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Out of the Frying Pan... [Open | Fin] - Printable Version

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Out of the Frying Pan... [Open | Fin] - Melkire - 04-12-2014

((This post takes place the day after the events of this post.))
 

"The First Annual Royal Ball was a resounding success. Security was excellent; there were no public outbursts, no displays of violence. The entire detail is to be commended. That's the official line."
 
This, Osric thought as he paced back and forth across the room, is going to be a problem. He splayed his fingers, clenching and unclenching his fists over and over, trying to bleed out the tension as best he could before it built to untenable heights.
 
"Why the gag order?"
 
"You know why."
 
He had to bite down hard, then, and shove his tongue against his palate, because rising up inside him with all the bitterness of bile was a white-hot lump of sheer untempered rage. It burned on the way up, searing his gullet before catching in his throat, lodged there behind the Adam's apple.
 
It was a battle he won for all of five seconds.
 
He thrust his left hand up, pointing to his ear, and the catch in his throat let go. Had the gods been watching, surely old Oschon would have ceded his charge to the care of righteous Halone, for the Fury was in this man's voice and wicked daggers were his eyes.
 
"I have a gods-damned pearl, Peak! I was close enough t'get the bastard's name, t'catch the glint of a knife, blood on the blade - fresh blood, Peak, I know it when I see it! - had him dead to rights, we could've take him then and there, all I needed was the go, and there WAS. NO. WORD."
 
Down came the linkpearl as he dug it out and pitched it across the lieutenant's desk. The little marble-like bauble ricocheted off the wooden finish a mere two ilms from a rather ornate vase - the depictions were of a series of knights safeguarding a single Lalafell - and went flying off into the far corner of the office.
 
"What's the point of an official shell if no one uses it?! What good does it do us? How many men 'n' women could be missing right now, or worse? How many, just so some peiste-begotten Sultansworn can cover his bloomin' arse?!"
 
He paused for breath, chest heaving. The lieutenant spared him a single glance, then patiently rose from his chair, made his way to the bookcases along the wall, and stooped just enough to pick the pearl off the floor. The Roegadyn walked back to his desk, considering the little round sphere in his hand, then raised his eyes to meet Melkire's.
 
"No need to hold back."
 
Melkire's eyes flickered down towards the desk, then back up at the lieutenant's. He lurched forward, scooping up the intricate vase with one hand and hurling it with an inarticulate scream into the wall to one side. The work of art shattered against the sigil of Coin & Country as it collided with the Ul'dahn flag that had been pinned there; shards of porcelain fell to the floor in a cascade of ringing ceramic.
 
He raised a shaking hand and swept it back through his hair as his knees threatened to buckle beneath him.
 
"Are you done?"
 
"...aye. Aye, I'm done. Thanks, Burning."
 
First Flame Lieutenant Burning Peak merely nodded and passed the linkpearl back to its rightful owner. Melkire tucked the precious device back in place, lodging it against his ear canal.
 
"...it was a stupid vase."
 
"Every now and then, I would think the same. But it served its purpose, time and again, and would have continued to do so had you not broken it into pieces."
 
Melkire exhaled, letting out a shuddering breath as he glanced at the lieutenant. He opened his mouth to reply, but Peak cut him off.
 
"Think this through, Sergeant. Not counting Ser Jenlyns' men, the Sultansworn number less than a mere dozen. Their ranks are few. At this time, the Sultanate cannot afford the loss of even a single knight, even temporarily, to scandal and inquisition, and certainly not one held in such high regard as Captain Mynhier. That would be a grave blow, far worse than the loss of a single civilian - a civilian, I remind you, that may or may not have been murdered or kidnapped, a civilian who may not even exist. And that's not even to mention the public outcry and resulting unrest should the general population learn that there may have been even the slightest danger, the slightest chance of harm to them and their families. We'd be doing this Vale's work for him, whatever that may be."
 
Chief Flame Sergeant Osric Melkire deflated, collapsing in on himself.  Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose against the growing pain that was one colossus of a headache in the making, and nodded. Grim face gave way to weak smile as he looked up at Peak.
 
"We still on for cards tomorrow night?"
 
The lieutenant rolled his eyes. "Blind is twenty-five seals."
 
"When are you 'n' the other boys going t'join us men in playing for some real coin?"
 
"When the Amalj'aa give up on Ifrit and summon up a nice rainstorm instead."
 
Osric barked a laugh, taking his turban from his belt pouch and tugging it into place atop his head, securing its mask against his face. He turned to the lieutenant, giving the man his appreciation in the form of a proper salute, then turned on his heel and strode past the uniformed Lalafell behind him, strode out the door of his friend's office.
 
 

 
Said Lala's glance lingered after him as the great wooden door slammed close. "The man's deranged."
 
"Insane? No. Unstable? Perhaps." The lieutenant sat down and started sifting through the papers on his desk.
 
"Why hasn't he been discharged?"
 
"Enlisted for life. It's service or the gallows; there's no middle ground, not for him. Those were the terms he agreed to when he made landfall at Vesper five cycles ago."
 
"Then why hasn't he been... ah. You've been covering for him."
 
