It isn’t my problem. I already made myself clear.
He had already returned to a small cottage in the Black Shroud. The same one he always retreated to when he wanted to be left alone. Its previous owner had laid a number of protective geometries around to keep unwanted visitors from gaining access. Naturally, Franz supplanted that as well. How mail found itself to the small estate was another matter. One the Garlean could not comprehend.
“It must be the work of the moogles. It wouldn’t be the first time the rotten creatures delivered a swiving letter to a remote destination,†he muttered to himself. He hadn’t opened it. There was little need to. The handwriting had already suggested who the sender was and the message contained inside.
Am I not even allowed a sennight to myself?
He retrieved a letter opener left neatly in a small desk’s drawer. Another item that had been cared for by the previous owner. Franz only opened if for formality. A quick scan had revealed he was correct in his assumptions.
He was being asked to return to Ul’dah at his earliest convenience, or rather, he was being told, /commanded/, to disembark immediately. Only a fool would take the words for their face value. He supposed he could simply ignore the letter, pretending it had never arrived. Or he could delay his actions for another evening when he wasn’t preoccupied with his own thoughts. Both would surely send the writer of the letter into an angered frenzy.
The beginnings of a smirk crept onto Franz’s face.
Is there really anything he can do or say to force me into action?
The stew he had been cooking was surely done by now. It would have been such a waste to have to dispose of it when he’d spent the sun prior gathering and buying the ingredients himself. And there was the matter of the former owner’s work that still needed to be done. A stack of pleas and orders for a variety of alchemical solutions lay piled on the desk. If he were to continue the farce that a runaway of House Kirche was indeed still alive, there needed to be some proof that he continued to exist. And fulfilling the work orders was the simplest method. His “customers†were already accustomed to waiting.
They can wait a sun longer.
Franz skimmed through the first few. The papers themselves covered in dust from the time they’d spent lying unmoved. Simple things. A few potions. Some elixirs. A request for a potent poison. Fraz knew how to prepare each according to their specifications. Mixing them was another issue. Deaspected crystals hardly made proper catalysts. And wearing gloves made the finer measurements that much more difficult. Finding an assistant would have been the only viable method. But it would also expose everything. Too many questions would arise from it. And so the orders sat. Perhaps he’d attempt a few in the morning. Just enough to provide some income and keep people thinking all was fine.
Returning to letter in hand, Franz carefully guided it into the furnace.
He can wait until I decide I’m ready. Or he can send for me with something more forceful than a letter.
He had already returned to a small cottage in the Black Shroud. The same one he always retreated to when he wanted to be left alone. Its previous owner had laid a number of protective geometries around to keep unwanted visitors from gaining access. Naturally, Franz supplanted that as well. How mail found itself to the small estate was another matter. One the Garlean could not comprehend.
“It must be the work of the moogles. It wouldn’t be the first time the rotten creatures delivered a swiving letter to a remote destination,†he muttered to himself. He hadn’t opened it. There was little need to. The handwriting had already suggested who the sender was and the message contained inside.
Am I not even allowed a sennight to myself?
He retrieved a letter opener left neatly in a small desk’s drawer. Another item that had been cared for by the previous owner. Franz only opened if for formality. A quick scan had revealed he was correct in his assumptions.
He was being asked to return to Ul’dah at his earliest convenience, or rather, he was being told, /commanded/, to disembark immediately. Only a fool would take the words for their face value. He supposed he could simply ignore the letter, pretending it had never arrived. Or he could delay his actions for another evening when he wasn’t preoccupied with his own thoughts. Both would surely send the writer of the letter into an angered frenzy.
The beginnings of a smirk crept onto Franz’s face.
Is there really anything he can do or say to force me into action?
The stew he had been cooking was surely done by now. It would have been such a waste to have to dispose of it when he’d spent the sun prior gathering and buying the ingredients himself. And there was the matter of the former owner’s work that still needed to be done. A stack of pleas and orders for a variety of alchemical solutions lay piled on the desk. If he were to continue the farce that a runaway of House Kirche was indeed still alive, there needed to be some proof that he continued to exist. And fulfilling the work orders was the simplest method. His “customers†were already accustomed to waiting.
They can wait a sun longer.
Franz skimmed through the first few. The papers themselves covered in dust from the time they’d spent lying unmoved. Simple things. A few potions. Some elixirs. A request for a potent poison. Fraz knew how to prepare each according to their specifications. Mixing them was another issue. Deaspected crystals hardly made proper catalysts. And wearing gloves made the finer measurements that much more difficult. Finding an assistant would have been the only viable method. But it would also expose everything. Too many questions would arise from it. And so the orders sat. Perhaps he’d attempt a few in the morning. Just enough to provide some income and keep people thinking all was fine.
Returning to letter in hand, Franz carefully guided it into the furnace.
He can wait until I decide I’m ready. Or he can send for me with something more forceful than a letter.