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The Wages of Servitude - Printable Version

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The Wages of Servitude - McBeefâ„¢ - 02-26-2015

Not even carrion birds broke the solemness of the ravaged caravan. A ragged, bloody cover waved lazily off of a broken spar, shadows shifted, and here and there small fires still burned.

No living thing however, was there to break the silence.

Except for R’elend.

The mid-day sun bakes down, and he feels the first effects of dehydration as he sits, motionless. A slow, pulsing headache, that builds, grinding behind ones eyes. It as if one’s head is being wrung as a sponge, the desert squeezing out every last drop, leaving a dry husk where a living thing once was.

He had urinated earlier, after finishing the graves. A pitiful amount really, coming out as a dark, almost black spurt. It hit the beastman’s dark scales with a hiss, and before a moment had passed, was gone, baked off by the sun. It is the last urine his body would produce.

Other parts of his body were acting as well. Last ditch, desperate attempts at forestalling the inevitable. With every breath he could feel the air drawing the moisture from his throat, water his body could not longer replace. Dryness turned to pain, a pain that traveled down his throat.

He smiled, a morbid thing, and a new pain, as his lips cracked anew. A fitting end for him, he’d given so much to this desert, this sea of sand. Now it seeked to claim what little remained. He didn't bother searching for water, all had been burnt or smashed. The chocobos were long dead as well, targeted first by the beastmen.

He was alone, his garrison malms away still. Not that there was anyone left to send. All who were able had rode with him, towards the smell of fire and blood. Only the sick and wounded were left now, and none could make the journey, or even knew they needed to make it.

No. This was the end.

There was a certain peacefulness at that thought. It was a life of giving, some would think that an unlikely path for a Blade, but it came easy to him. He gave to tribe, then Ul’dah, then his men.

He gave to the traders, the explorers, the desert. He had kept giving, and his life had been slowly eaten away through the years, as his water was being sucked away now.

There was nothing left now. He had given it all.

He laughed, or at least made an attempt. More of a dry hacking wheeze. He laughed at the absurdity of at all, and after a moment, realized it was weeping instead.

How similar they are, weeping and laughing, when your body has no more tears to give. He wondered if there ever was a difference.

“Fuck them.” he says, among his tearless shuddering, “Fuck them all.”

With his last aching movements, he curls into a ball, wracking with silent sobs as he dies. “Fuck them…”

He closes his eyes, and he drifts off to the sound of stirrups and footsteps in the distance.

RE: The Wages of Servitude - McBeefâ„¢ - 02-27-2015

The continuation of the pain was the first indication that even unconsciousness would not protect him. A thick pounding ache through the core of his being. He was charred, scorched, not even a man, merely the ashes of one.

The pain surpassed conscience, or even sentience, and he lingered that way, time has no meaning in the face of oblivion. Suddenly, a cool drop, a rivulet of life seems to flow into him, one drip at a time.

At first, it only increases his pain, water irritating ravaged flesh, flesh that had already given up on life. Sullenly, his body seemed to accept it, drawing it in. He had time again, an eternity between each drop, an agony of waiting for the next.

He swallowed, instinctively, some animal part of his body activating once enough moisture had gathered in the base of his throat. Pain once again shoots through him, as flesh grinds against itself, like machinery without lubricant. Now he has a new milestone. It continues, yet a new variety of eternity for him to endure. The steady drip of water, the raspy burn of its swallowing. They were his existence, his everything.

Yet, with every drip, the agony decreases, and every swallow is easier than the last. His breathing grows less ragged, and the headache fades to a dull twinge.

If before he was the ash of a man, this narrator supposes, now he was the mud of one.

Eventually, somehow, the agony fades even enough for sleep, and even the steady drip of the water, is not able to claim him from sleep.

He does not dream.

RE: The Wages of Servitude - McBeefâ„¢ - 03-01-2015

R’elend awakes and begins coughing, or perhaps he coughed himself awake, his lungs finally strong enough to clear out the accumulated debris. The bodies of all mortals run much like a ship, this narrator educates you. Decks must be swabbed, stores must be replenished, and bilges must be pumped. Even the most majestic caravel of Limsa Lominsa herself would be beneath the waves in days, if even the most basic of these tasks was not performed.