Peak nodded. "I was there that sun, Kokojo. Swift, too."
 
"Why?"
 
"What, why shield him?" The corporal nodded. "Because,in the end, he's a good man, and we're sorely lacking for good men. He just has... issues... where injustice is concerned."
 
Corporal Kokojo raised an eyebrow at her superior. "Osric Melkire, taking issue with injustice?"
 
Lieutenant Peak looked up, and shrugged his shoulders."I never said he wasn't a hypocrite."
 
She bit her lip as Peak returned to his paperwork, and finally asked, "Lieutenant, why am I here?"
 
"You followed him here, didn't you? Doubt he realized you were there, what with the state he was in."
 
"No, I mean, why was I allowed to witness... all that?"
 
Peak sighed, laid his quill aside, and moved the last sheet of paper into his outbox before meeting Kokojo's eyes.
 
"A cycle ago, I led a raid on a drug cartel operating out of the labyrinths at Halatali. Sergeant Melkire was our go-to reconnaissance scout. He was on the fast-track back then, promotions all lined up and awaiting ink. I sent him into that maze with orders to locate their base of operations and report back. No engagements." Peak grimaced. "He never returned. A few bells later, we sent in his second, who did report back, pale in the face and sicker than a wet chocobo. When we reached the sergeant, we found out why. Twenty men and women dead, cartel agents all. Broken. Beaten. Bones snapped, eyes popped, tongues torn, loins desecrated. And why? Because it wasn't just a drug cartel. Slavers. Cages full of women and children. Filthy. Starving. Alive. Dead. Abused. Violated. What he saw there set him off. He took them apart, and I can't rightfully say he was wrong to do so."
 
The lieutenant waved a hand.
 
"Those were Syndicate interests, though. So naturally,when the cash-flow dried up, they looked into it. Imagine their horror at what they found: an up-and-coming officer of the Flames, a Royalist, one who would not balk at meting out what he saw as justice, even going so far as to defy direct orders to do so. This was a threat the Monetarists would not, could not, tolerate. So they did what every viper does when threatened: they struck first. The sergeant was immediately detained by the Brass Blades upon our return to the city, and taken to the gaols. They wanted him dead; it took Commander Swift and I every onze of pull we could muster to keep him alive. We kicked it up to the top; a moon later, he was thrown out into the street, bruised and battered, cut up," Peak paused to gesture along his right eye and left cheek, "emaciated... but still breathing. Still alive."
 
He picked his quill up off the desk and twirled it between his massive fingers.
 
"They promoted him to Chief Flame Sergeant and transferred him out from under me, put him in charge of fresh recruits. That's the end of the line for him. There will be no more promotions. They will never allow him to command. And given the slightest hint that he's even thinking of turning his hand against them in any manner of direct fashion? They'll send him to the hangman and the noose."
 
Peak sighed.
 
"I can't watch over him anymore. He can't keep coming here to vent his frustrations in private, either. Eventually, he'll slip, and what was now just a fellow Royalist standing behind him might turn out to be a Syndicate assassin. He needs someone around to look after him, someone to kick him in the shins when he needs kicking, someone he can confide in, or he's a dead man. So."
 
The lieutenant spread his hands, as if to accentuate the obvious. Corporal Kokojo looked back at the closed door. A good minute passed... then she broke into a lewd smile. "Well, I can't say I've ever seen him with his mask off before."
 
Peak snorted and reached for the next stack of papers in his inbox.
 
 

 
Peak'll explain things to Kokojo. Don't think the poor girl's ever seen me lose it like that before.
 
Osric hesitated as he left the Hall of Flames and emerged onto the streets. He was officially off-duty as of the last bell. A drink at the 'sand would do wonders for his still-rattled nerves, but it was still early for that, and far too early for his appointment there later this evening. The Hyur sighed as he resigned himself to aimlessly walking down the length of Emerald Avenue for the next few bells.

Might as well hit up Sapphire while I'm at it. Thomys did say he wanted me to bring him one of those wind-up Raubhans next time I visit.
 
A few bells, and then he could relax....




((To answer any questions regarding my touching upon the Ishgardian plotline, yes, I was IC and close enough to catch Erik, Xydane, and Kiht in /s and /em when a certain something was flashed. I'm not trying to intrude, just world-building. If there's a problem, e.g. something Osric shouldn't have been able to see or hear, please let me know! I'll fix it asap.))

RE: Out of the Frying Pan... [Open] - Xydane - 04-13-2014

Commotion stirred around Ul'dah that evening. From across the Emerald Avenue to even The Quicksand, a woman was seen running and screaming.

"A body! There's a body in Pearl Lane!"


The news was quick to spread and it wasn't long before a small crowd surrounded the corpse. It was that of an Elezen male, middle aged and dressed in formal clothing; hidden behind broken crates. Small flies have already started to gather and the stench was gruesome...

RE: Out of the Frying Pan... [Open] - Knight Kat - 04-14-2014

(04-12-2014, 01:24 AM)Melkire Wrote:  ((To answer any questions regarding my touching upon the Ishgardian plotline, yes, I was IC and close enough to catch Erik, Xydane, and Kiht in /s and /em when a certain something was flashed. I'm not trying to intrude, just world-building. If there's a problem, e.g. something Osric shouldn't have been able to see or hear, please let me know! I'll fix it asap.))

