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Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - Printable Version

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RE: Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - Diskwrite - 03-25-2017

"Ojene!"

Ojene turned on a heel- then huffed a laugh. In the middle of the bridge she stopped, not but a couple hundred fulms from stepping into Maelstrom Command proper.

“Tetesi. I didn’t know you were back in Limsa.”

“Course I were.” The sun-grown freckles sprinkled over Tetesi Tei’s face lost themselves in the grooves of her ocean-worn skin- the breadth of her grin drove deep the wrinkles age and ocean air had wrought in her otherwise smooth Lalafellian face. “Been here, ohhhh, for a good fortnight or so. Figured I’d look yeh up, see what yeh was doin’ these days. Well, turn me sideways an’ roll me up, fancy my surprise when I hear yeh was involved with one particular case.”

“Tetesi.”

The Lalafell spread her hands wide. “Ojene Suinuet, Raven of fuckin’ Ala Mhigo, defender of weak an’ shiverin’ an’ particularly grimy lookin’ beggars what covered themselves in muck ter lure a few more gil out o’ yeh- defendin’ the fuckin’ Butcher o’ Gloam!”

“What.”

“Butcher o’ Gloam! Ring to it yes? Yes? No?” Her still-brown eyebrows waggled up and down with a pace to match the sly curl in her smile.

Down at her old friend, Ojene glared. With a sharp tsk, she started walking. “Come with me.”

“What! What’d I say?”

But Ojene said nothing more- she led them away from the heart of Maelstrom Command, across the wooden bridges, and to a particular spot amongst the rise of gleaming limestone paths that overlooked the Mizzenmast. Quiet. Neutral. The Duskwight rested both hands on the head of her cane as she stopped, settling against the cool stone wall behind her. She closed her eyes.

“Is it the teasin’? Yeh always did get so uppity bout the teasin’, I suppose I could call ‘im the Half Right Bastard o’ Gloam, but then that implies he were from th’ place, an’ that’s not quite right, mmmm...”

“Commodore Haelstrymm is not a good man.” Ojene’s voice snapped through Tetesi’s musing- the Lalafell stopped short, one finger pressed to her chin. “He is sadistic, vengeful, and well known for his brutal punishments. But he is a brilliant strategist- a dutiful commander- and a man of law. I would be remiss if I did not carry out my duty to its fullest extent and give him every chance to demonstrate his potential innocence instead of simply assuming his guilt.”

“Ojene-”

“No, you’re going to listen. I’m tired of people assuming that because I threw myself into his defense, I obviously overlook the rest of his thrice-damned character. I liked the ruling. He can’t be proven to have done anything wrong, I tried- but it’s indisputable that distance has given him looser reins than might be wise. Take him away from Gloam! Remove him from that place of authority over them! Keep an eye on him so he doesn’t act like a brutal shite! But don’t cast him down in a military hearing simply because he made a call you didn’t like!”

Tetesi blinked. The wide smile she wore so often, like a familiar glove, had ripped apart. One stubby hand shoved a lock of white hair from her eyes, but the sea breeze flung it back. “So... it’s a no on th’ Half Right Bastard o’ Gloam, then?”

With a grating noise, Ojene pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger.

“All right, all right, I’m kiddin’! Sheesh. I was jus’ surprised. Yeh know. I’d’ve thought yeh would have been more interested in... questionin’ the Commodore instead o’ givin’ half a courtroom the plank.”

Tales had apparently spread. Little surprise. Ojene shifted her hands on the head of her cane, one cheek puckering. “It’s because it was the right thing to do. As I saw it. Most everyone was interested only in seeing the Commodore burn because their personal feelings told them so. Their bias, their impressions, their... characters. I had to make sure a different story was told. I didn’t make anything up, Tetesi. It was all already there. And you interrupted me as I was about to deliver the report I spent all morning writing up on the illegal activities of adventurers and, yes, Maelstrom officers, who had the gall to stand there in a court and accuse the Commodore of wrongdoing without even an onze of the integrity it takes to admit to their own damn crimes.”

“...I see. All righ’.” Tetesi nodded. “Suppose I’ll let yeh get back to that. But after. Drinks.”

“...If I get a chance.”

“Pah! Stick in the mud til the end. I’ll be expectin’ yeh!”

----------------------------------------------------------

This wasn’t a job she enjoyed. Well. There was some pleasure in it. Uncovering lies. Delivering truth. Fighting past obfuscation and deception. Standing up for a cause she believed in. Yes. But as Ojene strode as straightbacked as always into Maelstrom Command and reached into the sturdy sleeve at her side, there was a certain bittersweetness to the folders beneath her fingertips.

They were thick. Too thick, too long, heavy with the weight of words and ink, spilled over to record every last bit she could. To ensure these crimes could not be ignored. There were many. And the doers had been eager to fling round blame, turning on people they’d decreed as friends. Perhaps it is what that sort of life wrought. A life of deception.

Those tended to be short.

The day would be long from here. Reports to deliver. Testimony to provide. But she was prepared. She would stand up and deliver it as long and as well as she could. The fruits of her investigation- as cindered and rotten as they might be.

It was her duty, after all.

----------------------------------------------------------

OOC:
For the reference of all players involved, what follows is a summary of the crimes or missteps described in Ojene's reports. Any value judgments or first-person statements are written from Ojene’s IC frame of mind. All assertions are backed up with corroborating evidence of some manner. If you have any questions feel free to bug me!

(Former) Lieutenant W’chaza Yheli
  • Allowed a romantic relationship with a woman from Gloam (Leanne Delphium), to compromise her. Her own testimony states she pursued what Leanne wanted, instead of considering her own duty as a Maelstrom officer. This includes when former Lieutenant Yheli “forgot” to get her superiors’ approval for the treaty she sought to forment between Limsa and Gloam, until the substance was already in place.
  • Accomplice to the mutiny of the Sultana’s Revenge. Testimony states she did nothing to stop the mutiny, committed by one Leanne Delphium. Not in words, nor action. Additionally, she failed to report the truth of what happened. Not only did she leave out Leanne entirely, but she attempted to drop the blame on Osric Melkire instead… who had tried to prevent the mutiny altogether.
  • Failed to report the murderer of Jenny Hellfist, despite knowing who was responsible for the crime. Instead, she pressured Lieutenant Zanzan Yanzan to report, not for any lawful purpose, but to attempt to clear S’imba Tia’s name.
  • Was aware of S’imba Tia’s alleged plan to summon a primal, but made no attempt to stop or report this plan. In fact, by her own testimony, she went along with it willingly.

Leanne Delphuim
  • Led the Sultana’s Revenge in mutiny after Captain Torrael gave the ship to its First Mate Osric Melkire and former Lieutenant W’chaza Yheli, to be brought back to Limsa for decommissioning.
  • Verbally threatened the lives of both Commodore Haelstrymm and myself, before witnesses, after the events of Haelstrymm’s hearing.
  • Failed to report the murderer of Jenny Hellfist, despite knowing who was responsible for the crime. Instead, she pressured Lieutenant Zanzan Yanzan to report, not for any lawful purpose, but to attempt to clear S’imba Tia’s name.

Osric Melkire
  • There is little else I have on Osric that hasn’t already been revealed in official documents or during Commodore Haelstrymm’s hearing. He is responsible for the auxiliary fleet at the Battle of Gloam never learning of the Maelstrom’s withdrawal. Whatever reason he may have done it, it is clear he betrayed the very people he’d pretended to protect.

Chakha Hotgo
  • Again, there is little else on Chakha that hasn’t already been revealed. She confessed to the murder of Jenny Hellfist, and has been taken into custody of her own volition.
  • Through conversation with Chakha, it is clear she feels no remorse for that murder, or, it seems any murder. Not only did she speak of it without regret, but she offered to kill two more people throughout the course of the conversation, completely unbidden. She is obviously extremely dangerous, and quite likely to murder again if given the chance. Despite complications to her sentencing, neutralizing this threat to innocent civilians is highly recommended.

Lieutenant Zanzan Yanzan
  • Failed to report the murderer of Jenny Hellfist, despite knowing who was responsible for the crime. The perpetrator was close to him, so he chose to harbour her. He was clearly aware of her murderous, if not psychopathic disposition, but yet he was desperate to keep her from receiving any meaningful punishment. In fact, he offered to give up the information only if some promise of pardon or protection was granted. This is directly opposed to his duty as a Maelstrom officer. Any subsequent murders committed by Chakha Hotgo could be considered his fault.
  • Was aware of S’imba Tia’s alleged plan to summon a primal, but made no attempt to stop or report this plan. In fact, by his own testimony, he went along with it willingly.

Captain Qara Hotgo
  • Failed to report the murderer of Jenny Hellfist, despite knowing who was responsible for the crime. The perpetrator is her sister, so she chose to harbor a known murderer. She was clearly aware of her murderous, if not psychopathic disposition, but yet she did not seem to understand that this sort of behavior should be punished. In fact, she was quite reticent to see her sister receive anything but a pardon. As a Maelstrom Captain, this is absolutely unbecoming and unlawful behavior. Any subsequent murders committed by Chakha Hotgo could be considered her fault.

Former Captain Anstarra Silverain
  • A witness report of Anstarra’s attempted murder of Captain Torrael (and the actual murder of the two Maelstrom soldiers who served as her guards) was already provided the night of the incident. Therefore, there is little reason to rehash the event.
  • It is noted, however, that Anstarra professed to be a friend of S’imba Tia. It is clear she was compromised by her involvement with him. It is perhaps a failure of mine that I did not realize how much, even though my contact with her was relatively brief. After committing murder, she did provide the recordings she had in her possession, but only after an offer to protect S’imba was mentioned.

Former (?) Captain S’imba Tia
  • While the true murderer of Jenny Hellfist came forward, no dissenting information has yet emerged regarding the two other charges Captain Torrael presented to him on the Sultana’s Revenge. As far as I am aware, he is still guilty of them.
  • Information regarding S’imba Tia’s attempt at summoning a primal came to light during Commodore Haelstrymm’s hearing. Maelstrom officers (Zanzan) present at the hearing disagreed, stating it was simply a ploy. This belies the fact that S’imba Tia admitted to misleading Maelstrom officers about his intentions- he stated that he knew the Maelstrom would never go along with his plan, so he lied about it. Hard evidence to prove one way or the other, however, would be ideal.
  • It shall be noted that in his own testimony, and in the testimonies of others, S’imba Tia was acknowledged to be someone who draws other people’s guilt on himself like a martyr- stating he did things that he did not in fact do in effort to protect others. This means, there is a possibility the Maelstrom officers involved did know of the plan to its full extent. It is therefore my recommendation that this be followed up on, for it has great import not only on the collective crimes of S’imba Tia, but on the actions of our own officers.


RE: Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - Caspar - 03-25-2017

A Beach


She remembered a curious moment from the island before. It was strange because after that woman appeared, not much came to mind. Shapes and sounds, colors, heat, thirst. It wasn’t so much that she couldn’t pull from those memories, but that she never had a will to do so. She could tug endlessly and every time the string would simply grow more lax.

A man, haggard, beset by gout, black hair like sodden, rotting leaves, curled over his fishing rod. Like a coastal arch, battered by waves, waiting to erode fully. But it was a long wait. His pot was far from empty. Every once in a while, the silver-backed fish inside brushed against its earthenware walls in a glint of light. The girl understood this man had more than one stomach. His was the least important among them. That was why she could see the bones in his cheeks.

