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Whittledown · **09-04-2014, 01:51 PM**

The fire burns orange and red and smoke winds into the clear night sky. It is the only light for miles in the desolate waste of Thanalan. A deeply tanned hand reaches out and claws through the smoke. Blackened fingertips curl and two fingers that have been crafted to be more claw at the tip than nail slice through a tendril of smoke to set it loose on it's own.

Cloudy eyes watch the smoke for a moment, seeing the gesture and twist as it moves through the air. Another wave of that hand and it is gone and a low, animal snarl finds the air.

"The flame is hiding in the fire... but I find you... I find you..." A low voice grates like gravel in a can as attention turns back to the flame. She can see the flame. The flittering flame that dances through the fire like a rabbit trying to avoid the hawk. She needs only to find the smoke from that flame and the path will come clear.

Find the flame in the fire. Chase the smoke. It was close. So very, very close. It drew her closer and closer to Ul'dah. To civilization. To all the light and the noise. She hated it but the flame was guiding her now and she trusted it. There was no truth greater than what the flame had shown her in the past. Yet now it played coy.

But she would find it. She would find him.

Jancis · **09-04-2014, 06:05 PM**

Jancis managed the early morning with a light smile. Luckily Aya had been in her path, sweet woman as she was had the power to always carry a smile despite the look of terror that had been on her face bells earlier. The cheerfulness and promise to speak of better times were heartening.

Time had slipped past her and Jancis wasn't really sure how long ago she had seen the look of terror on the lady's face, how long ago Cici had called her name in panic to no avail, how long she had been running through the canyons and valleys of the desert in search for the black-haired highlander responsible. Her legs and feet were aware of how long it had been, but they did not state their case too loudly.

In the end, Jancis came up with nothing useful, though rumors and words still danced in the air of the city. Some say she got away, some say she was caught, some didn't care if the woman got away with it regardless of her motive of provocation.

But she would care, Jancis' mind wandered to the red-haired paladin as she washed her dust-coated and sweaty clothes as best she could with a washcloth.Â
Cici would care that such an action happened right before her.

The sun was already rising, which was good enough to dry the simple doublet and pants in the sunshine of a window ledge. Washing herself up in the same manner, she closed her eyes for a few hours rest. Sir Yigir would have more answers once Jancis could find the axeman.

It was not your fault nor responsibility, Cici. Thaliak shall allow this woman to know such. Pray Sir Castille speak such wisdom to her. Pray she sleeps now.

cuideag · **09-08-2014, 12:18 PM**

There were people, Delial knew, who made their fortunes minding the fortunes of others. Men and women in neat little suits and dresses, spectacles perched upon their noses, full to the brim with the scent of hard currency. Said people existed throughout Ul'dah, the city where the wealth of the wealthiest converged into a sea that might, in some what, rivaled the glittering sands of the Sagolii.

She did not trust them.

She sat in her room and she counted again: One, five, ten. One, five, ten. One, five, ten. Her frustration grew with every pass of every stack of gil so carefully counted before, sorted into manageable little piles that slid back and forth as she checked, double-checked, triple-checked herself once, twice, and again. Of course she had been out on her own for quite some time now without much contact with her previous benefactors. Of course she had incurred costs: a place to sleep, food to eat and drink to drink, and a modest wardrobe as not to appear too plebeian. Of course she scrimped where she could: there were times she did not stay at the inn at all and it was still easy enough to earn a meal with the right sort of smile and just enough feigned interest.

One, five, ten. Twenty. Thirty. Two-hundred. Thirty-six. Delial stared and rubbed her fingers at her temples. She could not go home with that, no, and even if she did her house would likely not even be hers with its occupants two - no, three years gone. Ul'dah would drain her and quickly. Fingers rapped on the table, drummed out a rhythm of her irritation in a vain attempt to distract her from a most dreadful thought.

Just what exactly do normal people do for a living?

Jancis · **09-09-2014, 07:15 PM**

Jancis smiled down at all the little faces around her. She had brought what they requested: parchment, charcoal, and pigment.

While they didn't really get the whole idea down and some dye was spilled all over the entire stack of parchment, the children decided it was best for someone else to make their vision come to life. As best she could, Jancis outlined out their beloved mascot.

The kids joined in, covering their hands in charcoal and touching the paper. It was completed and the little ones were overjoyed to create something for their hero!

With a sincere promise to delivery the present, Jancis walked off with the precious cargo, looking across the streets of Ul'dah and the Goblet for Missus Cornelia Snickerdoodle's Hero.