((Melkire, this is an excellent post. You did not mess with the plot's established theme in any way, and managed to masterfully attach your story to our plot without screwing up any "plot-lore". This has even given us something to reference in future RP. Sorry to post OOCly, but I just wanted to make my stance clear on this. Obviously, Xydane agrees. Have at it Smile ))

RE: Out of the Frying Pan... [Open] - Melkire - 04-15-2014

Raubahn squeaked as he ran.

The wind-up model in his right hand was all but forgotten as he rounded the corner onto Pearl Lane. He had to wonder at himself: why was he in a rush? The poor and the desperate fleeing for the relative safety of the markets on Sapphire meant only one thing, and that was murder. Murder meant a body, and a body meant he was too late to make any difference. Not to mention that he was supposed to be off-duty. So why? Why hurry?

Because I feel guilty, that's why.

He tucked the toy away in a large belt pouch as he slowed to a brisk walk. A crowd had congregated here; clearly, morbid curiosity was not to be outdone by mere herd instinct in every Pearl beggar out on the streets tonight. Navigating this mess might have proven difficult had he not spent a cycle of service stationed at Little Ala Mhigo, home to thickheaded highlanders of questionable hearing and even more questionable sense. The sergeants there had drilled their privates well, and it was those lessons that Osric drew on now as he sucked in as much air as his lungs could hold.

Diaphragm. It's all in the diaphragm.

"FLAME COMING THROUGH, CLEAR THE STREET!"

Not quite as effective as he'd hoped for - it never was - but the throng dispersed just enough for him to push and pull his way through to the scene. The Brass Blades were already there: three of them had fanned out to hold back the press of the crowd, and a fourth was amidst a thicket of broken crates and barrels, leaning against the sole survivor of a wooden holocaust. Rand did not look happy, and Osric doubted that that had anything to do with the debris. A fifth: Wendt was here, as well, pad in hand, taking notes as he questioned witnesses.

The big man on the crate looked back at the sound of approaching footfalls, and nodded to his counterpart. "Sergeant."

"Officer. What've we got?"

The Blade’s nostrils flared as he indicated the thicket with his chin. “Take a look for yourself.”

Osric stepped gingerly across a sea of splinters, shuffled around the Brass Blade, and dropped to one knee in front of the... corpse. It didn't look like a corpse. Looked like someone had just decided to take a nap on the cold stones of the filthiest street of Ul'dah, thieves be damned. But then, it certainly smelled like a corpse.

“...have you called this in yet?”

“Nah, was hoping you blokes'd be so kind as to take it off our hands.”

Osric snorted as he raised two fingers to his left ear and the pearl within. "Much obliged."

“This is Sergeant Melkire requesting immediate assistance. I need containment and clean-up crews on Pearl Lane, we’ve got a stiff, I repeat, we’ve got a stiff. Male Elezen, middle-aged. Smells a sun old. The fancy clothes say he ain't local. Cause of death unknown, I'm looking into it now. This is Sergeant Melkire, requesting immediate assistance, Thal's White Ball."

Voices floated back to him across the pearl, buzzing in his ear, but he was long gone, sifting through the checklist running through his head as his hands swept the corpse for the usual signs. Spring lines, anchor, hands aloft, topsails, t'gallants, to the wheel.... There were priorities, here, and a misstep could be costly.

Not asphyxiation; a quick tug on the color revealed no strangle marks. Magically-induced asphyxiation, perhaps? Was that a thing? No foreign substances in the mouth or up the nostrils.  Ears were likewise clean. He started making his way down the torso.

He snapped his fingers at Rand. "The body. Who found it?"

"Don't rightly know."

The checklist fell out of his head. He turned to look up at the big man.

Rand shrugged. "Not many of us stationed in these parts. What few there are have their orders, and their orders stand. Keep the riffraff out," he intoned, "keep them on the streets. So beggin' your buggered britches' pardon if I don't have the men or the inclination to send'm panning through the sand for gil."

He had to bite down hard for the second time this evening.

This time, he won the war.

Osric rose to a crouch, pivoting on one leg to sweep his gaze across their audience, looking for familiar faces. He found one, and dropped one hand to his belt, fumbling through one of the smaller pouches, the one that jangled when he walked. A moment later, he came up with his prize.

"Landebert," he called, pitching the man a coin-purse. "You're deputized. Gather some friends, see if you can't dig up whoever found the body. We'd bleed gil to know. Everyone gets their cut. Report to Wendt, he's competent."

Rand came upright in a hurry, fuming. "Wendt ain't your man, and this ain't your jurisdiction-"

Osric stood up and met him mask-to-mask. "Piss on your jurisdiction-"

"-damned soldiers, is what you are-"

"-you conceded all authority and responsibility-"

"-leave this to the professionals-"

"-when you allowed me to call it in. Now," he asked, with his sweetest and most sardonic smile plastered across his face, "I'd say the street needs clearing, wouldn't you?"  

Rand nearly exploded.

He won that war, too.

