed before she spoke again. “I...know what I must do.” She nodded faintly, as if to herself.

"And what's that?" The sergeant sounded tired, but curious still.

Roen’s eyes followed the course of a single petal spinning violently in the wind, tossed haphazardly by the rain. "I swore an oath,” she repeated her mantra once more as if in recitation. “I need to protect the little people from those who would bring them harm." She did not look back at the Flame.

"Gratitude, Sergeant,” the paladin murmured, although there was no warmth in her words. Only resignation. "I will let you know when I am successful." She bowed her gaze as it followed the tumbling petal as it descended into the depths below.

"Suppose you will. Suppose I'll have t'wait 'n see." Osric grunted with little satisfaction.

An extended palm with a blue pearl resting on it entered her view, drawing the paladin’s attention back to the Flame. "Yours, if y'want it." He smirked oddly. "Suppose you'd rather not. Folks find me despicable these suns."

Roen took a few deep breaths before she took up the pearl. She pocketed it without a word.

Osric blinked, genuine surprise in his eyes. There seemed to be a gleam of something -- a grim smile perhaps, tugging at the corner of his lips. "Welcome back, Ser."

Roen frowned at the title. But she said nothing as he turned to Kiht, motioning over the miqo’te who had remained silent all this time.

"Kiht, a word in private? Mayhap two."

The paladin watched the two walk off on their own. She turned back to the waterfall, letting the thunderous rapids drown out her doubts.



~



Kiht returned after sharing private words with Osric before his departure from the Lavender Beds. There was a determined stride to her steps as she came to stand next to Roen, her arms crossed.

"When a rampaging beast does not become tame, he must be put down,” she said matter-of-factly. When Roen did not meet her gaze, she continued, the Seeker too looking to the violent fall of the water in the distance. "What do you need to do Roen. I am at your side."

“Are you still willing to help me?” the paladin asked, her voice muted but calm.

“Indeed.”

“Then let us prepare a trip to Noscea.” Roen let out a silent exhale. “We both know where he lives. If he truly plans to leave for Othard, we may still catch him preparing.”

“We give the beast one more chance to be tame. If he does not then you can never know when he might return.” She paused, her expression growing dark.

“Jackals always return.”

RE: What You Are In The Dark【Closed】 - Shas - 05-05-2015

Shas made her way through Pearl Lane taking quick and random glances of the buildings and certain places of interest. She was already convinced of how things were going to play out and made it a point to memorize key areas. Recalling the earlier meeting with the Dauntlesss alongside Ser Crofte, she planned on taking no chances. She continued making her through Pearl Lane before deciding to head back towards the Sapphire Avenue exchange, keeping a watchful eye out for anything or anyone that would catch her attention. Before she finally departed Pearl Lane she did take note of some individuals whom she believed would more than likely be part of Scythe's gang. She headed towards the direction of her marks while maintaining her distance, only getting close to enough to make them out more clearly.

"Well, well, well...wha' exactly do we have here? Hmmm...I wonder if ye might be th' boys we've been looking for. Old Shas is definitely goin' tae remember this lot here..."

Not being one to leave anything to chance, she continued to observe from a distance. Taking in the features of those she was watching, memorizing their faces, attire and any other identifying marks that would make them easier to spot in the near future. While she was making her observations, she thought back to her younger days living in Ala Mhigo. Remembering the things taught to her by her mother, the plans that were made for her before she was even born. A small scowl formed across her face while she continued watching the group, starting to recite the words her mother spoke to her. 

"Remember that your defeat can only come by having your reason for attacking removed. But also know that holds true for those against you. Keep in mind, that the best asset you have at your disposal is your mind. Any other weapon you could possess will always pale in comparison. You must keep your heart strong, and your mind even stronger."

Shas took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, taking one final glance before deciding it was time to move on and report back on what she had seen. As much as she wished against it, her mind was still convinced on what would happen next. She knew exactly what she would have to do, what she needed to do. A bloodbath was expected and she had no intention of missing out on it, nor did she intend on coming unprepared.

"Thanks mom....even in death...you're still right. I know exactly wha' this is goin' tae cost...an' I can live with tha'......I CAN live with that."

Before making her way back to the Dauntless HQ, Shas decided to make a short stop at her Company room in the barracks. She took one step through the door and noticed how quiet it was compared to a few days prior. She removed an intricate red and gold bracelet from her left wrist and looked over it carefully before tossing it to the side. She remembered less than a moon prior giving a matching bracelet to her former lover and realized that she would never lay eyes on her again. She then started to remove a choker from her neck and stopped just short of unlatching it. She remembered a young teenage girl who some would see as being a shorter and younger version of herself. She also remembered the day she received the choker from the younger girl, the same day she came back into her life several cycles after the Calamity.

Shas would take one more look at the red and gold bracelet she set aside and began to fidget with the choker still placed around her neck. She was even more convinced at this point of what was needed to be done, of what more would be lost if she failed. She kept her gaze upon the bracelet and spoke to it as if she was speaking to the one she gave it to.

"I'm sorry...I failed you....but I will not fail her or anyone else. Whatever it takes, whomever needs to be dealt with, I will not fail them....no matter the cost. I can only hope and pray the others will forgive me....hmmmm. If not...oh well, it wont change anything regardless..."

Shas turned and made her towards the door she came through grabbing a longblade from a nearby weapons rack before she departed to make her report on the days activities. She had no doubt in her mind that those affected by this seemingly never ending blood fued would never truly be the same again. She knew that she could never go back to the way things were before, and started to feel some relief at that knowledge. A small smirk formed across her face as she made her way through the Goblet to her destination while silently speaking to herself.

"Welcome back, old Sharla....it's about damn time...."

RE: What You Are In The Dark【Closed】 - Mikh'a - 05-05-2015

I can't do this.

“Lieutenant.”

His heart was hammering in his chest. Where were they again? The Goblet. It all spun back in to view as he lifted his head and locked eyes with Coatleque. She wasn't alone. What did they smell like? Sand. Cloth. Metal. Cleaning oils. Perfume. Heat. They smelled like the sun. The desert.

“Ser Crofte.”

Salute.

She did it first. Automatically his body shifted in response, giving a far less graceful salute to Coatlique in return. He sounded more calm than he felt, his face betraying little by way of his fear of the situation. His gaze shifted from Crofte to the unfamiliar Highlander and he inclined his head in less than subtle curiosity. “Your friend..?” She wouldn't have brought along someone that wasn't worth trusting, but precautions needed to be taken none the less. Mortar shifted behind him, smoothing out his shirt in an attempt to look more presentable in front of their fair featured company.

“This is Shas Terry. You needn't worry, she knows of the situation. I've brought her to help with the planning.”