Banquo Viaquo · **09-10-2014, 07:07 PM**

"I assure you, all necessary preparations have been made." The young man appears to have taken pains to extract himself from Gridania's central clumps of travelers and passersby, but he can still be seen, coolly speaking into a linkpearl - his posture straight and formal. "Sir's concern is quite kind, though I urge you accept my word that it is wholly unnecessary."

He listens a couple moments longer, a placid politeness still visible in his expression, then gives a brief laugh - curt and clipped. "Well, if they do, sir, you may also rest assured that I will be fully prepared for them. My years in the young master's employ, you may recall, did not leave me completely incapable of defending myself - nor, I should think, of providing. I only apologize that, for both our sakes, I will not divulge my current location."

Another pause, then a patient sigh. "Master Iosaphonn, I humbly advise you to erase whatever records you may have of our contact. I am sure you have no illusions of what measures my pursuers might take, should they discover our correspondence - and moreover, I am beginning to believe you are incapable of speaking to me without fussing. I am afraid I cannot be dissuaded. The young master deserved -" He hesitates, face freezing for the slightest of moments. "- deserves justice, and as long as that is the one thing I can yet provide him, I will seek it out. Regardless of how long it takes, or what it may require of me." His expression has grown hard. "I am the young master's second in all things. As long as I yet retain duties to perform, young sir, I will perform them."

He listens for a long moment more, face shifting gradually from a cold determination to a tired softness. "I understand. Sir's support is... most appreciated." He hesitates, then finally smiles, exhaling in an almost involuntary half-chuckle. "...Do take care of yourself, Rhei." There's a couple seconds' pause, and he quietly cuts the connection... quickly turning, eyes sharp as he casts around for listeners before making his way out into the green.

Coatleque · **09-11-2014, 11:00 AM**

Coatleque sat on the edge of the bed in her room at the Hourglass, he head in her hands. What was she doing this past seven-day? Everything was falling apart since Tane's murder. Warren despised her, her shield brothers were avoiding her, new recruits seemed to be flooding the doors and nobody was keeping them in line. And now there were at least three days she could not even remember.

She had glanced over Natalie's report without even reading it yesterday. For some reason she just had no care or ambition as of late. Then Ser Sadowyn had told her about the prisoner's execution. They sat across from each other at a table in the lounge as Natalie explained her actions over the Linkpearl. "I need you to bring them both back alive.", Anelia had told Crofte. "If Roen gets in your way, you will have to arrest her to. She is now complicit in hiding the location of a known smuggler and pirate." The Knight could not look her superior in the eye. "Aye, Ser." was all she could reply.

She reached out and picked up the small box from the table next to her bed. She opened and closed it a few times, thinking quietly to herself. The contents were still empty, her prior letter had as of yet been unanswered. She looked up to the now half-empty bottle of whiskey on the dresser across the room and shook her head. This trip would be made alone. For the first time in a long while she was looking forward to leaving Thanalan behind.

***Nero*** · **09-11-2014, 12:21 PM**

Things were proceeding smoothly. So smoothly, in fact, that the Twelve should ordain something go horribly wrong within the next few moons.

The flame of the candles flickered in Nero's cabin, and several maps were sprawled out on his table. One was a map of the Rhotano Sea and the Strait of Merlthor. The other was a map of Vylbrand, and the last was a map of Ul'dah. He took a sip from a nearby bottle of brandy, grunting as the warm liquor spread through his body.

Since Natalie had effectively chased him out of Thanalan, to say that he was expanding his operations aggressively would be to say that Ishgard was mildly devoted to fighting the dragons. His operation was beginning to grow too large for him to manage on his own; several times a day Nero found himself having to swap linkpearls in order to receive updates and information, and sooner or later the amount of assets registered under his dummy company would begin to receive attention from the authorities. Nero was an adherent to the belief that the way to get things right was for him to do it himself, and yet there was simply too much going on at once that demanded his attention.

The longer he spent outside of Ul'dah, the more his plans there had a chance of failing. Scythe had agreed, in exchange for the Limsan weapons, to adhere to Nero's timetable for now, but the gangster was an unstable element. Nero also had to expect that he would not necessarily be safe in Limsa as well; his strikes against the Thanalan merchant ships continued, even if the Second Forte was almost never directly involved anymore, and Merlwyb was allegedly being pressured by Raubahn to keep the pirates under control, which would draw the Maelstrom into the situation.