With the Brass Blades out of his way, Osric was at liberty to focus on his examination of the corpse. The checklist rose back into place. Heave the log aft, mind the minute glass.... He moved to unbutton the man's coat, and that's when he saw it. The tear. Or rather, the stitching where a tear should have been.

This was cut up and sewed back together again. Why?

The answer came when he unfastened the buttons. The shirt underneath had a hole in it, a hole that was ringed with the slightest stains of blood. Frantic now, he lifted the shirt to inspect the wound, sticking his fingers inside. At least two, three ilms deep.

Oh, shite. He pulled his digits free, then rolled the body over onto its side. There was no exit wound. Three ilms deep and no exit wound.

He fell back onto his ass, stunned. He'd seen professional wetwork before, but this... this was expertly done. Minimal blood splatter required a perfect collision with the target... and... and drugs. Poison. Something to speed the clotting along. Fasten the coat, cut out the stains, sew it back up. Dump the body here.

Elezen. Well-dressed. Killed very recently. Not even a malm from Hustings.

Blood on the blade.

Oh, shite.

He fumbled for the third and smallest of his belt pouches, but for the life of him he couldn't get it open, and he recognized the Elezen now, he'd last seen him alive in the Chamber of...

oh gods he must have done him while i was with andralyn

Humbled. He was truly humbled. When was the last time he'd been humbled? This was marvelous work, a masterpiece...

the miqo'te woman it was the miqo'te woman who tipped me off

The thieving gutterborn in him wanted to know how it was done, wanted lessons, even, there were always uses for such applications of skill...

irritated agitated nervous glancing his way

The career soldier in him was impressed. A quiet little assassination, while surrounded by Flames and Sultansworn? At Her Majesty's own gala? The balls...

he was there standing right there opposite her mirroring her

The boy wasn't home. The boy was out.

was talking with andralyn he left while i was talking with

The man was disgusted. Another innocent, dead. Couldn't they live and let live? Bloody assholes and their casual, senseless violence...

my fault i should have followed him sooner all my fault guilty guilty guilty

He was trembling. When had he started trembling? And what was he reaching for, exactly? Why was...

panic attack i'm having a panic attack

He felt the sharp CRACK of his mother's open palm strike him full across the face with all the strength of her thirty-nine cycles; saw himself, only twelve cycles old and back from his first bit o' wetwork, dashed to the floor of their home in his mind's eye; heard his mother screaming at him, telling him to wake the FUCK up and get it THE FUCK together.

He stopped trembling.

He undid the fastening on his pouch with one hand as he dug the official Immortal Flames linkpearl out of his ear with the other. Into the pouch went that pearl and out came another, this one smaller, not as well-polished. He slipped this one into his ear and held it there.

"Burning? Burning, you there? You were right, you were so right, we're not the Sultansworn, we're too gods-damned big, Vale knew exactly what he was doing, and I helped him, I helped the bastard do it,  and now, and now the captain, they're gonna have to-"

"...slow down, Sergeant, slow down. What're you on about?"

"The call, the body I called in-"

"-yes, what about-"

"Burning, the Elezen was stabbed."

Silence reigned over the linkshell for several excruciatingly long moments.

"...and you filed your report this morning."

Osric snarled. "And I filed the gods-damned report this morning!"

"...I'll send someone to pull the file-"

"Peak, there are too many eyes in Records Administration. Might as well be part of the public record by now. It's over. They won't have a choice. They'll have to call Mynhier in."

"You can't think like that. Thinking like that means he's already won.... Kokojo's on her way to Swift now. I'm headed over to Records myself. You sit tight, alright?"

Osric looked down at the dead Elezen before him.

"...Burning, I can't do this... I can't do this right now. I've... I've gotta calm down... and the time... gods, the time... I... I have an appointment to keep-"

"Sit. Tight. Cleanup and Containment are on their way to you now. Some others, too, by the sounds of things. Your appointment can wait."

"...alright. Alright."

The street was clear. At least Rand had done something right, tonight. Osric crawled over to an alley wall and leaned against it for support. He needed a drink. How else was he going to relieve all this stress?

Probably knock up some prostitute.

He started laughing. He couldn't contain himself. And why should he? His life was shaping up to be one bad comedy.

All my fault.

He sat back and waited for the Flames, waited for someone, anyone, to come find him.

Mine.





((I'm leaving it entirely up to Erik as to whether the Flames manage to hush this up or if his character gets called in for questioning. Erik, if I don't hear from you, I'm going to go with the former. EDIT: We arrrr goan wit sumsing a beet moar interestingz.))

(04-14-2014, 07:48 AM)Knight Kat Wrote: ((...managed to masterfully attach your story to our plot without screwing up any "plot-lore"... ))

((If this ever changes, please let me know ASAP! And thank you for the kind words!))

RE: Out of the Frying Pan... [Open] - Melkire - 04-17-2014

((This post takes place two days after the First Annual Royal Ball.))
((Warning, this post contains lewd content. Lewwwwwwwwd.))




Hydaelyn cares naught for you. Sleep, oh flame in a cage. Sleep, and come back to me. To silks and sweets and skins and blood...
 