Shas nodded in response. “Aye,” she agreed with a Flame salute that he responded in kind to. Again it lacked the grace and practice of someone that had been doing it for years.

“Perhaps we should go inside?” Crofte offered.

You idiot.

“R-right!” He could feel his heart rate pick up. He should have thought of that. Why hadn't he? His hand groped backward for the door – Mortar caught the gesture and casually reached up to open it instead. “...th-thanks Private.”

“What kind of doorman would I be if I didn't get it for a pretty lady?” The Lalafell gave his commanding officer a cheeky grin and Mikh'a's ears flexed back just a little bit as he led the two women through the front office, past the messy desk with scattered papers, the wall plastered with mission statements, hunt marks, and check ins. Down the hall, second door after his office, and in to Kanaria's office they went with little ceremony. Upon entrance he was conscious enough to lock the door, reminded as he did it that there were absent bodies from his company.

Where was Siha?

“Do you still have the papers?”

Mikh'a took in a deep breath through his nose and moved toward Shas and Crofte. Burning wood. Trees. Lingering perfume. Leather. Metals. “I've got them locked up here... I have the plans on me though, I've been trying to do some research on the dreadnought design, look for weakness.” He vanished briefly with a crouch behind the desk.

“Did you find anything?” Shas asked curiously and he stood again with the yellow envelope in hand, passing it and the plans to her.

“Nothing that doesn't come standard with the design.” Mikh'a admitted reluctantly. “Even the steel is standard. Weak at the knees, slow to power up, the potential for flimsy joints if the craftsmanship is shoddy and rushed but otherwise it's solid and we're better off disabling it before it reaches full potential.”

Shas grunted in response as she flipped through the papers and Mikh'a nervously looked to Crofte. She regarded him for less than a nonce, long enough to almost feel like an eternity but not long enough to let the creeping fear settle back in completely. The only tell contrary to the calm look on his face was the twitching tip of his tail until Crofte cleared her throat. His ears flexed back, surprised for no reason and he straightened up. A groping hand reached for the desk to steady the tremble before it could start and he made the fear look like a casual lean. “If that thing gets started we won't be able to stop it.”

“That's why we need to lure him away from the city, somewhere that we can fight him on our terms rather than his own.”

“I thought that was where the Dauntless came in?”

Where was Kanaria?

“It is.” Mikh'a felt his stomach twist in knots. His nostrils flared, another tell that he was internally going out of his mind. “But we have to get him there. We can set up traps and scour the perimeter, ready to take him down at a nonce's notice but getting him to that point is the hard part.”

“What was it, a drug was suggested.” Coatleque reminded him and his mind rolled back as he considered.

“Milkweed.” he remembered. “It was just a matter of getting in there to find the weakest link... we couldn't send you, they'd recognize your face.”

“I can do it.” Shas spoke up and handed the documents back to Mikh'a. “Not as well known as Ser Crofte, and I can use that tae my advantage. I could go in and root out someone willin' tae turn on their master, ain't hard tae find in a den o'thieves really. Someone's always lookin' tae get their back scratched.”

Mikh'a considered, rubbing his chin as he paced with the documents back around the desk. “But aren't you almost as well known as the captain?” he asked as he shut and locked the drawer. “Wouldn't they recognize you too?”

“Nae.” Shas had a grin that reminded Mikh'a of Osric on her face as he stood back upright, folding the plans back up to tuck them in to his chest. “I've got my ways.”

Mikh'a drummed his fingers on the wood of the desk and took in another deep breath, nodding as he considered the options. Burning wood. Steel. Leather. His tail twitched again and he tried to hold the breath to still his twisting stomach. Crofte spoke again, steering the conversation for him once more and the boy's fingers curled along the desk. “And what about Ernis? If you can't lure him away?”

Where was Osric?

“We'll have people both in and out of the city in preparation and open pearl contact. If we need to move from outside back in to the city it can be done swiftly.” Mikh'a straightened up again and looked between Shas and Crofte. “Our best bet is to take him off guard and on our terms, so that we can disable the device.”

“If we don't disable that device it's going to wreak havoc and destroy Pearl Lane.” Coatleque agreed and Mikh'a's ears went flat at the thought.

“Aya is supposed to be the ears to get people moving if needs be.”

“Aya Foxheart? From the Quicksand?” Crofte asked and Mikh'a nodded. “Good. The Dauntless will do their part from there, and the Sultansworn will be standing by with readied blades. I'm sorry we can't offer more aide.” The smile she gave him was apologetic and he could only straighten up with confidence in return.

“No need to be sorry, this is what the Dauntless is for.” he reminded her. “And I'm more than confident my people will be on point and capable of handling their part.”

“Good. They'll need to be.” The grim tone was not lost on him and Crofte looked toward Shas who nodded in return.

“Will you be alright?” Mikh'a had followed her gaze to the woman who only waved a hand and with equal confidence said, “Aye I'll be alright. They won't see me comen' and if anything were tae happen there's always open communication on my end as well.”

“Then I trust the next we meet we'll be on point.” Crofte looked toward the window behind Mikh'a and the setting sun. “The hour grows late, we should be on our way to take care of things in Ul'dah.”

There was an awkward pause, and a raised brow reminded the boy he'd locked the door. Grunting to hide his panic he moved swiftly to release Coatleque and Shas from their would-be office prison. “I'll be sending someone to see you soon,” Crofte added as he opened the door. “Jana Ridah. She's part of the Free Brigade but I believe she'll be helpful to you in the absence of the Sworn's assitance.”

“I'll keep an eye out for her.” Mikh'a smiled.

Salute.

He initiated it this time, ending the conversation with a far more graceful salute than he'd pulled off in the beginning, near flawless in its execution, and it was returned by the women with equal practiced grace.

“Be safe.” He could never remember which of Eorzea's gods were appropriate to call to people as they were traveling in to the night, and omitted them as often as he could both to save himself the humiliation of offending someone, and because of personal conflict in beliefs.

“You as well, Lieutenant.”

“Aye, watch yourself.” Shas gave Mikh'a a nod, the last from the room. Mikh'a shifted to watch them down the hall and out the front of the building, though he didn't follow. They parted right, as he went left to his lab while unfolding the Dreadnought plans once more.

Maybe I can do this..

RE: What You Are In The Dark【Closed】 - Nero - 05-05-2015

The waiting was agony.

Charged emotions permeated the air like a fog. Fear, pride, anxiety, anger, and even excitement amalgamated together in Pearl Lane. Everyone who resided in that slum knew that something was coming, but only some knew exactly what that something was. The streets were too quiet--the prevalent bandit gangs had begun to clear off of the streets for the day, and naught but beggars, peddlers, and the occasional Brass Blade patrol wandering through made their presence known. The sun shone brilliantly as it passed its zenith, casting menacing shadows across the pavement as men and women alike began to filter inside the once-abandoned buildings.