The smuggler examined the maps again. There were many, many factors to account for. Merlwyb would probably react as she always did: an iron fist and cannonfire. If the situation deteriorated enough, she may end up sending the Maelstrom against the Bloody Executioners and the other free pirates of the city. Such a conflict would put Nero's plans to an immediate halt, as he was relying on the free pirates to make the raids for him, not to mention that the Forte might also be involved by virtue of technically being one of said free pirates.

And what of the Monetarists? They were shrewd enough with their gil that someone, multiple people, would be sent to Vylbrand to investigate who was beginning to choke out their sea trade, as the ports from Vesper Bay and Crescent Cove accounted for nearly a third of Ul'dah's trade. The Monetarists themselves cared for naught but the loss in gil. What mattered was who they would send. If it was simply one of their thugs, then Limsa Lominsa would chew them up and spit them out, as it usually did.Â

Assassins? Unlikely, not unless the Syndicate knew who their targets were. Adventurers? Improbable; adventurers typically didn't interfere with the political happenings. The Sultansworn? A very distinct possibility. Nero was now convinced that they were firmly under the Syndicate's thumb; they might provide lip service to the Sultana, but the fact that Nanamo ul Namo held no real power obviously gave way to the Syndicate's authority. Though, Nero had to admit that "Syndicatesworn" didn't roll off the tongue quite as well.

The Hyur sighed as he rubbed his forehead. He may have to deal with a cadre of knights storming into Limsa Lominsa, assuming he didn't need a bodyguard to deal with potential assassins.

There were so many elements to account for. The Maelstrom, the Flames, the Sultansworn, the free pirates, the Brass Blades, the gangs, the bandits, the merchants, Merlwyb, Raubahn...

Now Nero had a headache.

Aldotsk · **09-11-2014, 08:13 PM**

Anelia just couldn't sleep for several days because of Natalie's interrogation and Roen's grudge with her. Among with all of this case was all due to one particular person,

Nero Lazarus

She is not sure who the man is, but she is aware that the man is responsible for making monetarists upset. She feels that even though the man maybe a smuggler and a pirate, he could be a great asset to possibly push back the monetarists from gaining power over Royalists.Â

Anelia also feels worried by Natalie's actions from the interrogation. She understood that what the Miqo'te Sultansworn had to do was necessary by the order that was given to her and Anelia. But her feelings toward this order was not at ease in her heart. She felt extremely guilty towards Roen that she couldn't do anything again, and she is concerned that Coatleque won't be enough to stop unnecessary bloodshed.Â

She needed to make a decision once more. Syndicates who have ordered Natalie were possibly monetarists who want this man dead for personal reason. The crimes didn't seem to be extremely high enough for a death penalty for him, and the first mate.Â

She remembered she ordered Crofte to arrest Roen should the young paladin points a blade at the Sworn, but that's the last thing she wants to happen. The only way Anelia could do is to get in touch with the man behind all of this.Â

She packs up from her room with her former wig and her goggles to disguise herself as Marila Averlyn, a wandering mercenary to monitor all of this without being seen. As long as Coatleque would not find her.

Jancis · **09-12-2014, 04:26 PM**

Jancis stood there outside of Gridania in the river, letting the current rush over her in the early morning. She was grateful to be in the Twelveswood and feel the backlash of aetheric power flush away.

She looked at her hands and curled them; it took all night to recover from her blunder the previous night. Lady Tsubasa had something quite unnatural, a corruption written in aether flowing in her veins. Though Jancis tried to overpower it, she slipped up and her force was flung back at her. Luckily, she only had to deal with a bruised back and the poisoning.Â

The thing that felt the worst was failing the girl. Jancis still heard the girl's quiet plea. Tsubasa had lost control of her own limbs and put some of her companions in danger. Master Vann was beside himself with dealing with the situation and lost on how to properly help.

That man, Jancis was lost on the curious lifestyle that was beyond most things she had ever experienced or read about. He was so unlike the heroes, the dignitaries, the royalty of any story. He was an oddity, surely, but so was she. This man was like a river within a city, making gil flow like water, and supporting that purpose was important.

Turning her thoughts, she looked out into the trees. She was here for another purpose. She was following the rumors on the wind, back in Ul'dah here to Gridania, about a dark-haired miqo'te she was desperately searching for. The wild one had called him her hunter. She took that title to heart and it emboldened her.

Standing up and returning to Gridania, she continued her pursuit of her hunter.

Berrod Armstrong · **09-12-2014, 05:39 PM**

((From an older Agent arc, but posting it anyway!))

The Paladin's knees hit the sandy rock with a ringing metallic din.