He bolted upright, sweating profusely, clutching his head as if it were fit to burst... and maybe it was. His temples were certainly pulsing in excruciating pain; "headache" did not even begin to cover it. And his eyes... his vision swam with a nauseating film of violet light that gradually receded, and as it did so, so went the pain with it.
 
Asleep. He'd fallen asleep. Not the usual two-to-three bell nap, mind you, but the full deal. Something he hadn't done in moons. Why had he fallen asleep? He knew better than that. And why did he feel so good, so refreshed?
 
Priorities. Where in the hells am I?
 
Well, he was certainly sitting up in bed, sheets draped over him haphazardly, with the warm, comforting glow of dawn's first rays shining through the window. This couldn't be the barracks; no bunk this luxurious had ever been assigned to a sergeant. The Quicksand, then. Going by the quality of the sheets, one of Otopa's best rooms.
 
How had he gotten here? No, better question, why was he here? The last thing he could remember was Containment finding him in that alleyway off Pearl. He'd thanked the lieutenant in charge rather profusely, then made his way here. To the 'sand. But why? He had no hangover, and he certainly had no use for beds, eith-
 
The woman lying by his side rolled over in her sleep, rolled towards him with a soft moan that sent shivers of excitement up his spine and down his-
 
Oh.
 
Oh.
 
She must have startled him, and he must have disturbed the mattress, because the next thing he knew she was opening her eyes, staring up at him through the long tresses of her blonde hair, and smiling.
 
"Mmm. Good morning, Osric."
 
"...ah. Um. Good morning."
 
Teryn. Her name is Teryn, you witless buffoon! The gods gave you a brain, didn't they? Use it!
 
Thank you, voice in my head. That information would have been undoubtedly more helpful five seconds ago.
 
If anything, her smile was even wider now, on the verge of a full-on grin, the glint in her eyes dancing like fireflies over a river.  Her gaze shifted for a moment, slipping past him to the nightstand beyond.
 
"Your balls are vibrating."
 
"I... what?"
 
He turned. Sure enough, there on the nightstand were his three linkpearls. The mid-sized bauble, the one belonging to his free company's shell, laid quietly beside the others. That one had been quiet for sennights. The largest and smallest, though, were indeed vibrating, and the faint buzz of distant voices carried to the bed.
 
He glanced back at her. "And the score this morning stands at Teryn, one, Osric, zero."
 
She bit her lip, still smiling, that glint still dancing, as if to say, "So you remembered."
 
Gods, she hasn't laughed at me. Not once. Not last night,not... last night... and not this morning, either.
 
Suddenly, he wanted very, very much to make her laugh.
 
The linkpearls were still buzzing, though. He sighed as he turned his back on her to swing his legs out over and off the mattress, scooping up the smaller of the pearls as he did so, tucking it into his ear, and holding it in place.
 
"Sergeant Melkire reporting."
 
"...Sergeant? Oh, thank the Fury, listen, where are you? We were hoping you'd be in early, but-"
 
Osric frowned. What was Kokojo doing with Peak's private pearl?
 
"-so the lieutenant's had me sounding off over this shell for a good bell or so, trying to reach you, I'll put him on now!"
 
There came the familiar squish of a pearl changing hands, and the deep bass that was Peak's voice floated into his head.
 
"Sergeant, I've been making excuses for you all morning. Give me an alibi that'll hold up under close scrutiny."
 
"Uh... I was technically off-duty last night, and as per my rights, I sought, uh... entertainment... at the Quicksand. And found it."
 
"...you got drunk and woke up hung over. That's what you're telling me?"
 
"Uh... yes. Yes, let's go with that."
 
"I suppose I can make that stick. Now get your ass over to the Hall, I need you here two bells ago."
 
Osric cursed and dove for his clothes. Somehow, Teryn had seen to it last night that his garments all ended up on this side of the bed. How she'd managed that while stripping him down in a frenzy was beyond him, and he was in too much of a rush now to dwell on it any longer. He pulled his breeches on, then one boot. He stood up to pull on the other when she spoke again, her sultry, melodic voice reminding him that he'd much rather stay here in paradise than to walk out the door into hell.
 
"So, what shall I tell Her Lady Grace? Have I managed to change your mind?"
 
He pivoted in place as he hopped up and down on one foot,turning just in time to catch her squirming on the mattress rather suggestively. The bedsheets shifted, accentuating her... assets... in such a magnificent fashion that there was no way that the whole thing hadn't been deliberate. And she was still smiling as she awaited his answer.
 
So I've passed, then. Why ask me otherwise?
 
Osric couldn't help smiling back as he finally tugged his other boot into place. "I'll say you have. I'll be wanting a word with Miss Thatcher, though, in any case. To, uh, discuss the arrangement."
 
His smile faltered, though, as she nodded and he pulled on his shirt. This wasn't right. Here he was, getting ready to leave, to leave her here, leave Teryn behind in this empty, lonely room.
 
You'll be leaving plenty of beautiful women behind soon enough, if this all pans out the way you think it will. Why worry about it?
 
Because this was different. This wasn't for money...although he supposed it was, given his, er, pending application. But she hadn't paid him a thing, nor had he paid her. And while it had been business, it had also been something more, something mutually enjoyable, some precious experience that they had shared-
 
You're waxing romantic again. This ain't one of your pretty novellas.
 