That was also why she knew he’d be there a long while. That his pot would keep her full. The sun began to fall, and his head nodded for the first time. Her hands, gritty with sand, pulled her forward from the underbrush. Too much distance. Had to make it shorter. Even a single blink’s worth of distance needed to disappear on time, or she’d be covered in bruises, or worse, by nightfall, too weak to avoid much larger, healthier ones. The sand was still warm, but the sun had already grown red. He was turning, then, his sluggish body struggling to realize the sound of four limbs pawing at the earth was approaching him, of all things, upon this insignificant dot on the map.

Why had he come here? How did he use that curious stick? For what reason did he feed his stomach last? There wasn’t any need to consider those questions, for she had no mind, no thoughts to spare him. She remembered the shapes, the sounds, the sensations. Hands tore at dried, bloody skin. Teeth closed around foul tasting, sweaty flesh. All of her meager weight was on his broken shoulders. She could feel him struggling under her, already lifting. The pot teased her from below; he only needed to tumble and it’d be hers, it’d be hers in an instant. Her thick, callused fingers fingers found a soft spot around the wrist and dug in, pushed deeper, pushed in, pushed through…


The thunder lady, frozen in time, eyes wide with disbelief, crumpled in front of her. An untrained body, unaccustomed to the concussive force force far in excess of what a small fist could do, collapsing in upon itself like she was a paper doll. A gun in black steel, ungainly and small. A toy? Did children play with little things like that in the Empire? Expressions filtering a thousand confused demands, desperate questioning, trickling through an expression she was unable to truly see. What the mind forgets, the hands remember. So she was taught. Her hands remembered it then, the journey through flesh and bone. She didn’t see her face then, couldn’t see it now. Wouldn’t see it. It was shapes. Light and shadow birthing color between their entwined forms. Behind her, she could feel a man’s eyes pinning their bodies together. He had to flee far away, no matter how strong he'd made himself, from what the small girl was doing before him. He had to be anywhere but there. But his eyes wouldn’t allow it. It was a familiar sensation, one typically unworthy of attention. She noticed it.

It flowed somewhere from behind her sight, through her veins and nerves, through the twitching of her muscle, deep into the recesses of her fingertips. The same sensation of her hand breaking that woman. Her nostrils flared, though she knew there was nothing but salty air to greet them. From someplace unseen, the fragrance of apricot blossoms came creeping back. She became acutely aware of the rushing of blood in her ears, a roaring to shame the rolling evening tide. The smile that wasn’t followed her from a place far out of sight, warbling in a way that could perhaps be mistaken for laughter.


When she realized where she was, Virara found herself with a porcupine’s hand. Galien’s fishing rod lay in two pieces at the sides of her lap, the splinters deep in her thick skin. It was a characteristic of her people, her Master had told her once, though she was a stranger to them, to have rather soft skin. The calluses never stayed long. A shame. It would make it easier to hit without feeling undue feedback. That she had any at all was a mark of her diligence.

Virara pursed her lips and set about picking the wood from herself, more troubled by the waste than the pinpricks she’d long stopped feeling. The island had a way of distracting her. She’d neglected her stone-wheel training, digging deep furrows in the earth with the load she dragged by mooring rope, but unless she decided to play aurochs for the locals, it was off the table. She cast her gaze across the water, skipping it across the waves, watching the rise and fall of the surf against unfamiliar sands, rockier and less comfortable, but also cooler to the touch. They were not like pearl dust, like the white sands of her better known beaches. The trees weren’t covered in ivy creepers, their forms deciduous and gnarled, but rather stormswept coastal pines. The waves had a different sound, the grass a different scent. The people weren’t constantly looking to disappear. And all of it would be occasionally ruined by the stench of blue slag, as well as its constant companion: that smog Imperials were so fond of.

“Not like my island.”

She murmured under her breath. Virara had never been loud, but her voice naturally favored a whisper, and she oft needed to repeat herself. Of course, she didn’t, unless she had a mind to be heard. But much more could be accomplished simply by doing. Virara recalled the sensation of a warm palm upon her head. There might have been greater meaning in Leanne noticing something in her. That surely was why she asked her aid, before and now. Like the time with the Garlean woman. She recognized Virara had a specific sort of usefulness. It made sense. Things needed to.

The calm that set over Gloam might have been a sign that it was time to resume the normal schedule. Move, fuel, rest. Never stay in one place. Always observe the schedule. Honor all debts. She had fulfilled her request, and it was now time to resume normal function, like she always did. She was a ray, forever pushing onward in the same direction, without deviation. It was time for her to take care of her final business upon the land she’d expended needless effort to keep intact and teeming with strangers who talked a great deal about pointless nonsense Virara had no use for. Time to get up. Keep moving.

But the beach’s sand was soft, and her body remained still, hand clutched firmly at her side, raw and throbbing with the traces of splinters left behind.

RE: Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - Anstarra - 03-25-2017

In Vesper Bay


Show Content


Anstarra slid off the rental bird, giving it a little pat before looking around. Casually, she then straightened her clothes - form-fitting shirt, pants slung low on her hips- enjoying the (sometimes less-than covert) glances directed her way... Before fixing her attention on the pub. A fight was well and good, but she was still a little wound up... and with the aether from that corrupted crystal’s bare caress settling into her, melting away the dye and setting a fiery tinge to her hair and fur (but doing no further harm for once, thank Azeyma), she felt well-inclined to enjoy herself.

Funny, the things one gets into. After all the recent madness, the comparative simplicity of doing battle against a corrupt fire elemental in a nightmarish pit of ash that had once been a town in the Shroud… well, it had been almost soothing.

She really needed therapy. Thankfully, it was in sight, the sounds of raucous joviality and clinking mugs of ale already singing their siren's song.

Off to the side stood a man, a hyur that did not stand out well from the crowd... though not for lack of trying, with his bright pink shirt, and the easily-overheard words he exchanged with the lalafell beside him. "...From -any- standpoint, no matter how you look at it, it makes no sense for there to be no fountain." The lalafell replied: "'S’posed to be a statue, not a damned fountain." "Yes but the width of the platform to the base of the statue is too wide, and serves no purpose. You've an ocean right there..." They continued bickering, an amicable debate slowly growing more heated. The taller man shook his head after a moment before glancing over his shoulder. He winced at the sight of a nearby Brass Blade, but then whistled sharply when he laid eyes upon the fire-haired miqo'te. "Hey, miss."

Anstarra's lips had quirked as she overheard the discussion taking place, turning and briefly glancing up at the statue. The question of a fountain wasn't one she'd thought to address in the past, and wasn't particularly inclined to pursue today. She was already halfway turned back toward the bar, but hesitated as she heard the call. "Mmm?" A look over the shoulder, and sly smile. "Can I help you?" Many a fine night began in such manner, after all.

The male motioned her over. Even in the full light of the sun the man's face was spattered in shade, the raised scar tissue of skin and the fine indentations of forming wrinkles providing such. An interesting face to look upon. "Just to break the tie here before this rat bastard thinks he knows better than me, only because he's Ul'dahn, eh? What do you think, a fountain would make the statue look better, right?" The lalafell beside him scowled sharply. "If it would look -better- with a fountain, there would already -be- a fountain," he seethed.

Amused despite herself, Anstarra turned and made her way over. She didn’t spare a little sway of her hips, though whether this would turn out to be of interest or simply practiced mien remained to be seen. Her eyes flicked over the hyur male's scars, tail giving a little swish as she came up and made a show of regarding the statue, while her mind weighed a choice. Air-headed, or clever? He looked experienced without being too lecherous. She smiled thoughtfully, and a bit playfully.

"Hmm.. but would a fountain not defeat the aesthetic balance of shore versus sea? Here stands Vesper Bay, and by extension, Ul'dah.. a glittering diamond, hard, and hot, smoldering under Azeyma's caress..."
The man stroked his stubbled chin. A 5 o'clock shadow that good doesn't happen by accident. Though his age seems to be creeping up on him, and despite the gratuitous scarring, he might have been quite handsome once. "Mmm, but fountains are expensive by nature, and symbolize great wealth. That's clearly what he's going for here, so why not go all the way?" The miqo’te nodded.
"Fair point... but as I heard you saying before, we're right by the sea~" She grinned at him. "Now if we're looking for senseless ostentation, how about a fountain of flames? One of Ul'dah's symbols.. haha, flames and gemstones both, glittering and fiery. Symbolic indeed! Anyone could steal the gems, were they to risk the flame..." Her own emerald eyes glittered as she brushed aside a lock of her hair. "If that isn't a fitting metaphor, I don't know what is... not to mention expensive as all hells~"

The hyur considered. "Not even sure how they would manage that, quite frankly." The lalfell cut in, clearly extenuated. "See? Anyone with two eyes born to their face knows no fountain is necessary! Hmph! What a crock of shite, telling -me-, a man what's studied architecture for 30 long cycles, that a fountain looks better! If I had my way the whole lot of...." The lalafell makes his exit, ranting the whole way, before his voice finally drop from the distance. The scarred midlander shrugged. "Well... I still think a fountain would look better. Everything looks so dry, even with the ocean in view. But I'm no man of architecture."

Anstarra watched the diminutive architectural savant make his way off, bemused. Before looking back to the hyur, flashing her teeth in a smile. "You could have fooled me. But if you're looking to wet your lips, I might have some ideas..." Her tail flicked, and then she gestured. "The bar right there, namely~" To her light surprise, the man rubbed the back of his neck in apparent consideration.
"I'm afraid I'm not the best company for drinking - can't stomach it like I used to in my youth. All the same, I'd be glad to accompany you. Been some time since I've been in Vesper." The woman chuckled softly, tail giving a slightly different kind of flick, this time concluding with a little curl.
"Recently landed? I'm sure there's a story there... and I don't really need to drink, to hear it." A tilt of her head and a smile. "If you're just looking for company, I can linger a little..." She gestures at the external stairs leading up to a nearby rooftop, a public, yet mostly-secluded lookout point. "Shall we get out of the dust, then?"
Her new companion gave her a polite nod. "After you, miss."

She led the way, hips and tail doing that thing they do, maybe a little more than necessary (though who decides what really IS necessary, anyroad? Popular opinion, mostly...). She smiled back at him as they arrived at the relative privacy of the rooftop. A light breeze came in off the bay, which was somewhat less foul than it could have been on this day. The flame-haired female regarded her companion, smiling once more. "Not one to come to Vesper Bay often... what brings you here today? Mister...?"

He stroked his stubble again. It seemed to be a habit. It wasn't an irritating affectation, at least to her, because his face was interesting to look at. With how flawless her skin was, you might guess she was fascinated by scars. A moment to look out over the settlement, glancing at the sky from time to time. "Alec," he said at length, turning back to the woman with an affable expression. "Alec Cromwell. And I inspect ships. Mostly trade ships... real boring work, and my age has made it harder than it used to be, so I come out only when asked for specifically. I've been told I'm faster at it than most, and so I cost less." He smiled at that, the crows’ feet on the corner of his eyes making a larger impression. "I didn't catch your name though, miss."
Anstarra's eyes were still on that stubble."You make it sound so enchanting~" she teased, tail dancing in amusement. "You can call me Star. My full name's a mouthful." She stuck her tongue out a little.


The male went still, his hand dropping to his side. The barest of hints. He looked straight at Anstarra, his face sobering, though his mouth still held a small smile.


"Yes, I'd have to agree with you there."


She frowned slightly, a very brief motion, as a chill stole over her. One of her ears cocked a little, just so, and though she retained her affable, playful demeanor, it had grown... strained. Her tail had gone nearly still.

"Have... we met?"

The man calling himself Alec dropped his voice lower than it was before. What once was clear and genial, now became breathy and foreboding, as if his words wash close over gravel as they leave his mouth. "Only just now. I admit, you put some of my best through the wringer. You look quite different now than you did before. But even one such as yourself should know that an attempt so banal will only go so far."