He could feel the thick, sticky warmth of his own blood running down his stomach, past his waist and down his legs. It escaped the openings in his armor, painting red lines on the glittering silver-sigiled plate. Life was leaving him along with it, that much he knew; no amount of healing would spare him the death to come -- not that he could manage in his state. There was no one else to attend to him. They were all dead.

With increasingly blurred vision he looked around at his fallen companions. The Conjurer, whose white robes and hair were now a matted red, face down in the sand. She had shown such promise. The Pugilist, whose shattered limbs appeared to have far too many joints. His neck had been snapped so badly that his head faced the wrong way. The Thaumaturge, who was now but a charred, fleshy smear singed onto tatters of dark cloth. The sand had been burned to glass underneath her remains.

The Paladin grieved for them; long had they been his companions. They had trained together, adventured together...and now they would die together. It seemed fitting to him, but not at all satisfying. A cough interrupted his thoughts, sending agony shredding through his body; a cruel reminder of his grisly wounds. How the enemy had managed to slice so cleanly through his armor, his protective enchantments, and through the lithification of his flesh was lost to him. Perhaps it was the latter of the two that had prevented him from being cleaved cleanly in two.

The wound was deep and seemed unmitigated to the naked eye. From his right shoulder to his left hip he had been slashed; so dire it was that his labored breathing caused the edges of the raw cut to pull apart. Everything below the wound had become red. Numbness began to wash over him, and his vision grew dim. The voices of the two men before him seemed far off, though they stood terrifyingly close.

One was clad in ornate white and gold robes, tall, slender and radiant. He carried an almost effeminate air to him, such was his elegance. Marble white skin nigh glowed, exposed only at his face, neck and the deep dip at the front of his shirt. Pale blue eyes peered from between smooth curtains of straw-colored hair, the most defining features of what appeared to be a pleasant, merciful countenance.

The Paladin knew that it was not so.

His companion more accurately reflected the danger they posed; dressed in fitted black studded leathers, he stood a little less in stature. There was no question of how much more menacing he seemed, however. Athletic in build he stood, with broad shoulders and large thighs. A ragged mop of ebony hair sat upon his head and dropped on either side of abyssal, dark eyes. His expression was indiscernable, owed to the high closed collar of his tunic that reached up to the bridge of his nose.

They were waiting for the Paladin to die and he knew it. To his dismay, he knew he would not disappoint. The feeling was gone from his arms and legs, causing him to topple to the side. It didn't hurt. The time for pain had passed. He kept his eyes on them as long as he could, meeting their gaze with what little defiance he could muster. The one clad in white tilted his head with what looked like cold pity, while the other stared with hungry anticipation.

Death came more suddenly than he had expected; instead of a slow fade into darkness he was snuffed out the moment he decided to glare them down, his pupils dilating as his expression slackened. Ingloriousy he laid amongst his companions, defeated utterly with no song or drink to their name.

"Such a waste," The man in white cooed quietly. He ran a slender finger to the threads of his hair and aimed a bored, half-lidded look at his companion.

"Disappointing," The man in black rasped hoarsely. "I expected better."

"Well," The man in white offered, "We've drawn the right sort of attention, so there'll be more for you to play with soon, Joshua." Gracefully he turned and began walking away, his hips giving an ever-so-slight sway. A coy smile was tossed over his shoulder in beckoning.

Joshua the Black spun on a heel and followed behind in an oddly fluid, silent stride. "I hope so. Playing doesn't have a point if it isn't fun. Isn't that right, Jacob?"

Jacob the White nodded with a pleasant smile. "That's right, Joshua. We'll play more later though. Right now we have work to do."

Melkire · **09-12-2014, 09:41 PM**

Melkire sat at his desk with two distinct envelopes,Â filled with twoÂ distinct sets of parchment, cradled in either hand.

On the left: orders. Orders to depart post-haste for the Ring of Ash. According to his papers, the sergeant routinely in charge of Amalj'aa relations, one Anzio Zansio, was currently unavailable and therefore unable to tend to his duties. Osric didn't buy into that tripe for an instant: Zansio was Yataghan, and the Yataghans, though a relatively reclusive lot, were exemplars of service. If his fellow sergeant was unavailable, it was because Command had made him unavailable. This was likely Swift's latest scheme to breed redundancy in theÂ grand company: theÂ more Flames the beastmen grew accustomed to, the better the relations; andÂ if every unit had a liason available to send to the Amalj'aa, all the better.