The safe house, too, was devoid of conversation, but it was not empty, nor was it silent. Guns were loaded, swords sharpened, heads counted. There was a Highlander sitting on an intimidating rectangular structure inside the safe house, wordlessly cleaning a wicked, serrated falchion. He was dressed in naught but sack cloth trousers and boots, his bronze chest was thick and marked with scars. He'd shaven his ash-blonde beard, and his unkempt hair still sported the blood red highlights that marked who he was, and in his eyes a sharp clarity, tempered by withheld rage. This is the man who would change everything.

He raised his head. After a quick check, everyone would be sent back out to the streets again to maintain the illusion of normalcy. It was gratifying to see that many of the faces he saw he recognised as former enemies--gangsters, bandits, crooks of all sorts, coerced or persuaded into joining under his banner. Miqo'te, Ala Mhigans, the Hellsguard brothers who'd stood by him...he could see the looks on their faces: apprehension, terror, and disquiet, but also hope, eagerness, and determination. Some of them knew what their actions meant for this city. Some didn't care.

It would only be a few more suns. A few more suns, just enough time for the Blades to be distracted and the Sworn to be absent. Scythe didn't trust the pirate as far as he could throw him, but at this point, it didn't matter. The people of Ul'dah were given the tools, and they would make good use of them, and to rush a plan such as this was to invite certain destruction.

The Highlander raised his head. An affirmative, indistinct shout was heard, and gradually the bandits began to filter back into the streets. The safe house was again quiet save for the shnk of an oil stone running across the edge of a blade.

Just a few more suns.

RE: What You Are In The Dark【Closed】 - Aya - 05-08-2015

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Clearing the Lane


A thin wispy string of smoke rose lazily upward through the still and thick air of the afternoon.  Ul'dah's Spring had long ago grown hot and searing; the wet cool breeze of the winter season a fading memory.  The man whose teeth clenched the pipe's stem was old enough to remember the real winters of his youth.  In that distant land whose high, rolling hills would awake to a crisp dust of snow and frost.

He was wiry by Highland standards, a whirl of red hair rising with tufted chaos upon his head.  His eyes bore a lazy focus on the lane below the balcony.  Despite the shade, the heat was enough to render anyone lethargic unless needs fully demanded otherwise.  Still, it was his job to watch the lane below for any sign of trouble.  One of several lookouts keeping an eye upon their small stretch of the lane.

A pair of Brass Blades strolled along below casting glances toward the pedlars and indigent who idled along either side of the road.  It was just a short distance to the buzzing activity of the Sapphire Exchange Bazaar, where gil and goods readily exchanged hands.  But this was where those who weren't allowed under the bazaar canopies found themselves conducting business: Pearl Lane.

Ostensibly these folk were afforded the protection of Ul'dahs City Watch: the Brass Blades.  But the Blades reflected the character of the city itself, and indulged in the pursuit of gil.  Buyers able to afford their services were not to be found here, and unable to meet the market cost of Brass Blade protection, the denizens of the Lane found themselves bereft.

Instead what protection they had came at the hands of Bohanon and his brethren.  The scars upon his hands and forearms lent credence to his history as a knife fighter.  The missing finger upon his left hand was a reminder of the price of such combat.  The Brass Blades wandered along their path, offering nothing more than disdainful glances.  They understood cost benefit analysis as well as the old Guild hands: this wasn't the place to make idle trouble.

The young redhead let a cocky smile cross his lips.  The door to the balcony's apartment opened with a creaking groan.  "How's tha mornin' Bo?" asked the brogue of a familiar voice.

"A fine morning, indeed.  Despite the blasted heat." He nodded, gesturing with the hand that held his small pipe.

"I still say it beats Little Ala Mhigo."

Bohanon nodded with broader smirk, "Real pipeweed for one.  And real liquor for the better."

His brother joined him in a laugh.  Jericho was taller and broader, but no fighter at heart.  He'd found work in Momodi's kitchen and did his due diligence to keep it.

As the laughter died down the pipe returned to Bohanon's teeth, which clenched with a worried firmness.  Things were not exactly well.  The name, "Scythe" was on the tongue of every rumor-monger this side of the Gold Court.  Except for the fanatics it was not a pleasant thought.  Trouble was on the horizon, and trouble with Scythe's name attached meant violence of the bloody sort.

His eyes returned to the watch, spotting a familiar figure approaching from the direction of the Steps of Nald.  Aya, the Ishgardian barmaid of the Quick Sand, and ever the sight.  He'd said it before: "When men say women are trouble, she is what they mean."  And a common sight she was in the Lane, familiar and friendly to many of the street folk and peddlers who frequent it.  Bohanon was concerned, though, he'd just spotted her several times in the company of a Flame Sergeant - and not just any Flame Sergeant, but one well known to the lot of them - and they knew Melkire meant even more trouble than the blonde. 

"'Ey Jericho." he said out of the corner of his mouth, his voice raised just below a shout.  "Yer princess is out 'ere."

Jericho appeared as summoned, a ragged towel wrapped around his shoulders as he patted down freshly washed cheeks while peering with sun-squinted eyes down into the lane.  "And so she is..." he assented all too agreeably for Bohanon's taste-a sentiment expressed with a scoffing groan.

"'Ey," he objected, "She's a right fine lass now, and friendly too.  I don't want to hear you say naught a word contrary o' her." He gestured toward the lane with a towel-wrapped hand.

Bohanon turned his agitated gaze toward his brother, "You're too trustin' o' women.  I'm tellin' you, somethin' that pretty means trouble, and I mean trouble."

Jericho rolled his eyes, letting out a groan that was interrupted by something catching his eye.  "'Ey, isn't that yer boss she's talkin' wi?" 

With a scrambling start, Bohanon leapt to his feet.  His hands slammed onto the banister of the balcony as he felt the hot blaze of the sun sear his suddenly exposed face.  "Gods damnit!" he exclaimed with a barely cut-off shout, leaving his hands fumbling to catch the pipe as it dropped from his lips.




Bohanon stood with his arms folded across his body, his glance side-ways, with obvious frustration on his sweat-covered brow. 

"What the hells are we doing?" he asked himself.  Behind him stood two others under his command.  Their block was dominated by Ala Mhigan refugees, and theirs was an Ala Mhigan gang.  They were among those fortunate enough to have gained entry to, and for some, employment in the city itself.  Their usual activities were those of low-level organized crime combined with the self-policing that came with the turf.  They had their roots in the community.  They protected it from outside trouble, kept the peace, and expected their share of the cut.  They were feared, if not respected, and when orders came down from the top to get something done, Bohanon was one of those who made sure they got done.