An’s ears folded down and she took a half step back. Her gaze flicked around, as might someone suspecting they're being surrounded. That she perceived no one right then could simply mean that her assailants would be good... Calculations ran behind her eyes, tension subtly hardening muscles under otherwise soft skin. "It's worked so far," she murmured. "You invite me.. to correct the exception. Who -are- you?"

Rather than reacting to the threat, the man took a half step forward even as Anstarra moved back. Bringing his hands in front of him, one hand loosely gripping the opposite wrist. "I’m just a man doing my job." He does not look to the sides as Anstarra does so, keeping his gaze trained on her. "You created quite a stir back home. Among many others. In my opinion, yours was the most egregious. That an officer with your history had such a propensity for stupidity was beyond belief. It was as if you had snapped, like a wild dog."

The miqo’te gritted her teeth, her cheeks flushing a little. It was hard to refute the statement - impossible, even - so she didn't bother. "It was a stupid moment. There's no going back." Her eyes narrowed a little in sudden suspicion. "Are you.. with the Sisters? You don't strike me as a.. red, kind of man." He smiled lightly at the question, or statement, or both.

"No, but I'll take that as a compliment." The smile is gone as soon as it appears. "And you are right. There is no going back. Certainly not to the Maelstrom, and even Vylbrand proper would pose a risk. Do you miss it already?"

Anstarra’s tail lashed as his question struck home, her flush deepening. She hissed. "So what if I do? I'm not going to go.. skulking around there, sneaking this way and that.” Never mind that she’d just done that, the day prior to witness the trial. He couldn’t know that. Could he? All at once it seemed horribly likely. She bared her teeth.

“And to hells with the Maelstrom."

The words came out with more vitriol than she expected, enough to give her pause, and make her take a few breaths. At least her survival instinct was apparently inciting her to keep her voice low, even in her agitation. "What. Is this. About."

The man’s intent expression did not change. "It's about you, and what you intend to do now. As the situation back home settles, there's no telling what will happen to you. The Sisters might come. The Maelstrom could lobby the other states for you capture and arrest. Skulking and sneaking about may become your way of life, regardless of your intentions. And so I have a propsal." He paused, studying her closely. Slowly raising one eyebrow. "Would you like to hear it?"

Anstarra ears folded back at his words.

And then her eyes slowly widened.


((With all thanks to Edda!))

RE: Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - Melkire - 03-25-2017

Show Content

His knees struck the floor as large burly hands which held him by the wrists and shoulders forced him down onto the carpet. He rolled his head back up and barked a laugh.

“This really necessary?”

He caught a single glimpse of Jambert Mulliner, Captain of the 7th Squadron, pacing the floor of the office before him before another Sea Wolf hand clamped down over his skull and forced his head down, too.

Right coeurls, ain’tcha? Knowin’ that y’can’t truly hold me down ‘n’ still goin’ for it anyroad.

He flexed the fingers of each hand and listened to each pop as he felt his knuckles crack. Mulliner was speaking, but Osric wasn‘t altogether keen on listening, seeing as how the captain was addressing someone else entirely.

“...my thanks again for the use of your office, Lieutenant, a pity the Commander couldn’t be here today…”

“...pity indeed, sir…”

“Bless you for the carpettin’, Peak! Last time they had me on the ruttin’ cobblest--”

The pressure on his skull vanished for a moment as someone struck him across the face, as someone else twisted one of his arms up and back behind him. Osric sucked in a breath between his teeth, and then burst laughing as blood began to trickle down from one corner of his mouth.

“...apologize for his rough treatment, the man is a criminal…”

“...understand, sir, I do…”

A small hand touched him, then… right between the shoulderblades, where the Black Spot festered like a malignant tumor, marring his skin like a revolting cross between a dark birthmark and an infected wound. Everyone who had touched him there in recent memory… even his own wife… had shuddered at the touch of it, at the feel of the malevolent aether that wasn’t his own as it coursed within his very blood… but this hand didn’t flinch. Not in the slightest. He sucked in another breath….

“...Yayatomo Sasatomo?”

Footsteps thudded against the carpet as a Plainsfolk man circled around and came into view. The fellow looked old, judging by the grey streaks that shot through his otherwise stark-white hair and chin-strap beard. He was in uniform, his insignia designated him a Maelstrom lieutenant… and also one of the many decorated officials of Mealvaan’s Gate.

“You know me.”

“I know your nephew.”

Sasatomo snorted.

“So.... that’s why--”

“My precious nephew had nothing to do with it. Horace was a friend of mine. He was always so fond of Danica… and I owed him a favor.”

Osric blinked, but the ancient arcanist went on.

“Now, hold still. This will feel much, much worse than the last time.”

Sasatomo stepped forward to place one hand, palm up, against Osric’s chest… right over his heart. Bent over as the midlander was, this had the rather absurd effect of looking as though the Lalafell was holding him up. And… and if to complete the insanity of the scene… Mulliner’s words to Flames First Lieutenant Burning Peak drifted over to them….

“...barbaric, please do believe that I would never have authorized the use of a Spot…”

The laughter which threatened to once more bubble up to his lips died in his throat. His entire torso went ice-cold, as though he’d been dropped into a frigid Coerthan pool, and his arms and legs soon followed. Pain shot through his frame, from top to bottom, and as he registered the similarities to cramping… he began to seize. His teeth slammed together, and he had just enough time to think, this is why it’s necessary, before his internal temperature shifted again. Burning… burning alive. Chest pains, as though something had coiled about his heart and refused to let go. Sweat was pouring off him now… but the pressure in his chest slipped, the seizing stopped, and he cried aloud as Sasatomo pulled back, pulled something out of him….

His vision swam for several long moments, and he was barely aware of the muted whispers of Peak’s horror. Osric took a shuddering breath and forced his eyes open to see--

A green translucent sphere of a shield hovered above Sasatomo’s palm, and within coiled and swam and unfurled an infinite number of black tendrils… a pulsing and familiar ugliness of smoke that resembled...

“What is…? What is that…?!”

The arcanist spared him a glance. “No concern of yours.”

Sasatomo’s hand balled into a fist, and the sphere shrank… and shrank… and shrank, forcing the darkness into an ever smaller space. Light began to shine as the shield compressed into an infinitesimal point… and then shattered, leaving nothing behind but motes of aether upon the air.

The man who’d been Dirk Problemsolver sagged in the grip of his guards as the old man turned and approached the witnesses. Done. It was done. He was a free man again, so to speak. Free to go home... both homes.

The officers exchanged words for a few minutes in tones too hushed for him to hear… but at last, Jambert Mulliner walked over and knelt down to look Osric Melkire in the eye.

“I’ve a message for you, from Captain Holskstymm Faezsyngson. You remember him, surely.”

That elicited a chuckle. “He looked so scandalized….”

The captain frowned, but forged on. “Come back to Limsa with me. Stand trial.”

Osric blinked and looked up, even as he fought down the indignant fury which left him wanting to spit into Jambert’s face. Stand trial? For what?! For the crimes he’d committed in his misspent youth?! They’d have him hanged! No questions as to his own guilt, they had more than enough witnesses and testimony and evidence! He’d barely survived his own court martial, and that had been rigged! Stand trial?!

He fought his wrath down, even as he realized that no one was holding him down any longer and it would be just as easy now to snap Mulliner’s neck as to spit in his face… he fought it down because…

”You fix this! You fix this and you come back home to your family! To the girls! To me!”

...because he’d been wrong so often as of late. He’d been wrong to stand for Morris, he’d been wrong to risk the life of his daughters’ father, he’d been wrong about Haelstyrmm, about Leanne and the others, about S’imba and Yheli and… he’d been wrong, to risk Balther and the old man’s family… and there had been Mercy, for once, in the city-state of Limsa Lominsa… and now….

“...no.”

Mulliner looked disappointed, and began to rise--

“Not yet.”

The captain stopped and went still. Osric took a deep, shuddering breath, and he went on.

“I pay my debts, but… give me some time. Time enough for… for me ‘n’ my family t’heal. Give me a year ‘n’ a sun. Then… I’ll come find you.”

Jambert stared down at him… and nodded. “Aye.”

And that was that.

RE: Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - LystAP - 03-25-2017

AIGIARN KHA

Ul’dah - Goblet - Dauntless FC House - Aigiarn’s Workshop cum Quarters

Aigiarn hummed in her room, the light from the refurbished Allagan illumination node shining on the forming model in front of her. She deftly moved the magitek soldering iron on the carbonized mold, shaping and cutting pieces that she would fit into the model. She stopped briefly and stood back to admire her work, her tail lifting up in a mirror of the fluffy tails of her miqo’te compatriots. Before her… was a model of a Borealis-variant airship.

Aigiarn thought about painting the ship in white after that renowned flying divine disaster, but recalled that she was in Eorzea and remaking the White Raven’s ship may cause some of her co-workers to question her allegiances. Her tail drooped slightly, before swishing back into her perky self as she imagined new possibilities. She should paint the Borealis model with gold paint, representative of the alloys being added to new Garlean ships that protect against magicks employed by Eorzeans.

To her right was a report requested by the Admiralty as to the evaluation of the threat of Borealis-variant Aurora-class air dreadnaughts. With the ‘removal’ of Captain Silverann from her command, Aigiarn’s services were no longer required. However, the Admiralty communicated an alternative means of fulfilling the obligations of her contract with the Maelstrom. Noting her experience and history with Garlean magitek, as well as her presence at the Battle of Gloam, the Maelstrom submitted a request for a strategic memo from Aigiarn, whom was more than glad to compile the papers and exhibit her mastery of magitek. And... Payday!

Formal Memo to the Maelstrom
Threat Evaluation of Borealis-variant Air Dreadnaught - Level: EXTREME.

The Borealis-variant of the Aurora-class. With a armament of 24 Type 41 Vulca-Rapid Fire Cannons, 40 Type 32 Heavy Magitek Cannons, 18 Type 21 Garlean Fire Projectors, 12 large-scale bomb bays, 14 Type 11 Magitek Rocket Launchers with Garlean fire and concussive variants, with a primary weapon of a Magitek ‘Citadel Buster’ Magitek Cannon. The Borealis can carry a full cohort within its decks, although much less heavy equipment, given all the space dedicated towards armament.

First commissioned in the initial invasion of Othard, the Borealis leverages the aerial bombardment doctrine established with the conquest of Ilsabard, which significantly changed the ally/foe casualty ratio in favor of the Empire. In the early days of the Republic, Garlemeld found itself constantly outnumbered and magickly outgunned by a multitude of foes. For a people used to being outnumbered by the armies that drove them north to present day Garlemeld, the Borealis was an affirmation of the power of magitek and airborne bombardment, ultimately crystallized in the bow and stern hull placement of the majority of the Agrius-class’s arsenal.

The Borealis can serve as a mothership for 6 Magitek Juggernauts and 4 Magitek Assault Craft. This is compared with the Australis carrier-variant [flying airship hangar], which can serve as a mothership for 24 Magitek Juggernauts, 12 Magitek Assault Craft, and numerous magitek gunships.  For close range, the Borealis-variant is equipped with a large Magitek core, capable of commanding hundreds of magitek bits in defensive arrays to account for its topmost vulnerability, included after airborne mounted troops of a Wuxia kingdom nearly brought a Borealis down during the initial invasion of Othard.