On the right, though: a register. An in-depth listingÂ - compiled, kept, and maintained by the Maelstrom -Â of everyÂ known smuggler, smuggling crew, and smuggler's vessel to have sailed the Rhotano Sea, the Strait of Merlthor, or the Sea of Ash within the past six cycles. The register contained detailed descriptions of appearances, activities, and suspected whereabouts of many of the listed entities. He'd had to call inÂ too many favors and pullÂ too many strings for his comfort to acquire this packet, but he'd deemed it necessary. The logic had been irrefutable: each and every word that Roen had let slip had led him to the conclusion that her associate was neither a local merchant nor a more exotic cousin from the north. Not Gridanian, most certainlyÂ not Isghardian, Ala Mhigo was no more, and Sharlayan had not been heard fromÂ forÂ far too long... which leftÂ Vylbrand. Limsa Lominsa, or one of the lesser ports.

Osric pressed theÂ envelope in his right hand up to his forehead and closed his eyes, thoughtÂ long and hard. Something was still not right, something in Roen's story didn't quite jive with reality. The one question he kept coming back to was this:

Where's the profit margin in his personally retrieving relief supplies from the Blades?

There was none, of course, which raisedÂ another question:

Where's the profit margin inÂ shipping only relief supplies?

Again, none, which led to:

What else had been confiscated?

He must have been shipping something, something he couldn't afford to lose, something that had been mixed in with and hidden amongst the goods for the refugees. Osric did not believe in altruistic businessmen; in his experience, there was no such thing as "true" altruism when it came to finance and capital. Whatever that unknown commodity had been,Â it seemed reasonable to assume that it was inherently related to this sudden push for reform.

When Osric had presented the possibility of reform to Roen sevendays ago - more than a moon now, to be honest - she'd seemed disinclined, and he couldn't bring himself to blame her for wanting distance from a corrupt and seemingly unsalvageable city.

So what changed?

Something, some notion, some idea had captivated her... or some one. This associate, perhaps. Anyroad, what mattered wasn't that it had happened; what mattered were the potential repercussions.

In his experience, there were no honest merchants from Limsa who'd go out of their way to mire themselves in politics this way... which meant a smuggler, or a pirate. Goods said smuggler. Smuggler meant there'd be records to be found with the Maelstrom.... so here, now, the envelope in his hand that he'd be taking along with him, that he'd spend bonfire-lit evenings poring over, committing the contents to memory.

Three suns. Three suns spent half a desert away. Roen, you'd better step lightly 'til I get back.

He'd already called Kanaria over their personal linkshell to let her know where he was going, already notified his company where he was going by note.Â Osric did not want to be here when the captain learned that the commander had gone over his head by taking away one of his soldiers, even if only temporarily. Erik would not take this well.

Chief Flame Sergeant Osric Melkire stood, dropped both envelopes momentarily onto his desk, walked over to his armoire, retrieved his soldier's uniform, pulled the overcoat on over his Red Wings doublet, pulled onÂ boots and gloves. He hated formal dress, but the situation called for it. Beastmen relations... touchy, those.

He plucked the two envelopes from atop his desk, tucked them under his arm, and headed out the door.

Kage · **09-14-2014, 05:02 AM**

A crumpled form of a miqo'te slumped outside of the quicksand in the alleyway to Pearl Lane. The clothes were nice and pressed. Nice attire. Nothing quite stolen or out of place.

However blood ran down his blood-drenched hair down his cheeks. His blue and red hair slicked and covered with glass shards and blood. His sword and his scutum lay by his side, the sword only just pulled out. Broken remains of a bottle or two lay strewn around the area. All evidence showed that at the very least the miqo'te had been hit in the head several times by more than one bottle.

It seemed all might thought the miqo'te was dead or just a drunkard, getting in a fight at the wrong time.

But he wasn't dead at least.

With a groan and a blink the miqo'te started to return to consciousness. He looked around, wide eyed and confused. He took what he had and made his way out, stumbling and holding to whatever could keep him up as he headed out of the lane.

Aldotsk · **09-14-2014, 10:36 AM**

While Anelia was back in Ul'dah to settle the matter against unknown attacks in the Ossuary, she wakes up and rubbed her forehead. She checks her wound on her side carefully, and notices that the cut was no longer swollen or showing any sign of particular deep scar. She takes off her bandages and notices that all of minor cuts were gone, thanks to the conjurer that was with her at the Ossuary.Â

The whole situation about her family bloodline was also a mess too. Overall people, she never thought she was partially a Highlander. At least, she thinks her parents lied to her or she never really asked about their family ancestry. It was rather a shocker when she discussed with Erik and she sighed about it.