The eye-slot in the door slid open, revealing a pair of fair-hued Hyur eyes.  They way they suddenly grew wider at the sight before them, meant there was no doubt they took in who was at the door: the red-haired Bohanon was himself an easily recognizable adjunct.  The two behind him didn't need introduction: a hulking highlander man carrying a heavy steel pipe, and a bored-looking Miqo'te woman with a look of impatience, and a length of chain wrapped around her arm. 

"Afternoon ma'am", came the redhead's friendliest authoritative brogue.  "Don't you worry, we dun mean you no trouble."  He comforter her before a short pause, "'Long as ye do what we ask."

The fearful look in her eyes did not look the least bit comforted.  Bohanon didn't really mind, respect was one of the perks of his position.  "What do you want?" came the feminine voice from behind the door, struggling to sound firm and calm.

"Yer to clear out, gonna spend the night somewhere real nice and comfy while some trouble blows over.  All of ye, make sure ye leave together.  Ye can come back tomorrow sunrise.  Take whatever ye want, leave the rest and we'll keep an eye on it for ye."  His head moved with a confident little shake, a discomforting smirk upon his features.

"But.. leave? Why?" came the surprised, upset voice on the other side of the door.

"Its for yer own good, okay?  We're expecting trouble.  And because-" he tilted his head toward her, "we asked ye so nice.".

The peephole slid shut.  "We'll be back in an hour.  Better make sure you've cleared out." He hollered thudding his fist once more against the wood door, before turning to approach the next apartment in the building.  He knew the rumors of trouble had already spread like wildfire.  Word of Brass Blade raids, of Scythe, of wild revolutionaries let loose intent upon torching the city itself.  Rumors of the Flames preparing to impose martial law on the Lane, before it could get out of hand.  Some were already fleeing on the strength of the rumors alone.  The rest, well that's what Bohanon and his brethren would take care of.

He cast a look over each shoulder, glancing back to his soldiers one at a time, before looking squarely toward the next door.  He raised his hand and knocked loudly upon it.

"Afternoon sir", he greeted in the same friendly, but authoritative tone.  "Don't you worry, we dun mean you no trouble..."




Bohanon took the final step down the rattling stoop.  He tilted his head up toward the late afternoon sky, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun.  Beads of sweat poured down his cheeks, his neck, and his chest.  He took a hard swallow, finding it dry.  "What in the hells are we doing?" he asked himself again.  The steel-pipe-carrier let himself down with a thud, sitting upon the rough paving stones of the Lane as he let out a tired groan.  The Miqo'te lass yawned, but her nonchalance scarcely hid her own discomfort.

They'd cleared several buildings, though a few double-checks remained for stragglers.  There were two more left to go, though they knew by now most of the residents had already left of their own accord, word traveling faster than the groups themselves could.  It wasn't exactly a stream, but more of a trickle as this section of the Lane's poor denizens worked their way down the lane toward the Steps of Nald where they were being met by representatives of the Guiding Hand Trade Concern.  C'kayah Polaali, a newly sanctioned Trader, had gladly taken the opportunity purchase some good will.  His agents were in the process of collecting those being relocated for the night, and shuffling them off to various lodgings for the evening.

Meanwhile the entire gang had been called out, and more of their numbers now lined the block keeping a close eye on the buildings to discourage would-be-looters.  Bohanon swallowed hard again, turning his attention down the lane toward the Steps of Nald.  Several groups moved together, families supporting their elderly members.  Some of the young and able carried legal implements as makeshift weapons: hooks and hammers in their belts.  Fear and destitution were written on their features.  None knew what they would come back to, if they could come back.  Most had seen this all before, and the promise of charity from the GHTC wouldn't be worth an onze until the ordeal was over.

Just a block down the way, Bohanon spied the trouble he knew was responsible for it all:  that blasted barmaid, wrapped in a dark cloak and looking as cool as could be.  She knelt next to an older woman who sat before a threadbare blanket spread upon the ground, which was covered in various hats, shoes and broken musical instruments.  He could see the friendly cheerfulness upon the barmaid's smile from here, and watched as she spoke with the pedlar-woman, before helping her begin rolling up her blanket and returning the bulkier goods to another sack: each instrument wrapped one-by-one. 

As the young woman stood a few moments later, she swung the sack over her left shoulder, and offered her free right hand to the old woman to help her up.  Together they headed down the Lane toward a representative of the GHTC, ready with a small cart for those with difficulty walking on their own.

Bohanon took another hard, dry, swallow before rallying his group with the wave of a hand.  "Le's get started on the next." he said with a begrudged calmness.

RE: What You Are In The Dark【Closed】 - Melkire - 05-08-2015

A man could easily lose himself in the press of bustling crowds that frequented the Sapphire Avenue Exchange, and this sun was little different. Peddlers pitched their wares, mothers scolded their children, fathers and brothers found themselves parting with precious coin for the sake of a moon’s amusement or two, and shadows grew longer as the bells marched ever onward. One such shadow in particular parted from the veritable sea of bodies as the midlander to whom it belonged stepped away from a stall to collapse onto a nearby bench. Moments later, he was joined by a rather large Hellsguard. The big man glanced around, huffed a breath, and sat down next to the Hyur.

“What is that?”

“The latest in fashion, Peak,” answered the midlander from beneath his vestment.

“…it’s a rug.”

“It’s not a rug, it’s a tapestry! Please appreciate the difference.”

The Roegadyn turned a raised eyebrow on him and leaned away for dramatic effect. “So you’re wearing a tapestry.”

“…look, cloaks ‘n’ robes ain’t easy t’pinch when you’ve only one workin’ arm, alright? Twelve Above, cut me some slack.”

Burning Peak snorted as he rested his arms on his thighs. “Only enough to hang yourself with, Melkire. How goes?”

“They’re nearly finished clearin’ them out by now.” The man beneath the tapestry shifted slightly. “Hope your men ‘n’ women are in place. I’d hate t’lose eyes on our ‘friends,’ and we might need more muscle if all the hells break loose.”

“We’re in place. As for Randolph, you told me you and yours would handle the… ah… situation.”

“And next you’ll be tellin’ me you keep all your apkallu eggs in one basket.”

“Make the call.”

There came a low chuckle and the brush of leather on cotton as the midlander shifted again. One arm rose as he reached for his ear, his left hand discernable through the bright red-and-green fabric.

“Dauntless, we’re in for a poor harvest, I repeat, we are in for a poor harvest.”

RE: What You Are In The Dark【Closed】 - Askier - 05-08-2015

Zeig Hengner had always been getting into trouble. Trouble had followed him growing up. It Followed him into adult life.  But now, he was causing it. 