The Borealis-variant is especially renowned for the Massacre of First Bar - a naval battle in Othard where a single Borealis vessel, the Invidia annihilated an Othardian fleet of 200 ships: 60 ship of the line large-junks with 140 auxiliary ships of medium and small vessels. It is said that before coming to Eorzea, a Borealis class - the Dalamud - named after the fallen second moon - was the White Raven’s flagship of choice, who helmed the VIIth’s fleet’s one-sided victory over a large alliance of warlords and rulers in Wuxia.

During the VIIth’s invasion of Eorzea, the Dalamud obliterated an entire joint Gridanian/Ul’dahian division, and was responsible for the demise of the Navigator's Fist and its fleet, commanded by Commodore Haelstrymm’s predecessor, which had then been responsible for patrolling the Sea of Jade. In the end, the Dalamud was sabotaged and destroyed enroute to the plains of Carteneau; evidence later hinted at the involvement of imperial opponents to the Meteor Plan. If the Dalamud had been present at the battle, it could been presumed that it would have inflicted horrendous casualties on the Alliance forces.

It is the evaluation of this engineer (and in conference with fellow Ironworks engineers) that Commodore Haelstrymm made the logical choice when choosing to withdraw in the face of the Borealis-variant vessel, barring emotional arguments. This memo encourages the Maelstrom’s development of its own airship fleet to counter Garlean air superiority. The Ironworks, under Vice-President Jesse, with Highwind Skyways, will be more than willing to provide assistance and facilitate Limsa’s aeronautical development. The existence of the Firmatas in Gloam also indicates a means for the Maelstrom to obtain air superiority, while remaining true to Limsa’s nautical roots.

It is recommended that Maelstrom Command establish a board for the formal advancement and integration of magitek technologies into the fleet, as well as increased investment into airship development and air/sea integration.

Sincerely,
Aigiarn Kha
Garlond Ironworks

OOC -
HIHISA HISA - FORTHCOMING
CHAKHA HOTGO - FORTHCOMING

RE: Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - Melkire - 03-25-2017

Show Content

Waves crashing against the shore. Gulls crying out from above. Sand crunching beneath feet.

Thomys looked up from his bottle… from the stone upon which he sat… to look towards Costa Del Sol. His brother stood some two dozen fulms distant, hands in his pockets, waiting.

“Late as -- hicc -- late as ever, Ossy! But at least you came, aye, kept your promise, say no -- hicc -- more, say no more!”

He beckoned to Osric with a wave, and as his brother sighed with relief, Thomys could not help but feel that old enmity rise up his throat like bile.

Always you. Always about you. To my everlasting regret.

He turned back to his bottle and took a swig from it as Osric sat down on the sand next to him. He couldn’t remember how many bottles in he was, today. Did it matter? He supposed not. What was done? Was done.

“Thank you,” said Osric without preamble.

Thomys snorted. “For what? For not -- hicc -- shreddin’ your letter? For writin’ back? For actually listenin’ to what you had to say?”

“...I was in the wrong, Thom. I’ve made my peace with that. How many more apologies will it take?”

The youngest Melkire -- nah, see, I ain’t youngest anymore, now am I? -- barked a laugh.

“Take your swivin’ apologies, Ossy. Don’t -- hicc -- don’t want ‘em. Same as I ain’t wantin’ a lecture.”

Osric nodded, but eyed the bottle anyroad.

“So where’d you…?”

“Master Gegeruju likes his coin and hates your threats.”

His brother chuckled and it reminded him of--

the click of a latch the clock of a lock the chuckle of the little man at the door as he shook his head and turned to set down his belongings safe and sound back in his own home

--of days better left forgotten.

“You want t’know somethin’?” The question caught his brother’s attention, so Thomys went on. “I had me one o’ them epi-what’s-its the other sun… about three bottles in….”

The other midlander smirked as he looked to the ocean. “Epiphanies?”

“That! Gods-be-damned eureka moment, was what it was!”

two feet slamming into him as the Hyuran lad lands atop him the struggle the yelling the questions dagger too slow he’s too fast scrambling throw miss draw another dagger the book he’s got his

“So there I am, aye? Thinkin’, alright, mayhap Ossy’s right ‘n’ I should turn from the drink. But… the ache, y’know? No family around… no friends… I needed somethin’. You were -- hicc - you were gone for weeks, left me waitin’... some trig cove I am, to think you were comin’ back….”

a shining emerald wall sprang up between them i roar i slash my steel useless against that familiar sight sparks flying the hoarse screams of rage as the little man sees my face clearly in the light eyes widening recognition “You,” he says, “you’re--!”

“...so I thought, why the hells not? And I went back t’drinkin’. Ain’t hard, pinchin’ a flask here ‘n’ there. Sold what I didn’t like, got me enough coin for ol’ Ul’dahn Ugly up there with his pretty women….”

dropped haunches hands on the edge of the rug i pull and the carpet flies out from under the little man and the codex leaps out of that little hand lost slipped say sorry and as he falls the light of adloquium fades get after him before he can

“...so I’m three bottles in, aye? And I get to thinkin’... you know, I been doin’ swell since I took up these side-jobs for my brother. Gettin’ a hold o’ rosters ‘n’ all… hicc ... might be I’ve a talent for somethin’ other than drinking and thieving, aye?”

got him by the lapels red overcoat small man lift him off the floor and slam him against the wall and the little man cries out in pain boo hoo you swivin’ bag o’ shite here’s the dagger up against your everlasting THROAT and

Osric shook his head but he nodded all the same, a wry grin on his face. “Go on.”

“So I was all, well shite, I could be a real good hand at an honest-to-gods career, ‘cept I’ve got t’quit the drink somehow….”

he sees the hungry look in the lad’s eyes and that’s good aye good for him let the bastard see me shaking from two week’s abstinence press the dagger in closer there we go my cullies look at it draw blood, “Wait,” he asks, “wait--” and i scream my defiance tears down my face i don’t care “We were talkin’ again,” he croaks, “finally talkin’ again”

“...so I thought to m’self, hells, who does manage t’climb their way out of an addiction like mine? And I thought, that’s obvious Thom, the folk who’ve hit rock bottom! So I resolved....”

”and you TOOK HIM FROM ME! YOU!” weeping now openly weeping and the little man looks desperate but there’s a glint of oh twelve is that pity i don’t want your pity screw you sideways “He was comin’ back for me,” i’m sobbing now fuck me i need a drink and Sasatomo is pleadin’ with me but i say… i say... “Never again” as

“...t’drink my way to rock bottom. As often and as fast and as -- hicc -- as hard as I can.”

His brother’s eyebrows shot up at that. “You’re going t’drink your way out o’ drinking?”

“Why not? I’ll grow sick of it soon enough, won’t I? Just like I’ve grown sick o’--”

as i twist the point into his skin and punch up through the soft spot beneath his chin his jaw up and into his brains his body sags against the wall and i’m still crying and still screaming something is it never again no i think it’s “no black spots no black spots no black spots” and i slump to the floor with his corpse and i can’t help it rise fall rise fall goes my steel as i plunge my dagger into him again and again and again and

“--Limsa.”

Osric was frowning. “Are you alright, Thom?”

“...aye.” He smiled over at his brother. “Lookin’ forward to gettin’ off this rock again. Tried it once. Wasn’t fun then… but that was before....”

“...before what?”

and i need a drink and i’m done i’m spent and silence and i’m on my knees and the lights flicker footsteps i hear footsteps i look up and there he is my benefactor in this venture this stupid rutting venture oh gods i need a drink he looks at me he looks at the corpse i ask him if it’ll all work out and he says he says

“...before I knew that I had m’self a sister-in-law and two nieces!” He pushed himself up onto his feet, wobbling somewhat, and Osric followed suit. “So. Off t’Thanalan with us, aye? I get t’meet ‘em soon, aye?”

His brother smiled, threw an arm around him, and nodded. “Aye. Forget all the rest. Family first.”

Thomys frowned for a moment. “But… Haelstyrmm….”

Osric sighed. “Was jus’ doin’ his job. Took me some time t’see it, but I ain’t goin’ after him for that. Nah. I’m done with vengeance.”

he tells me all will be well all the holes will be difficult to explain but he’ll work something out no one will ever know he has his ways and his people have theirs and i’m relieved because it’s over i can move on i can go get a drink and as he offers me a hand up i take it and i throw him a smile it hurts but i smile and my accomplice this man this Tengri Geneq with his strange scales and horns and tail he bares his teeth as he smiles back at me.

Thomys nodded. He gave the horizon over the Deep one last glance before he put one foot in front of the other and walked. He walked, together with his brother, back towards Costa and the ferry that awaited them… the ferry that would take them onward to the rest of their lives.

RE: Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - Leggerless - 03-25-2017

Before W'chaza Yheli became a maverick of a lieutenant she is deemed presently, she worked as a bartender and chef, located in the city of Wineport.

It was here where she first learned of logistics and warehousing, of arts and crafts, as well as the proper way to use both a knife and sword to cut, dice, slice, fillet, and stab.

Feeding customers. Treating wounds. Speaking properly. Refining paletes. Maneuvering workers, both herself and others, in an efficient manner. Telling the difference between a Port and a Banyuls, despite both have the same, relative sweetness, by tasting it.

There were no secrets behind her success; through hard work, perseverance, and the ire of more than a few officers, she rose through the ranks of the Maelstrom and secured her commission as one of the younger officers within the Fleet. Never were she truly punished for her misgivings due to the fruits of her labor... until today.

The former lieutenant sat in her chair, mulled over her collection of works, and recalled a rough record of the recent trial in the past, few days. Oddly enough, the results she worked for... panned out well. She sought peace between Gloam and Limsa--despite originally designing weapons to take on Gloam--and it was achieved. A product of a manipulated officer's gambit which, normally, would be tossed out at her revelation of working with one Leanne Delphium, and yet... it passed.

The result of the trial forced Yheli's resignation, as she promised Ojene Suinuet that, due to her misgivings and unfair treatment of others, she would voluntarily give up power to prevent more mishaps in the future as an officer.

"Were it so easy..." Yheli remarked to herself, as she mused through textbook after textbook of words written both in the Eorzean and Doman tongue. "...But alas, I can do little about the past. Time to look towards the present and the future."

She consulted with Leanne about a possible settlement in the Far Eastern continent, away from the current political affairs surrounding the Eorzean city-states. She reviewed the property taxes, the information on local markets, foods, drinks, culture, types of buildings, what could and could not be done with regards to property, the likelihood of good neighbors at their new, humble home. The Seeker poured through multiple texts as well, acquired from deals of good-will and business, regarding the practices of the Samurai originating from Othard and Doma, and honed her own swordsmanship as preparation for what's to come and for protection.

Yet... despite the promise of a future, a few parts of her past clung to her. Osric Melkire, chief amongst them.

Yheli had many words for the man, but ultimately wrote him off as a 'tolerable man who's not much better than I am, afterall. Perhaps if we met under different circumstances... we could be better friends.' The woman wore a small smile at the thought about the man. Typically, one breaks bread with those whose lives they, at the very least, respected. In the case of Yheli and Osric, the bread was a deck of cards and the preparation a game of 'Hide the High Heart' whilst both were stranded out at sea on a dingy before the Agency picked them both up.

"Heh. Honor. I disrepected it by casting you into the fire." A small muttering of her words and a pause on her face as the Seeker's brow furrowed, thinking for a moment.

"Perhaps it is I who should receive the punch, Melkire... afterall, it is I who has worked against you in an unfair manner and you... do deserve to enact the punishment I dared to inflict upon you. 'Tis what an honorable person would desire, I believe..." A heavy sigh came from Yheli's lips as her eyes glossed over the papers in front of her, line at a time, and she raised a hand to adjust her glasses.

A new thought soon crossed over Yheli's mind.