Another issue was that Anelia was really concerned about Natalie pursing Nero. If she kept trying to stop Natalie from attacking a pirate that is no longer a threat to Ul'dah as of right now, she maybe challenging Syndicate's authority. But her heart remains as she is there for Ul'dah and Sultansworn's interests... and as a paladin's code. She stares at the window, unsure of what to do. But she remembers what Erik has told her to go with whatever she believes in. She knew that Â as long as she is a Sultansworn and she is working under Ul'dah's politics, she has to comply to the order she's given by them. Even if it may be considered as a sinner's blade.

Anelia receives a letter from the Syndicates for a small council. Perhaps it maybe related to Lazarus, and this time - she cannot have any other choice but to side with Natalie to arrest the man into justice. This could also mean she has to deal with her former friend Roen Â to resent her more.

'Why did you come back? Ul'dah is now a corrupted place.' The statements made by Erik while she was gone, made her wonder if being a Sultansworn was the rightful choice in Anelia's life. She came back to hope to correct the wrong doings of politics and show people the rightful justice. She obviously chose her path wrong. She also wondered if Coatleque be upset should she leave Sultansworn. Would it be similar to how Roen saw in Anelia? Leaving her behind without any words or at least thought to be dismissed?

'....Probably not.'Â She thought for a bit like that, to see if Coatleque would be upset if Anelia resigned. The red haired highlander paladin was steadfast to Ul'dah. She probably doesn't like Anelia challenging the politics and authority a lot, or at least the way she fights too.Â

She couldn't cry, but just feel disappointed regarding everything happening around here. She basically have decided that if she left, she will leave with a resolved mind without looking back. But until then, she will remain as Sultansworn and protect Ul'dah.

She sighed as she dresses up with her armor and heads to the Husting Strip to discuss the matter with Syndicates.

Jancis · **09-14-2014, 12:57 PM**

In the early hours, Jancis stumbled into the inn room she had in Gridania.

The entire night had been peculiar and all the conjurer kept coming to conclusion to is she had simply wasted precious time.

Memeli had called out for help, not exactly frantically, but enough to warranty summons. What the next bells' had in store for Jancis was a wild goose chase that surely the crazed lalafell had planned each minute of. She had always gave a wary eye to the pink-haired woman; but most times the incredulous acts were over sweets or who got to spend time with Lady Jajara. This incident also seemed to ring to that effect, and in the end this "Riddle Queen" was agreeable if not pleased.

After that, Jancis was not quite sure. What had exactly happened? She frowned, trying to pull back the details. There was a lot of pink, truly, but had that not been all but a simple daydream of fancy?

It should have been, but Jezune had shattered that outlook on it. She realized she was standing in Ul'dah, him looking at her with intent concern and worry. His hand shaking her shoulder with conviction reminding her of their first encounter. The lancer kept checking on her. And there she was, dressed up like a performer!

Jancis shook off the spiraling thoughts, focusing on resting. She was oblivious to the problems in Ul'dah, who had won the Grindstone that sevenday. But at least, thanks to a kindred spirit, she was in her right mind.

She would have to return the favor to Jezune.

Though... if the haze had been truth... how much had she loved Memeli?

Kage · **09-14-2014, 02:48 PM**

The miqo'te, garbed in a blacksmith's attire complete with a hammer at his waist, sat inside the Drowning Wench eating an antelope steak. He'd had some luck finding work at a forge and earned some coin. Thankfully the master did not question him but he definitely was suspicious of the miqo'te. He'd decided to take him to the Wench to have a good time but... the miqo'te honestly had no idea what to say or talk about. He'd had no luck finding out information about himself, not even knowing his name.

Looking up from his meal he looked at the forgemaster who had poked him with a fork.

"Look, ah can't keep callin' ye lug. I needs a name."

The miqo'te looked at him apologetically, pointing at his bandaged head and placing his palm against his forehead. A soft voice answered the forgemaster. "Apologies. I don't know it."

The master sighed, annoyed but not angrily. He looked at the steak the miqo'te was wearing and tried to remember what he knew of sunseeker customs.

"Ah, den we needs ta give ye one. What about... A'turius. A'turius Tia. Ye sure ain't a nunh if'n ye don't gots a women or two lookin' fe ye ah reckon."

The miqo'te blinked, nodding slowly. "Thank ye master. I'll... I'll be A'turius Tia. Maybe until I find who ah'am."

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