The black-haired hyur had joined Scythe awhile back, ready to help the massive Roe change it all by bringing the violence upon the system.

And now, with a gunblade in his hand, Zeig, and his five fellows, were going to raise the hells upon the alleys of Uldah.

Zeig grinned as he heard distant cries.  This, this was what he wanted.  It was addicting.  Many people bitched about things but never tried to change them. Zeig and his fellows were actually doing something to bring about change.  Words wouldn't change the world.  Violence would.  Just as it always had.

The hyur and his five fellows were carving their way up the seemingly deserted road, their steel weapons glinting as the rebels swung them as happily as they pleased.

What Zeig was not pleased with was the sudden appearance that occurred before him as a figure in a blue duster coat stepped out from a doorway and blocked their path.

The miqo'te's flesh was a deep tan and brown hair hung about a narrow face.  The eyes were hidden behind reflective glasses, and a brown tail was twitching behind his muscled torso.  Smoke from a lit cigarette burned in his lips, shrouding his face in smoke as a twin pair of double-barrel, flintlock pistols rested one in each hand.

Ki Grimsong studied Zeig and his entourage of revolutionaries with a smug look of disdain and he spoke slowly, making sure the idiots could understand him.

"I think we can skip the pleasantries."  Ki commented flatly as a gust of wind tugged at his hair; smoke wafting out of his mouth as he spoke as if he was Ifrit itself.  "You are all a bunch of brainless idealists; and I ain't here for any other reason but to put ya down on behalf of well payin' parties.  So, that said, there are three ways this can end."

Zeig tightened his grip on his gunblade as he glared at Ki, who continued to speak.

"One: you pay me more than what I'm being paid to kill you and I leave you to your fun." Ki paused and, when Zeig didn't take the option, the Miqo'te shrugged.

"Option two is you try to pay me more than what I'm getting paid to kill you, but you fail to exceed that sum, and I still kill you.  Or, option three, you shoot first, and I make that the last bad judgement call you ever get to make."

Ki blew a smoke ring and shifted the cigarette to the left side of his mouth.

"Gentlemen, what's it gonna be?"

Zeig rolled his eyes, raised his gunblade, and went to fire.

Ki saw the hyur and his fellows raising their firearms and sighed.

"Why is it always option three?"

Ki threw himself behind a stack of boxes to his left as the bullets from the rebels' weapons began slicing through the air.  Several shots ricocheted off the street's surface as Ki pulled his tail around into his lap to keep it safe. The tanned miqo'te set his twin pistols onto the ground and reached into his coat with both hands.

Ki spat out his smoldering smoke as he produced two things from his coat.

The first was a mask made of leather and metal.  The lower part of the mask was a metal breathing apparatus equipped with a filtration system that trapped toxins inside a small reservoir tank so the wearer could breath normally in harmful atmospheric conditions.  The top part of the mask was a set of goggles sewn into a full leather face covering.  Ki shook his head and his glasses flew off into the street. A bullet whizzed past and the glasses exploded as the projectile disintegrated them.

Ki growled and rolled his mismatched eyes, one gold, one black, as he slide the mask over his face.

"Those cost me one hundred gil ya tossers!"

Once the mask was snug on his face, Ki looked down through the mirror lenses of his gas mask as the canister in his left hand.  It was a small, metal cylinder with a red stripe painted on it and something written in a language clearly not Eorzean.  The miqo'te reached out and pulled a pin from the top of the cylinder and then released the primer handle.

Immediately a thick, noxious, green gas began spewing out the end.   Without a moment's hesitation, the mercenary lobbed the smoking cylinder over his shoulder at Zeig and his allies, who had stopped firing momentarily. 

Zeig watched as the can landed in the street and bounced up towards them.  The hyur growled and went for it as fast as he could, but managed to get a face full of the gas as it spun.

The moment the gas touched his face, the pain began.  Zeig felt his lungs contracting and all the build up in his nose turned to a river of snot that drizzled down his face and lips.  His eyes burned as if a thousand hot coals had been set upon them.  Tears rolled from his eyes and he was trying to scream but his throat was swollen.  All the hyur could do was wheeze as he staggered around blindly.

Zeig could hear the agonized screams of his fellow rebels and he was trying to find the edge of the cloud, but the gas was expanding; consuming more and more of the street.

There was a muzzle flash in the green fog, and a jet of blood sprayed Zeig on the face as a body slumped down in his path.  Zeig could barely recognize the cadaver before him as one of his allies through his watery eyes and the hyur rebel turned and fired blindly into the cloud around him.

There was another scream.  And then the sounds of a struggle.  Gun shots.  Crunching noises.  Zeig heard someone's bone's snapping like twigs and a horrible scream.

Zeig was panicking. He couldn't see and his fellows were dying all around him.  He began staggering as fast as he could.

Another scream.  More gun shots.

Zeig burst from the fog cloud and gasped.

Fresh Air!

Zeig staggered several paces from the cloud,  sobbing for breath. 

One of his men screamed behind him and there was a horrible crunching noise.  The scream went on and on before the report of a gun blast silenced it.

The hyur could hardly see a thing, his eyes stung so badly and tears would not stop welling up in his burning eyes.

He had to cant his head to one side to get any visibility.  The wall of green fog before him shifted and rolled.  Shapes and shadows moved but nothing solid to see. 

Then there there was a flash of blue at the cloud's edge. 

Zeig spat in pain and aimed as best he could as he fired his last two rounds.  Both bullets went wide.  A moment later, Ki Grimsong burst from the cloud bank like a nightmare straight from hell. 

The miqo'te's hands were empty of any weapon but blood was dripping from the left appendage like rain from a tempest, and it was clearly not his own.

Zeig tried to swing his weapon at his charging foe, but the burning gas had constricted and cramped his muscles and the attack went wide. The unaffected mercenary ducked under the clumsy blow with ease before slamming into Zeig with enough force to send both males tumbling to the ground.  They rolled and scuffled as Zeig dropped his gunblade and began biting and kicking like a mad man.

Ki stopped the roll by pinning Zeig beneath him.  Ki's left hand was wrapped around Zeig's throat and the hyur felt as if an anaconda had found its way to his wind pipe.  Zeig flailed wildly, punching and clawing at the arm and the horrible, masked face with the reflective lenses.  Zeig's eyes were starting to clear, and he could just make out his own swollen, purple face reflected in those horrible mirror lenses hovering over him, when the hidden blade from Ki's wrist shot out and into the hyur's throat, severing the artery and spinal column nerve endings.

Zeig shook uncontrollably as blood began filling his throat.  He gargled and foamed and the last thing the hyur ever saw was his own dying face reflected back at him in those merciless lenses.

