Landfall at Vesper [Story] - Printable Version +- Hydaelyn Role-Players (https://ffxiv-roleplayers.com/mybb18) +-- Forum: Role-Play (https://ffxiv-roleplayers.com/mybb18/forumdisplay.php?fid=27) +--- Forum: Town Square (IC) (https://ffxiv-roleplayers.com/mybb18/forumdisplay.php?fid=21) +--- Thread: Landfall at Vesper [Story] (/showthread.php?tid=10912)

Landfall at Vesper [Story] - Melkire - 04-01-2015 His knees hit the cobblestones, his arms limp as his hands fell into his lap. His eyes scanned the ferry docks, the same docks he’d traveled the length of, up and down, again and again, so many times over the suns and moons and cycles. So many times since the night that had brought him here. The night that had changed everything. That night. He blinked as his gaze fell and he noted the slick chill of rainwater that had been seeping into his slacks. Since when? Since he’d thrown himself down with a wet thud. Why was he here? What good was there in being here, now? It was raining. Just as it had been raining that night, forever ago. Right here. I was right here. He was here now. Vesper Bay. He wouldn’t have been here now, if not for Her. If not for Her Mercy. He shouldn’t have been here now. This is where I should have died. Something in him broke. It was raining. I’m going to die. Tried to fight back. Fists, elbows, knees, feet, hooking, jabbing, kicking, lashing out. But… so cold. So hungry. So tired. No warmth since Sisipu’s. No comfort since Mother’s. And the Storm, gods damn him for a fool, the Storm was everywhere, pounding into him, each haft and musket stock another meteor falling from heaven. One blow caught him between the shoulder blades, and he went down, sprawling onto his hands and knees, coughing up blood, the red of his life tainting the clear shimmers that were streams of rainwater passing between the cobblestones beneath him. Red. Blood. Gods, was this ever familiar. I don’t want to die. It started out as a whisper, from somewhere deep within, a voice long buried and forgotten. He barked a laugh… or tried to, anyroad. Wheezed and hacked, that’s what he did. Coughed up more blood, and that’s when he felt it. Felt the ice-cold press of a barrel to the back of his head. Heard the soft, unmistakable click as the hammer was engaged, thumbed down. He froze, shaking from malnourishment and Twelve knew what else. “Merlwyb’s Ghost, of Limsa Lominsa.” Twice he nearly slipped on the sleek stones beneath his hands as he struggled against his trembling, as he fought to hold himself up. He could hear the trudging of sopping leather boots as the bastards encircled him again. Beyond that, there was the jostling… the jostling of…. He blinked as he took another shuddering breath and glanced up. There. Approaching them. Orange, green, blue, only just standing out through the torrential downpour. And farther down the docks… white and blue. He could hear a new set of footsteps from behind him, as they sounded out against the ferry’s gangway. Measured. Sure. “By order of the Admiralty, on behalf of the thalassocracy, you are hereby sentenced to death forthwith. Have you any last words?” I’m going to die. He exhaled, drew in a deep breath, and threw back an elbow as he twisted away from the barrel and surged to his feet. There came the sharp, loud crack of musket fire as he bellowed, “SANCTUARY!” Then the Storm was upon him again, his legs swept out from under him, a kick to his side sending him rolling across the cobblestones, hafts and stocks descending again, pummeling him into submission, the sound of a discarded pistol and another soft click hammering home and the sudden sloshing of approaching boots and-- “Stop.” The cursing stopped. The scuffling stopped. Even those measured steps stopped. Save for the rain, the whole world fell still and silent at that one word. That one word was like a small stone tumbling down the side of a mountain, like a dislodged piece of gravel, though the stone was large and the sound of its passing deep as it echoed. He couldn’t see, and didn’t dare look up. The slightest motion from him…. I don’t want to die. “Admiral. What is the meaning of this?” That deep voice again… and it spoke with that man’s accent. “A trifle matter,” answered a woman. Haughty. Confident. “I understand this man is an assassin, and that he recently did for one of my men. A man, I am told, born of the thalassocracy. I will not have my command undermined by gutterborn. An example is required.” “A dog, then,” shook the mountain… but there was a poignant pause. “Yet he claims sanctuary. By what right?” “L-l-l-letter,” he managed to stammer out as he reached for the parchment tucked away inside his shirt, “of intro--“ White. Pain. Sharp. Red. Black. Red. He heard a meaty slap. A splash. Still red. More splashing. Someone treading water. He gasped and found himself lying on his side on the docks, his shirt and leggings soaked through on that side. It hurt, but he lifted his head a little and glanced up. Above him stood the mountain. Highlander, surely, dressed in steel plate and leathers with horns and various other ornaments. Huge. One boulder of a fist clamped down hard in a reverse grip around the haft of an axe. The man was looking down into the water, where the splashing was coming from. “Swift. Peak.” Only now did he notice the two men attending the mountain. A fellow midlander and a… was that a dark-skinned Sea Wolf? They were dressed in large blue coats with orange trim. Green caps. Green gloves. Green boots. The midlander nodded to the roegadyn, and suddenly he was looking up into flaming red hair and hard yet ferocious granite eyes. A huge, black hand swallowed his own wrist and wrenched it and the now-soggy scroll held between his fingers out from beneath his shirt, and a second hand tore it from his grasp. The roegadyn stood and turned the parchment over to the midlander. Pain. Shoulders. Spine. Knees. Back. Right side of his skull. Hungry. Tired. Cold. Shivering. Wanted warmth. Wanted food. Cold. Wet. Surrounded. No knives. No