Wait... do the ends justify the means afterall? Or do the means justify the ends? Philosophy wasn't the woman's strongest suit, but it gave pause and forced the woman into a slow recline as she leaned further into the couch she rested upon.

"...I would think the ends justify the means, aye... but perhaps the other argument isn't inherently flawed either. As if a combination of both are best, like how there are two sides to a piece of gil..."

More pause. A stare towards the wooden ceiling and large bookshelves around her. A blink of her eyes.

"And who decides what means are 'good' and 'bad'? Is it myself? Another? A group or nation?" She lowered her hands--the left with a piece of loose-leafed paper and the right a textbook parted midway--to her lap, thinking over the question once more.

A minute passed. A hour. Several hours.

The question in Yheli's mind kept her in a constant trance, as if she were a computer processing a high-caliber, large file to display a result.

"...What if there never is a single right person or entity for all time, but rather something that changes as time goes by?" She stopped, inhaled, then exhaled, before her head turned over to her left and she sighed.

"Who knows? It's not a question I'm able to find the answer to now... what matters is confidence in my own decisions and doing what I need to do."

Yheli raised herself up from the couch and collected her materials strew on the couch and floor in an orderly fashion, putting them back inside of her desk and the bookshelf one at a time to ensure no mistakes in placements. She glanced over to her right at the clothes chest, wrapping herself in a scholarly robe, putting on clogs, and grabbing her sword next to her bedside and securing it on her waist. She grabbed a decently sized bag and placed bundles of clothes alongside chef knifes, measuring tools, thief's tools, writing materials, books, and hygienical items neatly placed into the container. A deft hand shut the container closed and Yheli wrapped it up and secured it to her back. A hand slowly raised from her side and up to her ear, as the woman softly and sweetly spoke into it.

"...Leanne? Let's go on an adventure. Together."

RE: Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - Aya - 03-25-2017

[Sorry for the rather petulant tone, that wasn't my original intention but it is what emerged!]

Closed eyelids felt the warmth of Vylbrand's rising sun.  Tired senses tried to mingle the sensation with the potent scent of a final pinch of fine pipe weed, and the vibrant sound of an active quay below.

She exhaled a cloud of smoke with a sigh.  Why?  

Did it really deserve an all-night vigil?

She signed again, slumping her head against the rich mahogany of the chair she'd dragged out to the balcony.  On the adjacent little desk lay sheets of paper abandoned.  Ink dried crisp to long-idle pen.  She'd been determined to record her thoughts - and a tribute to the Battle of Gloam.  

But somewhere, she'd lost herself to idleness and contemplation.  Why had she done it?  Why had she cared?  She'd little interest in Limsan politics or law: how had she found herself there?  Attending hearings, defending sailors, and, by the twelve, going to sea aboard a privateer bound for battle?

Only there was no real question.  She'd always known why; she just didn't want to admit it.  The reasons were: Leanne.  Osric.  S'imba. And numerous others. 

A barmaid's friends.  People she admired--some of them heroes in their own right.  It had been so simple, really.  All she wanted was to earn their respect.  In her heart-of-hearts didn't she always understand that's what had mattered to her?  It had just been an opportunity to show them that she too could be relied upon: to do the things that were right.  To do the things that were hard.  To do the things that were brave.

She wanted to show them she wasn't just the smiling girl they'd met at the Quick Sand. She'd been terrified back then - of everything. She was comfortable now: with herself, with her city, with her path. But for what end?

The thought filled her with loathing.  And with frustration. She refused to open her eyes to face the sun.  

Even where she had been successful she'd always failed at her larger purpose.  No one seemed to understand why she was there.  It was dawning upon her that she'd never be more than the pretty smile with a tall pint of ale.

Their causes were deeper.  Their stories more gripping. Their attachments seared in moments of high pressure.  Heroes, it seems, were just a world apart.

She rolled onto her back, slumped with the full indignity of exhaustion.  

Unable to shout.  Unable to cry.  She just sighed again, with a deep shudder of disappointment.  

Perhaps it was better this way, she tried to convince herself.  Was this really the sort of trouble she needed?  S'imba, the only one who really seemed to trust her, was still in more trouble than she was capable of getting him out of.  Just what sort of further worries could lay ahead with this bunch?

Where prow through wave breaks,
Beneath salt spray scour,
When stout hull rattles and shakes,
There you'll find the hero of the hour


She had been there.  Aboard the Sultana's Revenge when the hour came due.

She was a woman who spurned the Ala Mhigan cause.  Comfortable to make due with what life she could find in the rest of Eorzea.  But ties of blood are slow to die.

Her heart had raced as the Revenge turned into the Imperial squadron, with the able Yheli at the helm.  She could still see S'imba standing proud.  Hands upon his hips and expectation upon that daring grin.  When the nimble Privateer broke through the last bank of fog they caught the Cruiser entirely unaware.  Imperial sailors turned at them in horror.  She leaped the gap between the ships, stout forest spear gripped in hand.  Ladders followed.  Osric cried his battle cry.  The privateers of the Revenge swarmed like winged death.

With spear in hand she dove upon those poor sailors with an unexpected intensity -they were the momentarily defenseless edge of the Empire's military might, and she showed no restraint.  They were caught one-by-one with the swift, silent, deadly work of a Shroud-trained Lancer- and the fury of an Ala Mhigan Fox.

It was over as quickly as it had begun.  The entire action was a blur of memory.  She had looked up to Osric and his blood-covered blade raised in exultant celebration.  Had she, in that moment, not been the very picture of Ala Mhigan Resistance? She couldn't recognize her own self. How could Osric?

She thought of her father.  The man who had raised her.  Protected her.  The man who had surrendered everything to save his family from the conquest.  She thought of every pride he had abandoned, every deprivation he had faced. She remembered the proud warrior-lord.  She thought of the weary old man who remained.  

She pulled her fist to her chest.

"If he knew..." she wondered in the ancestral tongue of their motherland.  "Would he at last be proud?"

RE: Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - Leanne - 03-25-2017

Vesper Bay, within the Sultana’s Revenge

“You’re fired.” The voice of a girl thundered within a room. Despite the natural softness of it, the authority and resolve behind the words was more than felt, like an echo that installed itself in the back of one’s mind.

“What…?” said a hyur, eyes bulging out in surprise. “But for what?!”

Leanne was sat behind a desk within the captain’s quarters, flanked by a tall, tanned highlander of brown eyes and long, messy, unkempt hair, whose beard seemed to stop growing after a while, destined to stand as a stubble until the end of days. The seeker demeanor did not show passion nor love, and the man by the right did not say a single word as he eyed the hyur sat by the other side of the desk, as if he were there just as a glorified bodyguard.

“You heard me. Pack your things, sir. You’re permanently discharged. No strings attached.” Leanne continued with an impassive voice.

Frowning indignantly, the hyur persisted, raising himself from the chair and resting his hands on the desk. “I heard the chit-chatter midst the crew, about what you’re doing right now. Why. And I can tell, it was not me who-”

“Then who it was?” she interrupted him immediately, raising her brow. The hyur paused, and gritted his teeth. Looking at the highlander, he roared in anger. “Ribald, are you really letting her do this?!”

“Answer th’ lass, James.”

It had been a little more than a couple hours since the seeker of golden eyes began what she claimed as the “pruning of the Revenge”. What began as a pursuit of those that sold her about the mutiny by then turned into a social experiment for Leanne, as she digested the reaction of the crew for analysis. She had seen it all by then. Relief, discase, terror, begging, threats, and many others. One of the more fascinating ones to her; anger.

“You promised me! We would keep the job! We could keep working in this blasted ship! It is why me and all others chose -you-, and not Melkire!”

Leanne didn’t react to the words. She had heard them, several times. At first she was taken aback when the argument was first given. But by then, she were just used to it. Numb.

“...What is your choice?” Leanne kept going in a calm, collected persona. “Follow Melkire out of the ship, or tell who sold your captain?”

His lips quivered. James sat back on the chair in defeat, body sagging as if his bones liquefied within his body. “..It was…”

His next words didn’t matter for Leanne. She already knew. It was too easy for her to discover them. What she wanted was to know if he would sell his comrades.

Slaeglac rebelled against Limsa, and even if temporarily, allied himself with the Empire. Many others followed him, herself included. For the sake of freedom. For the sake of happiness. Others could say...for the sake of self-interest.

Ulf, through the efforts of her, Gallien and Virara, turned against the Empire, and declared his loyalty to Gloam. Her words may have reached to his selfless side, but even so, he betrayed people who trusted him.

Osric sold out Gloam and betrayed others for the sake of his family. Ojene sold out and betrayed Zanzan to acquire the verdict she wanted.

And right now, that exact moment, Leanne was forcing people to sell out and betray people they might consider friends so they could keep their jobs. Said people who sold her out too. If she expected an epiphany or catharsis to come out of this, none came. It was all too distressing, too confusing. Several loyalties were broken, so others may be upheld. And in the end, no correct answer was achieved. For there was none.

“Such is the nature of men.” the voice in her head said. “Miserable creatures of contradiction and lies, ever seeking meaning and justification in what they do.”

“Capt’?” Ribald set a hand on Leanne, shaking her lightly.

“A-Ah.” the seeker blinked before regaining her surroundings. Raising her gaze to Ribald, she offered a weak smile. “...Was him the last one?”

“Aye.”

“...How many of the crew is left?”

Pursing his lips, the man scratched his rebellious mane. “Not that many. Between th' ones ye fired 'n th' ones that left on their own, we have enough to run th' ship, but just barely.”

“I see. I guess, that’s good enough. We can replenish those numbers as time goes by.” grunting, she lifted herself. “First Mate Ribald. Tell the remaining crew to prepare for voyage. We’re returning to Gloam.”

“Aye aye capt’.” he turned away from the girl before striding towards the door...

“...Ribald.”

...Only to stop. He looks over his shoulder to his young captain, tilting his head in inquisition. “Yes, Leanne?”

“...Did I do the right thing?”

“May ye be more specific?”

Leanne pursed her lips. “The mutiny. The “pruning”. The…” she paused. “You know. Everything.”

Ribald turned his eyes away from the seeker, only to look back at her. That sight was strangely comforting for her then. No warm smile denoting affection. No frown hinting at hatred. Just a critical and thoughtful expression, entirely devoid of bias. “I do not think that be a question I can answer, cap'n. Me right may be different from yer right.”

Leanne pursed her lips before exhaling in resignation. “...Aye. I guess so.”

Ribald pauses momentarily to gauge her reaction, before continuing. “Do not take as a sign that I disagree wit' ye, Leanne. Just that I reckon thar be no true right in th’ world. If thar was, ye would not be crackin' yer noggin’ right now.”

Leanne nodded once more before straightening herself. “...I guess you are right. Thanks, Ribald. You’re dismissed.”

“Aye, capt’.”

Leanne looked down to the desk. “There’s no true right in the world, huh…”

RE: Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - S'imba - 03-26-2017

S'imba laid on a dock in Aleport, he wasn't too well known there yet, though considering recent events it certainly wouldn't be long. He kept a bandana tied around his face just in case anyone were up with current events. Most people wouldn't give him a second glance. With his attire he just looked like one of those secret enforcers of the code. 

He gave a growl and sat up despite the thrill of making a public spectacle in Limsa when he interrupted Morris's flogging and pretty much spat in the face of the entirety of the Yellow Jackets. It definitely wouldn't take long to spread throughout the city, he'd made a straight up mockery of them. He couldn't help but feel sorry for the officer in charge. Certainly that man or woman was going to get an ass chewing for letting the so called pirate Captain S'imba Tia make a stunt like that then slip away. At the very least it seemed like his charges weren't as bad as they originally were. 