So R’elend coughs, his eyes still stuck shut, and continues until with a last ceremonial hack, he gathers up the last of the phlegm in his throat, rolling to spit it to his side. He hears a sizable wet splot, which somehow amuses him.

“Oy! You no good Tia!”

A high pitched voice rings out to his right, “We just had these floors sanded, this is an infirmary, not a saloon.”

R’elend cracks a smile, either he somehow survived, or Thal was so cruel enough as to preserve the chain of command after death.

“That voice, awfully high pitched for an Amalj…” R’elend laughs, finding himself increasingly euphoric just for the fact of his existence, “Perhaps we’ve finally found one of their women.” He manages a weak whistle, “Come over here baby, I’ll show you what the man of a real race is… murmphhj…”

His speech is interrupted by something soft and damp hitting his face, “That’s Captain Baby to you, Tia. Now clean yourself off, we’ve got shit to talk about, and it even concerns the recently undead, such as yourself.”

R’elend chuckles, and wipes the grit from his eyes, cautiously opening them against the flickering torchlight of the infirmary, “How long was I out?”

“Tonight is the second day, so perhaps 20 bells?”

R’elend tests his legs, swinging them to the edge of the small cot, “Shit myself?”

“You should be thanking me for watching your lazy…” The lalafell sighs, “No you didn’t, Lieutenant, it all must have gone to your head.”

“Too bad…” He stands shakily, thin sheet falling back onto the bed and leaving him naked as he does a few stretches, “I liked the idea of you wiping my ass. Only a captain that really cares would do that.”

“Fantastic, now put on some clothes, unless you’re heading breakfast mess with your dick swinging about. I’d suggest against it, baby sausages are on the menu, someone might get confused.” The lalafell smirks and throws a set of clothes at the Miqo’te.

R’elend laughs, pulling on his clothes, thick long shorts, and a tight undershirt worn under mail to reduce chafing. “Unless they’re slicing up Leviathan himself in there, I fail to see how anyone could get confused.” He sweeps back a cascade of light brown hair that crowns his head, then checks his ears and tail, “All still there. Good news Captain, I’m still handsome.”

The lalafell rolls his eyes, “I’ll let the Amalj know, I’m sure one of them is looking for a boyfriend.” He then slides a pair of boots over, “Had to almost cut these off you, I wouldn’t let them. Not right, fucking with a soldier’s boots.”

R’elend grins, tying up the boots, “Very good Sir. But you might want to hold off on telling the Amalj, they’ll be devastated to hear of our departure. I assume our relief is here? Unless you dragged me out of the desert with that broken leg of yours?”

The captain scratches the back of his head, mouth hidden behind a bushy mustache, but R’elend could swear he sees guilt in those large Dunesfolk eyes. “Something like that R’elend.”

R’elend pauses, his jovial expression gone, as his ears fall back, and his lips curl in something of a snarl, “Are we going home, or not, Sir” He glares at the captain, “We both know how many fucking tours I’ve done out here. We had a fucking deal Sasafaru.”

The lalafell straightens, “Lieutenant, we are to meet after mess with the commander of the relief, and hear our orders. You can either eat, or wait in the brig.” His voice lowers, “Elend, I don’t know what he’s coming to tell us, but whatever it is, I think it best faced on a full stomach.”

R’elend glares at him for a moment longer, before that fades as well, he was hungry as shite, in any case. “Aye, forgive me sir.” Exhaling, he wishes he could expunge his worries as easily as his breath, “Well then, will the Lady accompany me to breakfast?”

A thick sword belt hitting his stomach from across the room was the only answer he receives. "Oof, the lady has spirit."

RE: The Wages of Servitude - McBeefâ„¢ - 03-08-2015

Everyone has those moments in life.

The burning impulse, the utter need, to reach over and strike someone. To beat them and choke them, to stab them and rend them. To do onto them physically the harm their words have just given you.

For in the end a wound is a wound, whether of the heart, spirit, or flesh, and man seeks revenge for them all.

R’elend sits, hands trembling at his sides as the words come at him like fists.

“So then, the ranking officer, Captain Sasafaru will report back to Ul’dah for debriefing and further orders.” The sunburnt Miqo’te woman shuffles a stack of creased papers, “Lieutenant R’elend, as his second in command will stay and advise us until the next relief, in eighteen moons.”