Still. It wasn't right, and he wracked his brain for some way to make it up to her. What was it that his father used to do for his mother? What was- ah.
 
"I'll have a word with Otopa," he told her as he shrugged into his jerkin, "have him send up something warm. Breakfast in bed."
 
Teryn nodded as he tugged on his turban and secured his mask against his face. He bowed to her, then hesitated.
 
Ah, to hell with propriety. Ain't no formal dinner anyhow.
 
He reached out, took her hand, planted a single kiss on her fingers, then turned and headed out the door before she could catch the blush on his face.
 
You're wearing a mask, idiot.
 
Shaddup.
 
 
 
 
 
"That makes one original and sixteen copies, all burnt.Two secretaries bought off, four clerks blackmailed into silence, five others transferred to the most remote outposts we have, and three senior officers who are smart enough to forget the existence of entire documents on demand when matters of state security call for it. Your thoughts?"
 
Lieutenant Peak tapped the feather of his quill pen against the side of his inkwell as he stared up at the sergeant, who took his time in coming up with a response.
 
"I suppose Officer Rand was right, Lieutenant. We're nothing but soldiers. We should leave law enforcement to its professionals. It's their jurisdiction, after all."
 
Peak snorted. "Need I remind you that it was precisely because you trampled all over their jurisdiction that we were forewarned enough to expunge your report before it could leak?"
 
"Still, sir, I feel that this whole mess could have been avoided if we'd just had Blades advising us at the Ball. We're trained to look out, not in. Theirs is a mindset we don't have."
 
"A valid point. Immaterial, though." The lieutenant sighed. "I suppose all that's left is to call the good Captain Mynhier in for an informal briefing... and debriefing, if need be." His eyes somehow bored through the sergeant's mask to meet the Hyur's. "I'm sending you to bring him in."
 
Melkire went rigid. It was all he could do to not grit his teeth.
 
"Why me, sir?"
 
The lieutenant stood abruptly, and Melkire jumped back,startled, as nearly three hundred ponzes of Roegadyn came upright all at once.
 
"Because I know you. Because you don't know him, because you've never met the man. Because if I send someone else and leave this to fester, you'll undoubtedly turn in my hand and sink your teeth in until this blows up in our faces again."
 
"I wouldn't-"
 
"-yes, you would. And you always have. Gods forgive me if this costs us our friendship, but you need to hear this. I've coddled you enough; I should have called you out on this a long time ago."
 
"What in Azeyma's name are you going on about,Peak?"
 
"You're not a Flame at heart. Not really. Deep down, you're one of them."
 
Melkire froze.
 
"That's what irks you so badly, that's what has you chomping at the bit at the possibility that the good captain might be colluding with one of your ilk. You look back on your life, at the tremendous gift of mercy that you were granted, that you didn't deserve, and you look at them now, with their oft-betimes flippant behavior, and you're offended. You spot Mynhier with a criminal and you think treason. And why?"
 
Burning Peak came around the desk and thrust a finger at Osric Melkire, and that gesture carried all the weight of a condemnation as the lieutenant bellowed into the sergeant's face.
 
"For the same reason you don't follow orders! Because it wasn't Ul'dah that won your allegiance, all those cycles ago! It wasn't Ul'dah that you fell in love with! It wasn't Ul'dah that you swore an oath to protect, no matter the words that fell from your mouth! You don't give a rat's ass about Ul'dah! Look at me. Look me in the eyes and tell me that I'm wrong!"
 
Melkire looked Peak in the eyes... and set his jaw. The lieutenant laughed, and it was an ugly thing to hear.
 
"You can't, can you? You can't lie to me. You can't lie to me, Osric, so don't lie to yourself. She couldn't take you as her own, not as you were; you weren't qualified. Wouldn't take you as one of theirs; she'd only lose you after having just won you. So she took you the only way she could: she took you and gave you to the Flames. For life. And if there were ever a chance of that changing, there certainly isn't now, not after Halatali.
 
You served with us for five cycles. Five long cycles in which you resented us, resented our purpose, resented being here when you wanted to be with them. With her. You're jealous, Osric, because Mynhier has what you can't have. You're offended because you think he doesn't appreciate what he has that you don't. You're furious because you suspect he's betrayed the one person to whom you owe so much...."
 
Peak cut his tirade short; the sergeant's shoulders were shaking, and not with laughter. The lieutenant pursed his lips, then exhaled, letting out all that hot air, collapsing back in on himself. His voice dropped back down to indoor levels.
 
"For what it's worth... I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you're stuck here. I'm sorry that you hate it here. I'm sorry that the one opportunity that might have made it all bearable has been forever denied to you. But you're not dead, and you're still needed. So uphold the oath you swore, you bastard: as you live, you'll serve."
 
The sergeant's right hand rose and dragged his mask and turban off his head.
 
His eyes were red. Tears had dripped down Osric's face in rivulets; there wasn't a single square ilm that wasn't wet. His shoulders were still shaking. He drew a single short rattling breath, and looked up at Lieutenant Peak.  
 