He kicked a crate into the water with a growl, watching the water turn blackish around it as the Doman tea started to steep in the ocean water. He was certain he was going to be a hero in Limsa after the battle at Gloam. With the other adventurers that had helped repel the Garlean fleet and stopped the Borielas. His tiny ship had been amazing then, despite literally being the smallest ship in that battle his crew had managed to place so much fear into the hearts of that Garlean cruiser that they were able to be boarded and overrun with little resistance. The captain terrified so badly at the sight of the Eorzean ghost ship that his entire crew lost cohesion. He hadn't lost a single crew member. That had to have been something to brag about. 

Fast forward to that meeting on his ship with the captain Haelstrymm had brought. He hadn't been there initially but the meeting seemed to have been some sort of distraction so the security officers could sneak down and drag him up to be arrested. From what he gathered Haelstrymm had intended to pin every single crime that occurred during the events of Gloam on him. Hells he was surprised that they didn't try to blame Slaeglac's original defection on him. 

He growled again, he'd managed to escape with An's help but it required her to become a murderer. He definitely pissed that captain off. They both were fugitives. He didn't actually know if his crimes were that bad compared to An. Though that actually made him feel worse.

He had no idea what to do. Should he turn himself in? He really didn't want to deal with a public flogging. They'd tie him to a post, humiliate him in whatever way they could, then beat him. Make him feel like an animal again. He could live a life on the run. Maybe with time gods crimes would simply be forgotten. 

There was a third possibility, he could go to -them-. Though that would require him to overcome some serious shame issues. Then there was the fact if they were actually willing to help him. He knew he had -skills- they were interested in but he didn't know if that stupid be enough. They'd probably see him as a deserter or something. 

He slammed his fist against the dock causing him to yelp out in pain. Haelstrymm may have not made an incompetent decision but the fact he was using S'imba as a scapegoat made him want to ruin that man's career. To take everything he had to crash it into the ground. Though he really didn't have the means to do it. He sighed, I'd there was one thing he learned it was big vindictive plans to get back at someone didn't end well. After all that's why he was in this situation. Made the idiots think there was a primal summoning. 

He sighed standing to his feet rubbing his eyes. He rubbed his neck. He'd be safe in Ul'dah for a while. Maybe this would blow over soon enough...or he'd come up with a plan to stick it to Haelstrymm. He walked down the dock pulling down any old wanted posters from the time that he was set up from killing Hellfist.

RE: Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - Verad - 03-27-2017

Late Night, Quarters of Captain Holskstymm Faezsyngson, The Gallant

"Recognition of meritorious service in enforcing the laws of Limsa." Holskstymm already knew what was on the letter, and hardly needed to have it read aloud to him. But Captain Mulliner was only recently lettered, and vocalizing was necessary for him to finish its contents. Holskstymm hardly minded, as it gave him enough time to refill his tumbler of grog. The harder stuff was always available in-port, but the Captain preferred his watered-down when he was in harbor. His habits meant he was often tapped to adjudicate a court martial, and keeping a clear head - clearer than the average captain at any rate - demanded he develop a taste for the tasteless.

"-hereby removing you from command of the Gallant - " Mulliner continued, his brow furrowing in confusion. Another reason Holskstymm didn't mind the time spent: Jambert took in what he was reading. Really took it in and took the time to process it all with the obsessive intensity of someone new to his letters. Put him on a court chair and he would take a bell to figure out the documents, but come up with the right of it in a tenth the time. It was a damn pity so often "the right of it" had nothing to do with standing legal precedent.

"-appointing you to the rank of Second Storm Commander, Holsk this is incredible!" Jambert dropped the letter with an air of obvious excitement. Drink in hand, Holskstymm gestured for him to keep going. Nodding, he put the letter to his eyes again. "With the intent of assisting in the refinement and oversight of Maelstrom legal codes. The Admiral hopes that with your expertise-"

Holskstymm held up his hand. "You can stop there," he said, plucking the parchment from Jambert's fingers and placing it between them at his desk, the words dimmed as they drew further away from candlelight. "The rest is all just praise, praise, highlighting the seriousness of the recommendation, praise, and a well-wishing conclusion. Standard Admiralty copy."

"You're downplaying it. Come now, we've talked about this: Never late for a martial summons, always prepared - and the research on the Morris case, that was a perfect compromise. Commodore didn't like it, but swive Haelstyrmm. And the hearing - "

"You weren't there for the hearing," snapped Holskstymm. "Right conclusion, but that was the only thing right about it. Guolwyda shows up -" Jambert winced, and Holskstymm pressed on before the younger captain could object. "She shows up late, and it'd've been better had she never shown at all. Damned fine sailor but she should never be in a martial, just picks the most convenient result. Spahro Llorn appears to harangue the accused before the guards can chase her out, and you know all of that is going to be on record in the Lantern any bell now."

Holskstymm drank, and drank deep. The grog being what it was, this gave him little more than motivation to keep griping. "And on top of that, on top of that, the court is packed with adventurers-come-captains pretending as hard as they can that they have the right of it, that they're sure the Commodore did them ill, never mind the proof, and anything they did was just an amusing peccadillo!"

Jambert unhooked a small flask from his hip, proffering it over Holskstymm's desk. He waved this away, and Jambert took a swig from it instead. "About that, is Captain Wanngeimdottir recovering well?"

"From a lance in the side? About as well as you'd expect. Had to forego her testimony while the chirurgeons looked in on her, but there's a written statement in the briefs." Holskstymm squinted, his spectacles crinkling into his brow. "You haven't been to see her yet?"

Jambert shook his head. "No, I was in Vesper overseeing Problemsolver's arrangement with the Commodore. Can't believe the bastard got it signed by the Admiral after the way he turned on the fleet, but her word is her word I suppose. And there's nothing good about anyone using the Spot - "

"Rather not change the subject just yet, Captain. You could be seeing her now." Jambert seemed to shrink in his seat. "But you're here patting my back instead." The Midlander always looked small to Holskstymm, but now he seemed to shrivel to half the chair's height. "Just ask her when she's well, would you? Different squadrons, same rank, there's no conflict."

"Isn't she making Commodore? Taking the 9th Squadron?" Jambert's voice had both a note of curiosity and the hopeful air of someone who had found a possible excuse. Holskstymm clucked his tongue.

"Temporary. Too close to Haelstyrmm's views, you see. It'll be someone from one of the main squadrons, I'm sure. There's nothing in the codes to stop it. And you can trust me to know." Holskstymm took time to refill his tumbler until, in his opinion, Jambert had squirmed in silence long enough. "Speaking of, what did you think of the decision? Did you read the records?"

They were both well-versed in the acts of drowning men, and neither commented on the similarity as Jambert leapt on the shift in topic. "Very fair," he said, his voice rising in relief. "Very fair. The Commodore was a bastard, we both know that, but you were right about the lack of proof. And it was a good way to keep the separatists and the sympathizers happy, moving him out of the squadron like that."

"Mm." Holskstymm drummed his fingers on his desk, wrinkling his mouth. "It's been nagging at me, though. Couldn't put my finger on it for a while, but - " He raised his eyebrows. "If the Sisters had gotten this mess on their hands - no Maelstrom, not like this. Say more like before the Admiral took control. They get this mess on their hands. What do they do?"

Jambert thought about this, but not for long. "Kill the Commodore, most likely. Take it on faith they've got the right man and that he stole from Limsans by withdrawing support, an' go from there."

"Did he, though? Are the people on Gloam Limsan? They've made it quite plain, I think - they're far from Limsan or don't want to be. Could argue they stole from Limsan when they ran off with Limsan ships and signed on with Garlemald, regardless of how it turned out. So are the Sisters going to slay the Commodore or cheer him on when he leaves Gloam to die? Assuming they didn't sneak onto the island and slay the leaders of the whole thing themselves."

"If he left Gloam to die," Jambert corrected.

"Yes, if," said Holskstymm with a roll of his eyes. "No proof, and the logs show he advised Problemsolver to send word. We care about that. You think they'd do the same? Or just take him and put the knives to him until he told them what they wanted? It's the Sisters, after all, it's the sort of thing they would have done, in ages past."

"Depended on the guildmaster, I suppose," said Jambert with a shrug, and that only prompted Holskstymm to smack his tumbler upon his desk.

"Yes. Exactly. That's exactly right. It depended on the guildmaster. Jacke might have his heart in the right place, for what's that worth, but there could be some right bastards leading the Sisters in ages past, and they'd have a bloodier take on this. An' we're supposed to be better than that. Keep it fair, set up a system so everybody knows what the crimes are, what the punishments are. No more fuzziness like the Code, which was never more than a fancy way to say 'No slaves, an' whatever else displeases the head of the Sisters.'" 

He picked up the letter between them, waving it in Jambert's face. "They tell me this, that this is what they want, and I know, Jambert, I know in my gut, that when recommendation one is 'Stop every damned captain from sitting on a trial just because they happen to be around at the time,' there'll be kicking and moaning from the squadrons and command.

"Oh, some'll be happy - Guolwyda will be glad to never see the inside of a court again, and the sentiment's mutual, but most? The whole damned thing's a substitute, a system people have found comfortable. 'Let the captains interpret the laws as best they may for the Maelstrom.' Just like the Code, but with an official veneer and a Maelstrom flag. It can't stand. Not if we really want to move past a mass of pirates. Not if we want this to last beyond the day Merlwyb falls dead in her quarters."

Both of them paused as they considered the image of the Admiral on her deathbed. Without speaking, both of them gave the possibility of death triumphing about even odds.

"My point," said Holskstymm, "Is that even after all that, what if that was the wrong call? The Code might have Haelstyrmm dead for something he didn't do, but he is a bastard, and we all know it. This recommendation, it hangs on that being the right call, on proving this is a better way. All it takes, now, is for the Commodore to trip up, and I'll have traditionalists saying 'I told you so' and pushing us back to the old days where we thought the contents of our bowels were good judges of right and wrong. And I still have to sell them on this.

"Why bother with of all this?" Holskstymm asked with a deflated air. "Laws with no principles behind them but a captain's gut. Ban privateering, but become furious when pirates quit - not even sailing anymore, they just quit - but not on our terms. There's this stumbling block we can't get past, and it's not freedom, not quite. Disunity, perhaps." He folded over his desk and contented himself with inspecting the bottom of his drink.

Jambert could only offer an encouraging smile. That was what he did, in the end. He'd heard Holskstymm rail about difficult judgments in the past, and always there was the damn smile. "I'm sure you'll figure out the right of it. You can sell them on it."

"You, mayhaps. I can't. Room in the post they gave me for an advocate if you want it, when you're at shore. I'd be inclined to offer it - " Jambert raised his eyes, and his smile widened. "But you have to talk to Torrael."

The smile collapsed with the speed and force of a pugil with a popped bladder. "You're a monster," Jambert groused.

"I don't know, I think it's a fair call."

RE: Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - Verad - 03-27-2017

Bridge of the Firmitas

"Third hallway, one-hundred-and-fifty fulms. Turn a right dial underneath a set of three short, glowing blue lines. Wait five seconds. Press the panel underneath the dial. It will slide open."

". . . Confirmed."

This was a dumb idea. No, Ulf corrected himself, it wasn't a dumb idea, it was an adventurer's idea. There was a crucial but subtle difference. A dumb idea could simply fail or be outright disastrous. An adventurer's idea was simultaneously so ridiculous that it had no logical chance of being the first or even the best possible solution, but so audacious that it had the air of mad impossibility to it, possessing an intangible "What if?" that could motivate the people performing it to heights of ability which would ensure its success.