She clears her throat and drops the packet of orders onto the desk with all the finality of a headsman’s axe, “These orders come from the Silver Blade Soaring Ridge himself.” Looking to to R’elend and Sasafaru, “Any questions?”

“Captain N’orsola, the Lieutenant has been here longer than I, a full two years, should he not return instead?” Sasafaru opens his pissy little mouth and speaks, and for a moment, R’elend almost believes he has not been betrayed. The moment soon pases, the Captain had never really been on his side after all, R’elend was a fool to think otherwise. No, this was a game, and he had been outplayed.

The Miqo’te captain shakes her head, “The orders are quite clear, until yesterday there were several other junior officers that would have stayed instead, unfortunately, Lieutenant R’elend, you’re all we have left.”

R’elend sits, silent, glowering, not trusting his mouth. If he speaks it will be words that would doom him further, if he moves, it will violence. So he waits, anger building like steam in a boiler, waiting for the right outlet to act.

“Yet… could not one of the sergeants stay as well?” The lalafell argues, “They are also experienced, R’elend himself came here as a…”

The Miqo’te captain cuts him off with the wave of a hand, “I didn’t write the orders, Sasafaru, I’m just delivering them. Highest ranking officer goes back for the debriefing, next in command stays on as liaison.” She gives R’elend a tired smile, “I know you’ve been out here a long time Lieutenant, six years in the desert is more than enough for anyone, but we’ll get you home soon enough, ok?

Sasafaru swallows and nods, not able to meet R’elend’s eyes, “Aye R’elend, I’ll see what I can do back in the capitol as well, get them to move up the schedule for the next relief. Things have been quieter since the Brotherhood of Ash have become involved, filthy beastmen that they are.”

R’elend takes a deep breath, and holds it, boiler at full capacity, then speaks the first words since the news has been broken. “Such is the life of a Blade, isn’t it?” He stands, saluting, “Captain N’orsola, it will be pleasure working with you.” He waits for the captain to return his salute, before turning to Sasafaru, “And Sasafaru…” He smiles holding out a hand, “Say hello to all the pretty girls in Ul’dah, will you?”

Sasafaru nods, reluctantly meeting R’elends eyes, and taking his hand in a small shake, before R’elend’s hand clamps down on his like a vice.

Some people thought Lalafells weak, that their childlike stature implied a childlike body. R’elend knew firsthand this was not the case, somehow those little bodies could swing a blade with enough force to lop a leg off the knee, or parry a blow from much larger men.

R’elend knew all this, but he also knew he was stronger. He uses this strength now, squeezing at the fragile bones of the Lalafell’s hand, feeling them shift and grind against one another, tendons creaking and muscles straining. All the while he smiles, a plastered, ominous smile that does not reach his eyes, as he watches Sasafaru try not to react.

He was tough though, for a traitor, and R’elend releases his hand, covered in splotchy red marks, and dots of blood where the Miqo’tes nails had dug in, “Have a safe journey on the morrow.”

R’elend leaves.

And he plans.

RE: The Wages of Servitude - McBeefâ„¢ - 03-11-2015

It’s an easy thing, killing a man. Some will tell you otherwise, but do not trust them.

Most things are easy, when done right.

And of course, practice makes perfect.

R’elend enters the small office, giving a smart salute, “Captain N’orsola.”

She returns it, “Lieutenant…” putting down her papers, she sighs, “First let me give my condolences for passing of the Captain. I know he was like a brother to you.”
R’elend nods, and an amateur would take his stoicism as poorly disguised grief. “It was unexpected Sir, leg wound festering like that. We ran out of medical supplies near the end, before your relief arrived. Salves especially.”

He clutches a fist, “Hell of a way to go. Must have been bad for weeks, little guy never liked to show weakness, needed to be an example for the rest of us.”

The captain nods, “His leg was black as death when they finally cut the cast off, damned rot even reached the bone.” She shakes her head, “You’ll inform his family, back in the city?”

“It will be my honor.”

“Good, we’ll prepare the body for transport, we’ll need a proper medic to look at it before we bury him. Twelve protect you on your journey Lieutenant.”

R’elend freezes, a cold sweat creeping down his back, “Forgive me Sir, but he wished to be cremated/. Religious reasons. Plus the body won’t survive the trip in this heat.”

The captain blinks, “Ah is that so…?” She looks over her papers, “That will be hard to justify in my report.”