"F-f-fuck cards. You're buying me drinks tonight. I'll go get you your f-f-fucking captain. You ass."
 
He didn't even salute. He just left.
 
 
 
 
 
Osric reached the residence roughly two bells later, in time for the midsun meal. He had checked in with the Hall and the Palace beforehand; no one had seen Ser Captain Mynhier. Odds were that if he wasn't at work, he'd be at home.
 
Had he been at home, there was no way that he could have missed Osric knocking on his front door for the fourth time, let alone the fifth. The sergeant frowned, first at the front door, then up at the windows on the second floor.
 
This bastard owns a two-story home. Wonderful. I'm not jealous. I'm not jealous at all.
 
The lights were out... but then, they would be, seeing as how it was high noon. His ears perked up at the sound of footsteps from further down the street:  an elderly Hyur lady, come fresh from the market with her groceries. Mynhier's neighbor, apparently, given how she was fumbling with her keys next door.
 
Osric gave her his best smile as he sauntered closer. "Twelve's blessings, madam! You wouldn't have happened to have seen Captain Mynhier lately, would you?"
 
No, she told him, she hadn't. The last time she'd seen him was the other morning, when she had run into him and his daughter at the porters' near the Gate of Nald. She was going to visit the Shroud and stay with some friends, the girl had told her neighbor, while her father remained behind to attend to some business. The three of them had parted amicably, and the madam had seen neither father nor daughter since.
 
Osric frowned as he thanked the old woman for her time. Something was off, but he couldn't tell exactly what. Something to do with sending one's only daughter off without an escort. He returned to Mynhier's front door. After one last futile knock, he decided on a whim to try the door handle.
 
The door was unlocked.
 
In Ul'dah. City of thieves, beggars, lepers, murderers, and all other manners of unsavory types.
 
He didn't wait. He didn't think. He moved on instinct, throwing his weight behind his shoulder and his shoulder against the door, slamming it open. He barged inside, alert, ready to fall back at a moment's notice.
 
The bedroom looked like a coeurl had been through it. The study was much the same, only twice as bad. The pieces of a single mammet had been scattered through the house; clearly, whoever had done this didn't care for Eorzea's cutest minions. Or for Ul'dah's finest homes, either; didn't seem to matter which room he visited, as the whole place had been trashed.
 
He reached for his private pearl with Peak.
 
"Lieutenant."
 
"...you never call me Lieutenant."
 
"Shut up and listen to me. You need to put together a search party, right now." He cast his memory back in time, searching with his mind's eye for the dossier he'd read yesterday morning. "Call in the Red Wings, and see if you can't reach someone from the Sultansworn. They'll want to know."
 
"Know what?"
 
He took one last look around the study.
 
"Erik Mynhier is missing."

RE: Out of the Frying Pan... [Open] - Xydane - 04-17-2014

The door swung open as it creaked rather loudly. Standing outside the doorway, two hooded trespassers stepped inside as they stared at Osric; a twisted maniacally grin painting itself on the stranger to the left.

"Such a nosy guard," spoke the one to the left. "You know... you shouldn't be sticking in business that doesn't concern an inferior like yourself."

Tilting his head slightly back, one could see the features of a male Elezen. They were both Elezen.

"We'll make this quick and painless."

Slowly under the glint of what light remained in the bedroom, the Elezen trespassers drew fourth their swords as they approached Osric...

RE: Out of the Frying Pan... [Open] - Melkire - 04-18-2014

"Such a nosy guard."

...Blades' work...

...this ain't your jurisdiction...

Regulations exist for a reason...

We should leave law enforcement...

...leave this to the professionals...

We're nothing but soldiers...

...damned soldiers, is what you are...

You're not a Flame at heart. Not really.

Deep down, you're one of them.

But he wasn't. Not really. No matter how much he wanted it to be so, it wasn't, and wishing wasn't going to change that. He was what he was. He was what every wandering step had made of him. And those steps, praise Oschon, had brought him here, from across the sea, to stand here, now, as a soldier.

Such a nosy guard...

Guard...

Guard...

Time folds, space rewinds, and reality bends as the barely-lit hallway of wood and stone peels away, strip by strip, until nothing is left but the sun and the blue sky over the green fields of Noscea.





They picnic just outside of Zephyr Gate once a cycle, and these are the happiest times of little Osric's life. His mother is chasing Tabby across the plain, and their laughter makes for the sweetest music. He sits up, no longer content to lay back on the grass to take in the sun, and turns to his father. The lonely times are coming again soon, and he has to know why, so he asks.

"Da, why y'always goin' 'way so much?"

Cenric chortles as he reaches over to pluck his son up into his lap. "Because," he says, "da has to work. I'm a caravan guard, and that means I have to follow the caravans."

Little Osric frowns in thought for a moment before tilting his head back to stare into his father's chin. "Sounds borin'."

"Oh, it's anything but," says his father as he turns a smile upon his youngest. "Very interesting. Lots of new people to meet. Places to see. Monsters to fight. Aye," he nods in mock seriousness, "it's a very important duty."

The seven-cycle-old boy scrunches up his face. "Like... like chores?"