A few weeks ago, he would have thought standing up to a Borealis-class airship with little anti-air and less direct air support was a dumb idea. If they had better forewarning, he would have counselled evacuation, and offered his ships to do it. He had taken limited steps in that regard by assigning veteranus Ironfist to man the assault craft. And yet here they were, now stationed outside the harbor of Gloam with the island unharmed and its people triumphant.

Likewise, the thought of dragging Architectus Van Gravis from his confinement in quarters and keeping him trussed up on the bridge to relay instructions to the Immersabilis crew in Dagon 1500 yalms below the ocean's surface had seemed a dumb idea. He was held at swordpoint, of course, but that wouldn't stop him from telling the crew to turn a dial left when they should have turned it right, only for the facility's aspect-conversion engine to turn Gloam into a ceruleum volcano all for the sake of spite. It seemed doomed to fail, but no one understood the workings of the facility better than he.

Their options had appeared limited - either find enough engineers of sufficient skill to decipher the workings of the place while dealing with a still-damaged whale-ship and hope nothing in the facility went awry in the moons or more it would take to do so, risking attacks by the deepkin on the island all the while, or take the risk of detonating the place from afar with the Immersabilis' magitek cannon, consequences be damned. Ulf had thought, and thought, and then sat down with the Architectus and had a good, long chat. The contents of that conversation led to the current state, in which he meekly relayed instructions to the team below through an overcharged communicator.

"Central hallway. Do not approach the glowing tubes, there are chimeras in there. Straight line through to the central control unit. Regulate ceruleum flow to ten percent."

"Ten percent?" Ulf's voice had a warning note. "Not zero?"

"If you want your precious island to have enough fuel to trade, it still needs that residual trickle," Virgil snapped. He had agreed to their arrangement, but he still seemed to rankle at no longer being in command. Ulf couldn't blame him for that. "It can produce that even in a dormant state. Or do you want the pumps to corrode without a constant flow?"

". . . Ten percent, then."

Virgil tried to make an exaggerated, sarcastic gesture of thanks with his hands bound, but found the point of the gunblade deterred him. Sighing, he returned to the communicator. "Ten percent," he repeated. "Confirm?"

". . . Confirmed."

"Good. Final step. Remove three cores from central command. Look for panels underneath the consoles. Should be a glowing yellow. Do not remove glowing blue unless you want the deepkin to rampage. Ten-count between each core's removal."

"Acknowledged. Removing first core." 

A dreadful silence fell over the bridge. The command staff were present, but with the Firmitas stationary in the water and no gunships on flight paths, there was little to do but listen. Every man and woman at their station had their fingers near a specific button, or a particular lever, all to be used to prepare to evacuate if things went awry.

"Removing second core." 

Ulf held his breath and tightened his grip on his gunblade. A single wrong move and all of the victories of the past moon were for naught, their defection without meaning. They would face the choice of returning to Garlemald to face the noose or to Vylbrand to suffer the attentions of the Eorzeans, and their accolades for the triumph at Gloam would only take them so far.

"Removing third core."

Ticking chronometers were a thing of the past in Garlemald, obsolete curiosities, but with the exception of the Architectus every man and woman on the Firmitas was Ala Mhigan born. Even without such a device nearby, the bridge crew could hear the sound of it in their heads as ten seconds passed.

". . . Third core removed. Dagon powering down. Repeat, Dagon sleeps."

They were a well-trained and disciplined crew, but Ulf forgave them the sighs of relief and the relaxing of posture at their stations, and overlooked the occasional cheer. He took hold of the communicator as his attentions on the Architectus relaxed. "Confirmed, team. Return to the Immersabilis and prepare to surface. Excellent work."

Virgil relaxed in kind, confident that his death was at least a little less imminent. "Will that be all, Pilus?" he said with the kind of withering sarcasm best reserved for mocking a schoolteacher's position.

"Commander will do, please," Ulf replied in as mild a tone of voice as he could manage. He gestured to two of the bridge guards. "Please escort the Architectus back to his chambers."

"Turning against the Empire," Virgil grumbled as he was hauled out of his chair and to his feet. "Selling out to pirates and eikon-lovers. Giving over our weapons!" He shot one last glare at Ulf with his third eye as he was led off of the bridge. "Thunderfell would be ashamed of you. If she were alive."

The crew of the bridge, which had fallen back into their more relaxed chatter of directing gunships to launch and guiding the whale-ship back to its docking point, fell silent. All expected the crack of a gunshot, or a fist against Virgil's face - and from Ulf, all knew that was as good as a gunshot. Yet he only sighed.

"You're right," he admitted. "She would. I suppose I just know why that shouldn't matter anymore." He turned on his heel to face the bridge. "To his quarters, please."

RE: Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - LystAP - 03-27-2017

HIHISA HISA - 
Night over Thanalan - Airship Flight Path #21 - Southbound from Old Sharlayan -
Theme - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TDjzssXZPUg

The moon shone brightly in the night sky over Thanalan, light cloud cover with a slight breeze. It was nearly perfect weather for airship travel, which manifested in a line of lights descending and ascending from Ul’dah and nearby Vesper Bay. Amid this ebb and flow of lights - a single light rimmed in blue, rocketed through the outskirts of the airship lanes, before diverting to a new trajectory towards a nearly empty airship dock, usually reserved for official Ul’dahian business, although often rented out to private entities. 

A new Viltgance-class airship, equipped with corrupted crystal engines and wind-aether treated sails, slide through the air as it approached the airship docks. Engraved on the sails of the vessel was a unique seal, old when Ul’dah itself was young, and a symbol of a prominent family that flipped between the Royalists and its opposition for decades. Near the docks, a group of figures can be seen, a few black-armored Brass Blades around a smartly dressed lalafellin male, his arms crossed and face stern. The Viltgance steered smoothly into the docks, a testament to the skill of the privately-employed pilot and the brilliance of the airship’s engineers and designers. 

—————
She’s done so much in such a short amount of time, so many mistakes and follies. How could she have redeemed herself? A few suns of punishment - walking up and down stairs?
—————

With a clang, the Viltgance lowered its docking clamps and a ramp descended from the airship’s hull. A manservant was the first to descend the airship, and he bowed politely to the lalafell male. Curtly, he moved aside as a another smaller figure descended the airship ramp. The moonlight shone on the figure and revealed pastel pink clothing - a rugged-looking yet deceptively expensive cashmere hood and poncho covering the figure, with bright pink hair akin to that of the Sultana herself. 

The cashmere hood and poncho were sewed in a complex horizontally-oriented geometry of characters, shapes and other designs. The appearance of the clothing seemed to overemphasize the intellectual capability of its sewer, rather than any actual aesthetic intent. The pastel pink appears to be post-hoc attempt at establishing some form of modesty on the poncho’s design. Nevertheless, the designs contrasted smoothly with the soft features of the wearer’s face, as a desert flower in bloom. 

—————
A fool. That was what she was. Not a scion of Ul’dah. Not behaving as per her breeding. She fumbled and rolled as many a penniless fool. She behaved more like the now-legendary Captain Simb’a Fuckintia, scourge of the Admiralty, Official Maelstrom Nuisance, the Nightmare of the Goblet Housing Authority (GHA), Avatar of Uninsurable Liabilities, among other interesting monikers. Speaking of the Fuckintia, she heard over the linkshell that the acting First Mate of the Revenge fired those she had recommended. Nevertheless, many of the sailors had expressed the fact they had a ‘wonderful’ time aboard the Revenge, and it was worth the experience to tell their children and grandchildren and great grandchildren. 
—————

The figure, now identified as a female Dunesfolk lalafell, with slightly similar features as the male Dunefolk lalafell, approached the latter and curtsied respectfully. “I have returned, Lord Cawajewa.” The older male Dunefolk lifted a eye, “Very formal I see, the Sharlayans have taught you well. Nevertheless, you may call me… father, Hihisa Hisa.” Hihisa looked up at her father, Hihijewa Cawajewa.  “Yes, Lord Father. I have returned.” 

—————
“I’m the daughter of Hihijewa Cawajewa of the EADI you know?”… How many times did she use that statement to obtain her own desires? How badly did it end up because of her runaway emotions? She dug her own Masaja Pit and almost brought her family down with her…
—————

Hihijewa regard his daughter with a somewhat analytical tone, a far cry from the unconditional loving personality he had exhibited before this fiasco of the Battle of the Gilded Ship. Hisa remained in her posture of respect as her father scrutinized her. She was slightly lighter than she was when she left Ul’dah. The fare of Old Sharlayan was renown for its utilitarianism; what flavorful dishes that exist where foreign cuisine made for academic pursuits. Her face remained relatively unblemished, her emerald eyes glistened in the night, reflected by both the light of the moon and the artificial lights of the city. 

Her coral pink hair, a trait of the nobility with links to the Ul line, lined her delicate (almost doll-like) features. Her delicate lips slightly chaffed after exposure to the harsh temperatures of the north, but maintained through a variety of alchemical lip balms purchased by her mother before her journey to the Old World. Her hands were enveloped in soft cashmere gloves, ideal protection against the fridge climates of the north and the exposed compartments of Eorzean airships. 
As Hihijewa scanned his daughter, Hisa also found herself involuntarily self-examining her manner of dress. Far more elegant than the red shirt man, whom she learned had the name of Osik Milkire, from what her sources could send her from Eorzea. A queer last name, but interesting; hyur naming conventions had always followed that of a profession, mayhap his ancestors were dairy farmers? She sent a letter to this Osik Milkire, mayhap he could forgive her for leaving him without contact? 

—————
It was only through their family’s legacy and the threat of returning a prominent family to the Royalist Faction that the Monetarists ‘pardoned’ Hihijewa. Hihisa was still punished, and with her survival, the case was dismissed, with most parties eager to get the event behind them. However, Hihijewa calculated that it would be best for Hisa to leave the country for a time, outside of the grasp of Ul’dah and other nations of the current Eorzean Alliance. Thus… she was sent to Old Sharlayan.
—————

She recalled the prominent family she stayed with, old relations of her father. Her father was a renowned merchant, as well as her grandfather and grandmother on her mother’s side. Her mother and her family oft sent merchant fleets up north into the Big Empty towards the Old World and Ilsabard; whereas her father’s family focused in Thanalan, when it had bothered to deal with mercantile matters during generations that focused on the arcane and law. 

This discrepancy in family tradecraft philosophy, contributed to the approval by the patriarchs of her family of her father and mother’s marriage, outside of emotional notions of ‘love.’ The marriage of their families granted her father’s side access to practical connections in the Old World and Ilsabard, while her mother’s side obtained a foot in the door in Ul’dahian politics; a stronger connection with the Ossuary and a personalized tomb compartment in the Chamber, also contributed to the marriage approval. 

In Old Sharlayan, aetherology and aetherochemistry, the knowledge of life energies and their manipulation. Hisa had learned aether-manipulation as part of her Ossuary training, as well as her own studies into her family’s legacy. However, the Sharlayan schools of magick highlighted the ‘process’ of energy manipulation - Hisa found herself enlightened in a native school termed astromancy - or rather pestered by the daughter of her host into being a study partner. 
The experience highlight an interesting school of study, especially one she would write to her friend Edda on over the course of the stay. If there was a positive aspect that she took from her outcome, it would be her growing relationship with Miss Edda Eglantine, a peer residing in Vylbrand. That such a series of events would lead her to such a new relationship, mayhap the guiding hand of the Traders was responsible for their meeting. 
—————

After a few moments of observation, Hihijewa walked over to Hisa… he looked into her emerald eyes as she lower her eyes in deference towards her esteemed father. He reached his hand out… patted Hisa on her head. She slightly shook with the pat and looked at her father with eyes somewhere between teary and confused. With a lunge, she hugged her father and cried… “I’m sorry! I’m sorry for everything! I’m sorry…”, Hisa repeated over and over again, while Hihijewa remained standing, rubbing his hand against his crying daughter’s head amidst a fatherly embrace; the guards had turned about as if respectful of this touching family event, although a few sniffles could be heard.