Ki watched Zeig breath his last, though it came out as a bloody gargle.  The miqo'te grunted, his breaths sounding like the respirations of a blasphemous abomination through the gas mask.

The mercenary slowly rose to his feet as he slid his wrist blade free from the dead man's throat.  Ki pulled out a rag with his right hand and began to clean the blade as he looked back.

The gas cloud was dissipating and the remains of the other five rebels could be seen now, all lying in various poses of death, their blood polling around them as they lay still.

Ki flexed his blood drenched left hand and the glove that covered it cracked as the leather stretched.

"You know...." Ki said through his respirator piece as he admired his handy work.  "I -really- need to be charging more for this."

RE: What You Are In The Dark【Closed】 - Mikh'a - 05-10-2015

“There's a rumor I heard once, in Garlemald.”

“You ain't never been to Garlemald, kitten.”

Tiny and easily missed on the rooftops, Mikh'a was sitting on the ledge of a sloping roof with a leg dangling over the side. Of all the things he could not be afraid of? It was heights. He was afraid of the dark. Of cramped spaces. Of close contact with women. Of drowning. Of yarzon. Of chocobos. You get the point? But heights were nothing to him, he could fly all day if he wanted to. There was a hempen rucksack sitting next to him and his tail twitched as someone ran past.

“You know natural Garleans can't use Aether, correct?” Mikh'a reached in to the rucksack and pulled out a box, opening it to reveal four different colored marble sized balls. “And that there's rumored to be all kinds of shady aether research going on. It might have just been a ghost story, who knows?” He looked toward the sour Lalafell man next to him. “But the rumor was there all the same, that the Garleans were trying to extract aether from their users in an attempt to give Magitek armor more versatility in skill use.”

“...what'd ya do, Korofi?”

“Nothing.”

“...Korofi...”

Dauntless, we’re in for a poor harvest, I repeat, we are in for a poor harvest.

“Nothing!” Mikh'a stood up while grabbing the gray orb. “It's just a theory, I'd never use theories on important missions like this..! It's time for you to go though, Mortar. You know what to do.”

Mortar watched him incredulously for the longest of nonces. “...Twelve forefend.” he relented finally. “Just glad Askier died before he could ever meet ya, Ul'dah wouldn't stand a chance otherwise.” To that he turned to make a hasty retreat from the rooftop as shots rang out in the distance.

“If the Twelve were here you wouldn't need the Dauntless.”

“Your blasphemy is going to get you killed!” Mortar's last call was near lost in the rapid fire gunshots in the distance. If it existed he'd consider this a throw back to the gunfight at the O.K. Corral and Mikh'a climbed down more swiftly.

His left ear flicked. “Mind the refugees, Ki. Not everyone left.”

He knew what he'd hear none the less. He was waiting for the jeering, Not my problem kid, should have got out when they were warned. Paying him extra to not kill the refugees had been put on the table, but even as a pacifist Mikh'a knew there were casualties in war. It was why he did what he did, why he worked for who he worked for, and went where he went. The boy's ears flexed back, he could hear the call of a child to her mother in the ramshackle little hut. A stray bullet zinged overhead and broke an abandoned clay pot – an infant woke from his nap and wailed. Fools, all of them. Why couldn't they have listened?

“Time to go!” Mikh'a beat on the door as someone screamed in the distance. “Time to go right now!”

The door didn't give. Fools!

“Open u-- oh for the love of---” There was something foul on the air and it was wafting, dragged by the dry wind. Old and discarded papers dragged the dirt covered cobblestone behind him and he froze. He could hear them, their boots and sandals dragging along the ground, drawn to the flame like moths. His tiny frame shifted back in to the nook of the doorway, shadowed by the overhang. “...my name is Lieutenant Mikh'a Korofi of the Immortal Flames, and now would be the most opportune time to open up this door and let me in.” he urged in a breath. “There are thugs swarming the lane and if you don't leave right now you are going to lose more than your ho--- AH!” A dagger hit the wood just above his head and the little Miqo'te dove forward to avoid a second, glad the rat faced Midlander was a terrible aim. He smelled foul, like some kind of plant, maybe a mold, and like he hadn't bothered with a bath in several suns. It took the poor boy everything in his power not to retch at the potency, twisting just as a Miqo'te swung her axe out in to the door. Splintered wood went everywhere and a child screamed.

...hells.

“Oh no you don't!” the Midlander threw a third dagger and while it once again missed it was distraction enough for him to dive and grab Mikh'a by the tail as he tried to scramble to his feet and take off after the axe wielding Seeker. With a sharp cry of pain he hit the ground face first and reflexively shot his foot out to slam it in to the Midlander's face and break his nose on impact before scrambling to his feet as fast as he could. The marauder swung her axe again as she stalked in to the house and a little girl with braided hair went running for a swaddled bundle in a crate. “Not my brother, not my brother!” she screamed and Mikh'a, in a swell of panic, jumped and grabbed the Miqo'te woman by her ears with aether glowing hands.

“What--” she started, and then sank to the ground shortly after that, eyes rolling up in the back of her head as she drifted off in to a deep sleep.

“Where are your parents?!” Mikh'a snagged the little girl to the back of her shirt and yanked her toward the door after making sure she had a secure grip on the infant.

“In the back!” the child was near as tall as she was and just shy of inconsolable. “His leg is broke, he can't walk! We didn't answer the door when the man came because we thought it was the money people!”

The Midlander was at the door suddenly and the little girl screamed again. “Close your eyes!” Mikh'a reflexively covered her eyes with one hand before flinging the gray marble. The instant it impacted the man's chest Mikh'a swung the children back around and covered them as the marble exploded in a burst of aether and a little bit of ceruleum – the man wouldn't die, but he was burned and had slammed back in to a near empty stall across the way and had taken half the front of the hut with him.

It worked!

No time to be excited. He could smell death. Lots, and lots of death. His ears flexed back and he picked himself up off the sobbing children and helped them back to their feet. “What's happening!” She was dirty and there was a cut on her forehead. His hand lifted and he absently brushed his fingers over it to seal the wound before turning back around to pull her out. “My dad!” she wailed.

“I'll come back and get him!” he promised, dragging her down the road. There was something else in the air, a putrid gas, it made his throat hurt. The little girl coughed and he pulled her faster. “Don't stop running, cover his face!” he hissed and yanked her in to an alley. “Keep running this way.” There were other refugees that had lingered on the move now, the sound of gunfire, the explosions, the gas, it had finally got the lingering bodies to move. There weren't many, Aya had done her job, but some people were just too damned stubborn. “Go, stay with them, they'll take care of you!” he ordered the sobbing child as she was dragged up in to the arms of a much larger Highlander refugee who seemed to know her. To that he spun around and took off back in the direction of the sick father.