steel. Alone. I’m going to die. “Evans, General,” intoned the midlander. That made no sense, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He could hear it clearer, now. Closer. The jostling. The jostling of chainmail. He arched his neck as best he could and stared. Knights. Paladins. By their colors? Sultansworn. Five of them that he could make out. Five, in their silver mail and blue surcoats, with their shining shields and decorated scabbards and blades of justice and truth and… and…. and he’d stopped believing in children’s tales damned near an age ago. He’d learned better. He knew better. And yet he couldn’t catch his breath. “Please,” he begged, his voice hoarse, his cheeks flush, and something that wasn’t quite raindrops cascading down his face. “Please, the coin, we needed the coin, ma ‘n’ me sisters and our baby brother, please, he was hurtin’ them, that bastard was hurtin’ them and, I couldn’t just, I… please….” “We oughtn’t delay,” barked the haughty voice. “We have more pressing concerns. Let’s have done with it, Lieutenant.” Barrel again. In his face this time. I DON’T WANT TO DIE. “Raubahn.” That name, so gently spoken, swept through the assembled parties as if carried on a sudden breeze, and there came the clatter of an axe against stone as the highlander’s other boulder enveloped the lieutenant’s pistol hand, just before a second shot rang out through the night. The lieutenant hissed in pain and fell to his own knees as the General twisted. “Lady Lilira would like a word with the lad, Admiral.” The lad in question swallowed and glanced back up. A small child had emerged from between the paladins. She approached slowly, quietly, an oversized umbrella held in one hand to shield her from the rain. Her hair was pink, and her eyes a brilliant green that far outshone his own dull emeralds. Her entourage stepped forward as one, hands on the hilts of their blades, near to drawing, but they ceased at a glance from the highlander. She came to a stop not one step away from the crown of his head, her aegis now hiding most of him from the storm, as well. She looked down into his eyes, as he was staring up into hers. She didn’t say a word. He didn’t break the silence. Someone cleared their throat. No one cared. At last, she asked quietly, “Do they depend on you?” He nearly choked on the sudden lump that formed in his throat, the one that kept him from answering her, as a weight settled in his chest and another in his guts. He nodded instead. She pursed her lips. “You are an assassin.” He couldn’t any longer. He broke his eyes away from hers, shamed… then glanced back as she crouched beside him, one small arm wrapping around her knees as she canted her head and kept staring at him. Her next word came out in a whisper. “Why?” He couldn’t. He couldn’t tell her. He tried. Every reason died in his throat or on his tongue. Every excuse. He shuddered. He trembled. He closed his eyes at last, and answered, “Easier.” She seemed to ponder his answer for a few moments of silence, then he heard the shift of her clothing that told him she’d just nodded, and she said, “For you, yes. For your victims, no.” He flinched. “You desire to live?” He nodded. “Why?” “…scared.” “Why?” “…don’t want to die.” “Did they?” He fell silent. “Look at me.” He opened his eyes and found her face mere ilms from his. Her free hand reached out and cupped his cheek. “One sun for each sun you have stolen. One moon for each moon that their families have suffered without them. One cycle in service of life for each cycle in service of death.” She smiled for him. “As you serve, you will live, and as you live, you will serve.” She stood as he laid there, baffled, her hand falling away from his face. She raised her voice. “Raubahn. The Order will not find him suitable, and the Blades will do him no good. Perhaps...?” “Perhaps,” the General rumbled. “This--“ “I grant this man sanctuary,” spoke Lady Lilira as she cut off the Admiral. “As penance for his crimes, his freedom is forfeit. He shall serve with the Immortal Flames, and in that service he shall meet his end, for his life, too, is forfeit.” “We are not on Thanalan soil,” growled the haughty voice. “Nor is this La Noscean. Do you find these terms satisfactory?” Silence stretched from moments to bells to eternity. “…tch. Very well.” The Lalafellin girl nodded, then glanced up. “Raubahn?” The highlander nodded as she returned to her escort. “Peak,” he ordered, and the roegadyn moved forward again and stooped. “There’s a mercy for you,” came the roegadyn’s surprisingly well-enunciated words as he threw Merlwyb’s Ghost, better known as Dirk Problemsolver, over his shoulder. Dirk Problemsolver, known to a select few as Osric Melkire, promptly wretched and passed out. The sergeant breathed in. The man breathed out. He had expected tears, after he’d heard what Swift had to tell him. After he had thought it through to the only natural conclusion. He had expected denial. He had expected hope. He had expected gut-wrenching sorrow. He had expected rage, and fury, and wrath. He had known that, when this sun finally came, he would throw off the shackles he had bound himself with and leave a trail of corpses belonging to the bastards responsible. He had expected all of that, and yet he felt… numb. Cold. Empty. And he knew better, now. He understood. She hadn’t given him that understanding, but She had given him the chance to live and to learn. His penance was not yet paid. One sun for each sun, she had said. One moon for each moon. One cycle for each cycle. She’d shown him Mercy, and he had sought to pay that forward at every opportunity. Yet now… yet now…. A pair of snakes bent on devouring each other, and scavengers awaiting in the wings to pick up the pieces. Between them? The commoners. The refugees. Their aegis recently torn away, as She had been torn away. The little people, suffering for others' ambitions, all unknowing that they were now more vulnerable than ever. That was wrong. That wasn’t right. He’d have to do something about it.