—————
The gentle lapping of the waves contrasted with the ravages of the storm. Memories of thunder and levin rip across her memories. Her time on the Iron Bitch with Captain Silverran was a ‘grand’ time. She had rarely seen someone so ‘outgoing’ in a position of command, although it may be expected for Limsans. She recalled the Captain stating that she was not a Limsan native, but from Gridania and Ul’dah, if it made sense. She had a captivating face for a miqo’te with above-average flesh bags compared to most non-lalafells, that often attracted the eyes of the crew. Mayhap she should seek the Captain out in the future, if she or her family should need a experienced captain.

Speaking of ‘needs’, Hisa also remembers Miss Jana Ridah, another adventurer she encountered on her seaborne journey of penance. The mission with Captain Silverann and her crew was part of her family’s agreement with the Admiralty in exchange for a degree of leniency in her role in the Battle of the Gilded Ship. Miss Ridah reminded Hisa exactly of the stories of the bloodthirsty, undiplomatic adventurers that constantly invade the Ossuary libraries. Haven’t they heard of rental charges?

The last adventurer… conjurer that she can recall was Miss Liadan. She was amazed by the display of raw power conjured from the elementals of the ocean. Hisa had read about Elementals of the Shroud, but she did not expect elementals outside of the Shroud to be capable of such power. Mayhap she could journey to seek Miss Liadan out when the opportunity presents itself…  
—————

A few bells later, Hisa stood once more ontop her family home. Looking down on the city, it was clear very little had changed since her departure. It to be expected, a few moons would barely be enough to shape a pearl, much less the Pearl of the Desert. Looking heavenward, Hisa recalled the night sky, nearly tainted by the lights of the city, the constellations that appear faded are drawn within her minds-eye. She remembered her aching and bandaged legs… a fate ordained by her own actions. Fate… she should have expected this outcome; the power she possessed led to many consequences… she will have to live with those outcomes. However, it means not mean it was inevitable… many Spoken have desired means of auguring their own destiny for eras. And more took up their own arms and sought to rule their own fate… As she smiled, Hisa looked down upon the city of lights, and drew a card from her sleeves. “Let us see what Fate has in store.”

RE: Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - Khunbish Avagnar - 03-28-2017

Haelstyrmm hearing aftermath
WHAM!

The door wobbled as it rebound back open in defiance of the rough treatment it had just received as Khunbish failed to properly slam the door shut behind him. It was after hours, no one was around tonight in the Lascivious Seeker. It was just him, and a dark empty bar. He whirls about to properly slam the door shut, locking it after and ignoring the shouts of annoyance from a neighbor that had woken up to the noise.

Off came the maelstrom coat that had become bloodied from the night's work, and so did his under shirt, tossed in a pile on the dark floor, well, by the sounds of it, the shirt made it to the floor, the coat landed on a planter box. He yanks a fire shard out of his pocket, holding it in a gloved hand as it gave off just enough light for him to find wood to toss into the fire place, throwing the shard after to start the fire. To his angered dismay, it didn't catch and he spent the next couple minutes starting a fire the old fashioned way.

Once lit, Khun slumps down on the couch, boots rested on the low wooden table as he watches. He had heard the verdict, well as much as he could remember, the result was perfect, Haelstyrmm was given more than a slap on the wrist, he was taken out of a position to make a similar screw up again.

Khun yanks his gloves off and tosses them on the table before he runs his hands through his hair, the night ran long, because some idiot thought his horns were stronger than metal gears and wanted to see if he could break a pair of them. Boredom, and young Xaela needing to prove their strength was a bad combination, and with no way for them to actively show off and test themselves, they were getting into dumb things.

Back to his feet he paces to the bar, hopping over it with ease to swipe a bottle of brandywine and return to the couch. What was frustrating him the most was just how absolutely inept and worthless he felt in that courtroom. He had no place ever being in there, being involved in that hearing. Cork out with teeth, spat into fire place, gulp gulp, bottle set down for the moment.

He felt useless in the fleet battle too, short of the ship being boarded there was nothing he could do but basically sit on his thumbs and wait for the inevitable injuries to come below deck, but at least then he knew there was something he could do. That damned courtroom though. The one time he comes up with something, has an idea, some thrice damned miqo'te comes barging in, and his whole attempt, the whole idea he had managed to bring up was swept away.

At least he finally understood the saying till sea swallows all, because it sure as hell swallowed every idea or thought he had in there. Hands come to rest over his face and mouth as he screams in frustration into them. He was exhausted, tired, but he knew he wasn't going to sleep, he kept going over, trying to see if there was some other idea, some other way he could have been at least of some use instead of a seat filler.

In the end, he comes to nothing, sitting there staring up at the ceiling, listening to just the crackling fire. Not a thing he could do to help, no good to help Qara with her sister, no good to help Zanzan in the court room. This was a feeling he hated, at least when he was bound and gagged sitting in his own filth in the Adarkim camp between battles he knew there was nothing he could do but wait, this... this was like having the illusion of freedom, of being able to do something, of being helpful, but still being just as bound and gagged.

Once more back to his feet, he grabs the water pail and douses the fire, a quick note letting Lysaria know she was in charge for a few days and he was out the door with his clothes in one hand, and a bottle in the other. A couple hours later, and a trip across the aether, he was slipping out of his Free company house in the Lavender Beds, a couple jars of bait, a fishing pole, a folding chair and a large knapsack. Left behind in a drawer were the majority of his link pearls, and a notice stuffed in the moogle box that he would indeed be taking that leave of absence that was highly suggested to him after the trial.

By the time the sun peaked over the horizon, he was well and far into twelveswood, off the trail and set up on the shore of some lake he didn't know the name of, butt in the folding chair, fishing line cast and hat over his face as he quietly snores away.

Nearby, a horse grazes on the shore grasses, she's seen this all before, doesn't bother her any. She does wonder if there were any of those small things around with heads like onions, she missed kicking them, they made such a lovely shout of frustration, but who would know her enjoyment, after all, she's just a horse on grazing while her lizard slave lounged in the chair.

Asleep, Khun was still going over the whole thing again, still trying to find something, some way he could have been useful.

RE: Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - Knight Kat - 03-28-2017

Final Verdict Part 1

Kahkol Tribe refugee camp, Mor Dhona



“I’m starting to see why Xaela tribes fought each other all the time. Words don’t work on some people. They think and uh… Assume, but ignore or miss the truth. Then they do things because of those false things they believe, and end up being on the wrong side.” Qara spoke as she wrestled with the best way to phrase her thoughts.

Eorzean common was not her first language, and Xaelic was a very different tongue. She was becoming fluent, but complex ideas were still hard for her to articulate. A silence fell upon her and Tsenkher, her grandmother, as eerie Mor Dhona wind blew outside the makeshift yurt they sat in.

Tsenkher continued to idly mix paint in a ceramic bowl as she sat cross-legged on layers of fur and rug matting. “Welcome to politics, Qaratai.”

Qara let out a sigh to that. “I wanted to help, but most of the time, I didn’t know what to say. Chakha did some bad things. Things that could hurt entire tribes if we were back home. I had to focus on that. After saving Gloam, nothing else mattered… But we were caught in these politics. We tried to trust someone we shouldn’t have… Zanzan is… He is bad at knowing who to trust.”

“Not surprising for a boy who paints green over everything.” Tsenkher drawled.

“Yes, but, he also helped with these politics more than anyone else. He fixed as much as he could. He fixed part of what others broke.” Qara responded and tilted her head back. She sat adjacent to her grandmother, and kept her gaze wandering about the inside of the candlelit yurt. She was reflecting and trying to organize jumbled thoughts. What should have been a simple issue after saving Gloam turned into a mess of politics and backstabbing.

“Who is this one you trusted? I assume it was the one you sought to find a solution for Chakha?” Tsenkher asked.

“An Elezen from the Maelstrom named Ojene.“ Qara answered as her voice lowered. She had quickly developed disdain for the woman.

“To be fair, Chakha attacked a member of the Maelstrom? This Jenny Hellfish you spoke of?”

“Yes.”

“And she did it serving a different tribe?”

“Uh, someone from Ul’dah.”

“That is like an act of war. Can’t expect the enemy she made to forgive that so easily.”

“It wasn’t to make war. Jenny Hellfish was a privateer… Uh, like a mercenary. That’s what I am now too, I guess. Ojene thought I was an officer of Maelstrom, but not true. I had to sign what they call ‘Letter of Marque’. They have this law called Galadion Accord that means privateers have to work for Maelstrom. But I’m not really Maelstrom.”

“Sooo, you joined forces with the tribe that your sister wronged?”

“No I… Ugh.. You don’t... Yes…” Qara’s voice betrayed resignation with that last word.

Tsenkher bobbed her head slowly as she continued to mix more paint. She let out an exhale through her nose as she pondered, or perhaps she was letting Qara’s answer sink in.

“I don’t know who this Ojene is, but she’s not the problem. Don’t talk to her again. Don’t let Zanzan talk to her again. You foolishly tried to trust her, and she fairly refused to help. She had a chance to make you as an ally. She refused. Move on.” She paused and finally turned her gaze to Qara; letting the mixing pestle rest in the paint.

“Chakha should have run away, but she gave herself to them. Can’t change that either. Move on.“ Tsenkher spoke curtly as she verbally weeded-out the distracting parts of Qara’s political mess to get to the main issue.

“They have a right to be angry. Chakha should be punished… But she is my granddaughter, and your sister. For us, accepting her execution is never a fair option.” She sighed as she bit her lower lip and her eyes wandered – a habit that both Qara and her grandmother shared when thinking deeply.

“It makes sense that they want her dead. But you have something to offer for a lesser punishment. Time for you to test if their wisdom can out-weigh their anger… You told me of the battle of Gloam; something I never imagined a Hotgo being part of. We are a people of the grass sea, not the saltwater sea… Yet you Captained a ship that dealt the final blow against that metal monster of the skies… A monster that even the big fleet of Maelstrom didn’t want to face.” She reaches to place her hand on Qara’s shoulder.

“It was like a legend. Those people were going to be destroyed like the Hotgo, but you and your crew saved them from their ‘Dotharl’. I am so proud of you.” She paused as Qara’s gaze averted to hide the sudden surge of tears that began to well in her eyes.

“I do not say this only because I am your emee. I think anyone who does not see what your ship accomplished is blind… Offer that. If the Maelstrom kills your sister, right or wrong, fair or not, there is no way you will stay. They will lose you, your ship and its crew. They will lose a ship that was capable of fighting that sky monster, and stopping it. Tell them you will do the same for them that you did for Gloam if they let your sister live… That is all you can do now.”

Qara raised her head despite the tears. Why was she crying? She wondered. But the pride had a sting as it returned. She had lost so much of it after Gloam due to all the law-loving bureaucrats that crawled out of the woodwork to judge what they had not been part of.

However, Chakha -was- a criminal. Qara accepted that, but it had been mistaken for ignorance. What Chakha deserved didn’t matter to Qara. Chakha was one of the last Hotgo.

“If they let my sister live, I will send her on the right path. I swear to the spirits. She will spend the rest of her life helping me save people.”

Redemption mattered, and laws seemed to have no clauses, words or definitions for that.