Too late.

He could smell death.

Who's death?

An arrow flew past his head and slammed in to the back of an old man pulling his wife along. Mikh'a swung around as he hit the ground and someone screamed. They were trapped, cornered, a good ten people including him and not a damned thing he could do about it either. There were at least three – no four? He couldn't see so well and cursed his stubborn pride as another arrow flew past and thankfully flew wide in to a barrel. Why hadn't they left when they were told?! Why hadn't they listened?! Things were replaceable, lives weren't, there was nothing worth this! A third arrow flew and without giving it a second thought both hands came up in front of him and the air rippled outward. It was blue, and then it was white, and then it was blue again, hexagon shapes solidifying and fading within seconds of each appearance. The aether seemed to stitch itself together, and as soon as the arrowhead hit it rippled in to view, then faded again while bouncing harmlessly. Several more flew from the rooftops, each bouncing the same as before as the aether bubbled itself around the straggling refugees. Mikh'a breathed out more calmly than he felt and locked eyes with the man in front of him.

“...don't kill them.”

“Shut up kid, I know what I'm doing.”

“Stop calling me kid.”

“Your'e a kid, Korofi.”

A yell rang out over the rooftops, and then a second, a third. The man in front of him lifted his head and knocked another arrow in rage though before he could even fire a shot something dropped behind him and jammed daggers in to his side.

“It ain't vital!” Mortar defended as soon as the man hit the ground. “You can save their lives and put them on trial and hug it all out later, you got work to do! I'll get these people out, go!”

Mikh'a grunted as something exploded in the distance. “..that's not mine.” he said and took off the way he'd come, ducking around a corner. His left ear flicked and he said, “Osric I have to-- ...oh.” He nearly lost his balance sliding in the dirt and grabbed a box to catch his weight.

RE: What You Are In The Dark【Closed】 - Coatleque - 05-11-2015

The sun had begun its decent and the afternoon breeze had subsided. Flies began to buzz lower towards the hands and the air had lost the hot and stinging dryness on the back of the throat. It would be rain tonight for sure, though there was not a cloud to be seen yet.

Two figures, hooded and cloaked, stood upon the upper balcony of a neighboring residence. One leaned casually against the supporting beam of the overhang while the other rested arms along the railing and peered over the edge. They were both focused on the adjacent row of buildings, and particularly the sentry in the alley below.

He paced back and forth outside the rear entrance of the building which had been concealed by the clever stacking of crates facing the main road. A Limsan style musket was wedged between his shirt and a length of hempen rope which served as his belt. Luckily for the two above, the shadows cast by the city had left them shade to remain undetected. Even more lucky was that Shas's scouting beforehand had found them this lightly guarded portal.

The man below stopped and looked around for no apparent reason. Neither of them had made a sound to betray their positions. Coatleque leaned ever so slightly further towards the edge to spy the man as he tried to disappear further into the alley behind another stack of crates. He hefted his tunic, gave a grunt, and relieved himself on the wall. The paladin pushed herself back from the railing and looked at Shas with disgust. "Men. Think they can just piss on anything." she whispered. This was met with a knowing smirk from under the others hood.

A crack was heard in the distance, resounding off the sides of buildings and sending a few ravens alight from the rooftops. The two cloaked figures both started. Pushing off the wood railings they glanced at each other. Two more pops followed by the screams of a woman and angry yelling. The sentry below drew his pistol and stared warily towards the road. He shifted between feet as if unsure what to do before finally uttering a curse and abandoning his post to join whatever fray was developing around the front of the building.

"So much for subtlety." Coatleque hissed under her breath before turning and motioning to her companion. The two of them quickly descended the stairs from the balcony to the alley and huddled near the door. Shas turned to watch their backs while Coatleque procured a lock-pick from her belt. "Never expected tae need this again." she uttered before starting on the lock. Memories of crude manacle designs flashed through her thoughts as each pin was set. The large iron locks on the doors of the poor were not much improvement over a slaver's collar, and if she had wanted to announce their entry she could have simply smashed it.

The lock finally gave and the door swung inward. She waited just a moment to be sure nobody was waiting just inside for them before tapping Shas on the shoulder and proceeding inside. They were met with a dimly lit hallway stretching to either side. Surveying it up and down they confirmed their presence was yet unknown. The firefight out front had hopefully distracted any additional sentries within.

"I'll make my way to the front." Coatleque whispered. "To be sure the door is clear for our friends. We should split up and make sure there are no unexpected surprises." With that they separated in both directions.

The building itself was rather simply laid out. At one time it was probably a row of individual dwellings. Since then it had been re-purposed - walls having been removed at key places to join sections. Coatleque was almost impressed at the amount of construction (or destruction in some sections) that had been carried out under the noses of the Blades. "Or the housing authority." she mused to herself. Stopping at the first 'T' intersection of hallways she slid her back to the wall and rolled her head to glimpse around the corner.

Another hallway leading across the building to the front. Yet this one was nearly entirely open on the right side into what was probably a mess area. Long, crude wooden tables lined the space and the smell of stale ale wafted through the air. Two men were standing mid-way by one of the tables talking. More Limsan arms, she noted. One of them held a musket across his chest while he leaned against the central wooden column of the room, the other faced him with a drawn scimitar resting back over his right shoulder.

Straightening against the wall she cursed herself for being confined to leathers tonight of all nights. She drew her blade, a standard issue steel sword, and closed her eyes to focus. Drawing from the aether around her as she had been trained, she brought forth a minor barrier of protection around her body. She listened carefully to the conversation in the room and waited until one of the men burst out laughing. "Now!"

Turning the corner she rushed the pair in silence to take advantage of her surprise. They both jumped and the musket was raised barely in time to get a shot off which thankfully missed. Her shoulder collided with the gunman sending him prone and the gun skittering down the hall. Her sword flashed upwards in time to parry the incoming scimitar which she followed with a left hook to the man's face. Grabbing him by the back of the head she threw him forward into the pillar and watched him crumble.

His companion was backing away down the hall now on his elbows and pleading for his life. Coatleque quickly stepped over the first man and grabbed him by his collar, hoisting him to his feet. She pressed the man against the wall and pulled down her hood. Emerald eyes glared at him beneath her bangs. "Where is Randolph? Speak!"

"R-randolph? Ain't nobody h-here by that name!" he stammered.
"Scythe!" she retorted.
"H-h-he's in the main hall!"

"Show me." she hissed back before spinning the man roughly toward the front of the building and almost ushering him forward. Around another corner and they were along the front corridor of the structure. They came to a small foyer which was strangely absent of further guards. The man pointed to double-doors at the rear of the room.

"T-there!" he stammered.