“Captain Sasafaru would not rest easy in the afterlife if anyone was to catch the pox which slew him. He wished to be burned and scattered to the winds.”

Captain N’orsola, sighs, tapping a pencil onto her desk, “Fucking religion, always causing problems.” Waving a hand, “Very well, it will be less work for us anyway.”

R’elend bows, “Thank you Sir. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to prepare for my trip.”

Quietly he exits.

RE: The Wages of Servitude - imsoemokthx - 03-15-2015

(( Is this still opened up?

RE: The Wages of Servitude - McBeefâ„¢ - 04-05-2015

(03-15-2015, 02:46 PM)imsoemokthx Wrote: (( Is this still opened up?
((This is more of a closed backstory! We saw each other in the QS the other night, feel free to bug me in game!))

It's an easy thing, killing a man. Some will tell you otherwise, but do not trust them.

Yet the shortest path is not always the safest.

And it is sometimes best to stop and build a bridge along the way.

R'elend sits in silence as his Chocobo steadily trods across the shifting sands of the Sagolii. Its saddlebags were full to bursting, containing years of reports, letters, mail, and his meagre personal effects.

He could still see the garrison behind him, carved into the rusty red stone of a desert bluff. It wasn't a bad place, he reflects, for a desert prison. Defensible, cool during the day, and warm at night, fed by underground aquifers. Yet a prison it had been. As it fades into the distance, for the first time in years, he allows himself to relax. He laughs even, the strange spontaneous laughter of a slave who has found themselves free.

As he does, one of his Chocobo's panniers opens on its own, the wicker lid popping up. "Glad you're enjoying yourself, R'elend." The ruddy face of Sasafaru appears, streaked with sweat as basks in the desert winds, "I nearly baked to death in there. If you wanted to kill me, you could have just done it back in the camp."

R'elend laughs again, ruffling the Dunesfolk's sweaty black hair. "Oh captain my captain. Does your carriage displease you?"

Sasafaru frowns, reaching for a nearby water skin and taking a deep drink, "Much about this displeases me, you oversize feline..." He looks at the vanishing bluff behind them, "But tis better than the alternative. You're sure this captain of yours will help us?"

R'elend nods, "Aye, she'd jump at the chance to take the two of us. Brass Blades of the Lily. She asked me to sign up, once before, but fool that I was, I decided to join the Blades of the Tulip instead." He sighs, "Thought it would be quieter, out here in desert... and my debt collectors were starting to get more insistent. Hopefully she's still alive."

Sasafaru widens his eyes and punches R'elend in the side, "Hopefully!?" He shouts, "You, you... mangy cat. I faked my death and lost my commission for you, and you give me hopefully?"

The miqo'te rubs his side, "Calm down, you overgrown popoto. One as tough as she, I'm sure she's still around. We fought on the outskirts of Carteneau together, a woman like her doesn't die easily." R'elend flicks the Lalafell in the nose in revenge, "I can still go back you know. Let you ride on, I'm still close enough to walk back to the garrison, explain what happened."

Sasafaru rubs his nose, "R'elend... you know I can't..." He shakes his head, "You know how it is in the blades, so much of our loyalty is bought by coin." He looks up at the taller male, "Makes those bonds that aren't, all the more important."

R'elend makes an imitation vomiting noise, "Captain, I feel sick. I came dangerously close to feeling emotions there."

Sasafaru blushes then releases a flurry of punches into the side of the laughing R'elend. "You, good for nothing, flea bitten..."

The miqote winces with each punch, before finally catching a small hand, and holding it firm, "I'm all those things and more, Sasafaru, and despite all that, you're almost the best friend a man can ask for."

Sasafaru pauses, "Likewise R'elend, though..." He tilts his head, "Why 'almost'?"

"Ah..." R'elend clears his throat, "Well you don't have any tits."

Sasafaru nods sagely, "Ah, tits." He relaxes back into the pannier, "I'm sure they'll be plenty of those for you in the city R'elend."

R'elend yawns, "All attached to bitches and whores though."

Sasafaru chuckles slightly, then is silent for a time, "Oy, R'elend, something else important."

R'elend doesn't look back as he scans the horizon, "What might that be?"

"I'm not a popoto!!!"