"Her Grace thanks you for your honesty." Coatleque whispered over the man's shoulder with some practiced measure of sincerity. With that she clocked him over the head with the butt of her sword and sent him sprawling to the floor. Sheathing the weapon she turned to the front of the building and the door there. With no further hindrances the door swung open. She stepped to the side and leaned against the jam to regard the faces of the Dauntless who had finished dispatching the majority of Scythe's men out front.

She pointed back behind her towards the room. "Gentlemen...", she greeted them. "Our man lies within."

RE: What You Are In The Dark【Closed】 - Nero - 05-11-2015

Their leader's response was swift, measured, and calm, a clear contrast to the image of the raging berserker that he tried to propagate. "Start putting gunners in the upper floors and break open those windows. We're starting early. The gunners will shoot anyone they see; the rest of us don't move until the streets are cleared." Lights were lit and shouts began to resonate from within the building. The tense air that had been occupying the hall for the past week now had exploded into a frenzy. Several bandits armed with muskets retreated into the upper floors.

Scythe jerked a thumb to a slender female Miqo'te, cocking his head at the tunnel that had been dug into the floor of the house. "I'jhimei, your group will cause a distraction in the Sapphire Exchange to draw them off. Aim for the merchants, burn or destroy any goods you can get your hands on. As soon as Blades arrive, get back here and demolish the tunnel." The Miqo'te in question nodded quickly and silently gestured with her hand, the group descending down the pit that lead to the tunnels.

The Highlander turned his attention to a rather timid looking Midlander sitting on the hull of the dreadnought. "Start the dreadnought!" The Midlander shot him a gaze of surprise. "Are you sure? He said it'd only run for a few hours...and if we start it now, we won't be able to turn it off!" Scythe's response was a guttural snarl. The Midlander quickly went to work without protest and gestured to his colleague, and the two of them dove into the hatch of the dreadnought, closing it with a loud clunk.

It was all falling apart. The pirate must have betrayed them; it was the only possibility. The Brass Blades didn't care enough to sweep bandits out of the lane and the Sultansworn lacked the resources or justification to do it. Their benefactor was the only one who knew the details of what they would accomplish here. It was an organized attack, and it seemed the attackers knew exactly where in the Lane they were. Scythe knew it was always a distinct possibility; Limsans were all the same.

It didn't matter, anyway. If he were to be honest with himself, Scythe was glad that this happened. That agonized waiting would come to an end. The revolution would start now, and nobody in Ul'dah had the firepower to stop the dreadnought.

The bandits were now scrambling for their arms and armor as the rest of them that hadn't left for the windows or the Sapphire Avenue Exchange began to assemble in the main hall, their breathing haggard with terror or excitement, faces universally painted with anxiety. Some of the more experienced veterans from Ala Mhigo were silent, grim expressions crossing their faces. They checked loaded muskets, pistols, grabbed swords and shields, spears and axes, donning haphazardly constructed leather cuirasses and chainmail. "Get ready! They've probably got archers. We're going to use the dreadnought for cover!" Scythe snapped a glare at the machine as he brandished his wicked falchion. "Start the damn thing!"

The dreadnought in question was an ugly thing; a blocky, angular mass of segmented steel plates, roughly twenty-five fulms in length and rectangular in shape, and had no wheels or visible propulsion system to speak of. A magitek cannon had been mounted to the top with a front plate to shield the gunner as they stood on the hull of the vehicle. Its front gave way to sloping armor with a viewport slit, and the plates were evenly spaced and layered in such a way as to afford the most overall protection from all angles of attack. The rear of the dreadnought contained a row of jutting, horizontal plates, which was the dreadnought's radiator.

"We're proceeding with the plan as normal," Scythe bellowed as the dreadnought roared to life, its hull beginning to hover about a fulm in the air, the radiator of the machine beginning to glow a calm cerulean blue. Even with the din, the telltale lightning-like cracks of musketfire began to permeate the air above them, and the Highlander had to shout to make himself be heard. "Javelin and Tusk will take the dreadnought to Hustings strip to remove the Sultana. The timetable's been moved up, so we've no idea if the other members of the Syndicate will be present."

"What about Raubahn?" One of the Hellsguard rumbled. Scythe waved an idle hand. "If he gets in your way, kill him, but otherwise don't bother. Once the streets are clear, the dreadnought will break down the wall and make its way there. The rest of us are going to break through into the Ruby Road Exchange. The people we have near the gates will shut it. Search and destroy! We will remove the corrupt rulers who are content to ignore us, and--"

The hatch of the dreadnought clunked open, and the Midlander emerged. His face was covered in soot and a blue fog began to emerge from within the hatch. He was coughing and struggled to breathe. "Boss!" He hacked out. "The dreadnought, it--"

At the same time, the engine of the dreadnought ceased its smooth, loud humming, and gave way to a sickening series of clang! clang! clang!, like a house's weight in pots and pans had been caught in a tornado. Scythe's expression morphed from determination to one of surprise...and fear. "Get it under control! What's happening!?" The light of the radiator began to flicker and flash and the steel plates of the machine began to buckle and leak a sickening azure light. Scythe and his compatriots could only cover their ears and stare in bewilderment at the sudden reaction of the machine as the clang! clang! clang! of its engines surrendered into a horrifyingly loud grinding. The sound of steel being stretched taut to its breaking point pierced the ears of all nearby, and the metal screamed a shrill whine as the grinding of the engine gradually slowed and stopped.

And then the world exploded.

--

What was once an unassuming row of idle houses, boarded up and abandoned in Pearl Lane, became something very different. A brilliant sky-blue light briefly shone from the windows that the musketeers were peeking out of, and eventually give way to a massive, explosive gust of smoke and hot air that propelled the unfortunate gunners out of the windows and onto the ground below with a sickening crack. A brilliant gout of cerulean fire blasted apart the boards over the aperture and sent the door, frame and all, flying out into the streets, and the boom that resulted was audible through the entire city. The impact shook the houses down to its foundations as the shingled ceiling collapsed, the poorly maintained wooden walls igniting rapidly in flames and following the ceiling's descent. The adjacent houses managed to avoid a similar fate, though their ceilings too collapsed from the shockwave and the floors of the second story groaned in protest, threatening to crush those unfortunate enough to be beneath them. The rubble and debris buried the tunnels, masking the cries of terror of those trapped within.

Flaming, ashen cadavers emerged from the door screaming agonized cries, their forms engulfed in blue liquid that ate through their skin and bones even as it blazed relentlessly, before falling over and being overcome by the silence of death. Even more still managed to stumble out, covered in soot and burns, before succumbing mercifully quickly to the wounds.

And then, as the flames settled, the wooden frame of the houses creaking as they were consumed by the swiftly cooling inferno, there was naught but silence.