RE: The Wages of Servitude - McBeefâ„¢ - 05-07-2015

((Several Months Later))

“R'elend, I know you're frustrated, but it's not Captain Tataran's fault. You're just too stupid to make sense of her ideas.”

R’elend spins, anger in his eyes, “This isn’t a fucking joke, Sasafaru.” The Miqo’te pauses for a moment, looking up and down the crowded barracks hallway for passersby. His voice lowers to a gravely whisper, “What kind of Blades don’t take bribes? How the fuck does that make sense?”

“Politics, you idiotic cat.” The Lalafell punches him in the thigh, “Could you for just once in your life, just once R’elend, use that ugly head of yours. This city is even more dangerous than that hellhole we left, and unlike there, a sword isn’t enough to keep you safe.”

R’elend grumbles and rubs his leg, already plotting out a way to pay Sasafaru back, “Aye, she said that. Though I don’t see how shaking down a few merchants would hurt anything.”

“Because this isn’t the desert you pissant!” Sasafaru’s voice rises in frustration, “I’m not sure how to drive that into that skull of yours. That merchant has friends, and those friends have bigger friends. Whoever we take from, that puts us on a side. Lolorito is already consolidating his power, furrball. You’d be an idiot if you did something to end up on the wrong side.” The Lalafell groans, “Never thought I’d wish for the Sultana to hurry up and get her royal ass out of sickbed.”

The Miqo’te nods for a moment, “Thougha… Captain doesn’t seem too be pleased to be on his side either.” He sighs and rubs his head, “Twelve, but I thought duty in the city would be simple. Didn’t realize I would have to play fucking politics.”

Sasafaru laughs, “Better this than dodging Beastman lances though, and at least we can still seize funds from criminals.”

“Hmm… I wonder.” R’elend scratches his back for a moment, and once again the tempting idea of transferring companies came to mind unbidden. The Tulip, and the Oleander were both looking for recruits, and neither had any issue with either taking bribes, or sticking fast to Lord Lolorito. They, unlike their captain, knew not to bite the hand that fed them. He turned over the idea in his mind, and like every time, rejected it. Captain Tataran had promised shelter, to conceal Sasafaru’s true origin, treating him as just another Lieutenant. They couldn’t take the risk that another captain would be less accommodating. Finally he sighs, “Remind me again why I put up with you Sasafaru?”

The Lalafell coughs and leans against the wall, “Probably my dashing good looks and legendary prowess in ba-waahghgh” His voice cuts out as R’elend kicks out his foot, sending him tumbling to the ground.

R’elend laughs and walks off, “That’s for punching me, you little shite.”

Sasafaru hops to his feet, chasing after the Miqo’te, already plotting ways to pay the Miqo’te back.

RE: The Wages of Servitude - McBeefâ„¢ - 05-14-2015

"If you do anything in life, it is best not to do it in half measures.
There are many things that are evil, and reviled, when done in small measures. However if you do them
boldly enough?"

A meaty crunch and then a wail of pain.

"Why... Obstinance becomes Tradition.
Smuggling becomes Trade."

Another crunch, sobbing.

"Murder becomes glorious War.
And Theft....? Why theft just becomes Business."

R'elend draws his armoured boot back and drives it into the stomach of the sobbing Hyur woman, a scattering of cheap jewelry scattering over the stones. He kicks her again and again, her thin tunic doing little to protect her as she curls into a quivering ball.

He reaches down and grabs a handful of her dark hair, pulling her up by it as she claws and pounds on his armor.

"Your problem isn't stealing, lass. It's that you don't steal enough."

He drags the woman a few feet and tosses her at the feet of the merchant, a scowling Dunesfolk. "You satisfied?"

The dunesfolk nods, spitting on the cowering woman as his assistants retrieve his merchandise. "Get that filth out of my face."

R'elend nods and drags the woman into an alley, tossing her into a pile of refuse. He stands in front of her, and she begins crying once more, covering her body with her arms to protect from the blows. However all that comes is a small pat, and the clinking of metal.

"And Kindness Lass? Done boldly it becomes mercy."

The woman tentatively touches the small pouch that had landed in her lap, the glint of coins inside. It was not a large amount, perhaps a few days wages for a laborer, but her eyes widened as if the Sultana's vault itself. She opens her mouth, not sure what is happening as R'elend walks out of the alley.

"However done weakly?" He shakes his head, "It just extends suffering."