"Aye," his father laughs, "exactly like chores! Now listen, Osric, because this is important. Da doesn't just guard the caravans. Oh, no! He guards the people, too. Lots of mums and da's of other kids, just like you. It's up to me to protect them, keep them safe. Sometimes they get hurt, or lost, and it's up to me to bring them to their kids. Because people need them, you understand? And because they need them, they need me. So you see, your da is actually a very important person."

"Like them knights in Tabby's books?" Osric asks, excited. He loves knights, and does his best to get his sister to read him her books, every chance he gets.

"Well, yes, in a way. I do what I do because it's the right thing to do. But I'm also like a soldier; I do it because it's my job, and I'm proud of my job. Do you understand?"

He thinks he does, but before he can say so, a voice booms across the sky.

inferior inferior inferior inferior inferior

The scene dissolves, and then he was back in the dimly-lit hallway, staring down two complete strangers.





I've hated ya a long time, Da. Always blamed ya for what happened to Tabitha. Still do. But looking back, now....

Looking back, that doesn't mean you were wrong.

When he'd first walked in on the shambles that were the captain's living quarters... well, his first thought had been that the captain had fled. That his own report had still leaked, somehow, and that word had reached Mynhier, who would have sent his daughter off to safety and then fled the city himself. That the captain was still guilty of aiding and abetting a suspected murderer.  

Now, though... if you wanted to off a potential tail, you would hire local assassins competent enough to not reveal themselves, not crazed Elezen thugs who prefer idle chitchat.

So Peak had been right after all, gods damn him. Peak was always right. Jealousy, indignation, outrage... these things had blinded him, biased him against the man for no reason other than because he had sought to assuage his own wounds.  

Was Mynhier innocent, after all?

...did it matter?

He's disappeared. Lost.

People need him. She needs him.

I'm going to get him back. Bring him home.

Because it's my job. Because it's the right thing to do.

He caught himself flexing his fingers, muttering under his breath as he gradually backed away. "Aye... aye, come on, come on, y'bastards, bring it, bring it!"

"We'll make this quick and painless," said the one on the left.

They came on, drawing their swords, and in his mind's eye, Osric saw himself turn, saw himself reach for the handle of a door that wasn't there, open it, and stride on through, door slamming shut behind him.





There were five of them, standing there in the captain's cabin as the brig rolled gently back and forth over the waves. The child. The gutterborn. The soldier. The man. Himself.

There was also a padlocked chest bolted to the floor in the far corner of the room; an eerie amethyst mist was rolling out from under its hinge. He paid it no mind. Instead, He focused on the four in front of Him.

He knew what was needed. He didn’t have to speak. They didn’t have to hear. They were each a part of Him, after all; they could no more fail to understand Him than He could fail to understand Himself.

The child left first, exiting the room by way of the cabin door. Innocence, curiosity, a sense of wonderment… these would only serve as meaningless and perhaps fatal distractions. They had no purpose here.

The man left next. Pride, shame, hope, despair, love, hate… the tide and ebb of emotion was what made Him human, made Him Hyur, but there was no place for humanity in what was to come.

The soldier stayed. Arms crossed, perfectly still, he stood there, waiting, his uniform a perfect match for His own.

The gutterborn - small, filthy, dressed in rags - stepped out for a moment… and then came back in, leading another by the hand. Came back in with the boy.

The boy was taller, older than the gutterborn, dressed in very similar rags... but there, the similarities ended. It was evident in their postures, in the way they held themselves.  The younger lad was mischievous but wary, shifty, always looking for an out. The boy, though… there was a tension to the boy, a wildness to his eyes, something that spoke to the arrogance of all young men in knowing that they are, however fleetingly, the best.

The boy was different. The boy was savage. The boy was His trump card.

The room suddenly darkened as a large shadow fell across the window blinds. Four sets of eyes widened simultaneously.

No. No, I am not letting you in here.

The door rattled in its frame. They looked at Him, His chosen three, and He shook his head. The gutterborn dove for the cover of a large, oaken desk; the boy and the soldier barred the door, their shoulders up against the wood, legs straining.

I need them alive. I need at least one of them alive.

This time, the door shook, and it was the walls that rattled.

At least one of them alive, and if I let you in here, THEY WON’T BE, GODS DAMN YOU.

There was no third impact.

THEY WON’T BE, WILL THEY?

The shadow receded.

He turned from the door to find them beside Him. He nodded, and the three of them - gutterborn, boy, soldier - nodded back. He took twelve steps across the cabin, opened the door, and stepped back out into the world.





The boy stepped forward to find himself stepping back.

He took in the scene at a glimpse. He was standing in the small alcove at the end of the hall, the one that opened up on the bedroom. The Elezen assassins, in their idiotic hoods, were still in the hallway… but not for much longer. Soon they’d be on him. Their swords - not gladii or spathae - were held out before them, the edges gleaming in the soft light.

Amateurs.

He went with it, backing away slowly, eyes darting back and forth, looking for advantage, and he found it. He dove for the nearest corner of the bedroom, knees bent, seizing the legs of a small coffee table as the two men dashed towards him. He spun in place on the balls of his feet, using the moment from his lunge to drag the table with him and hurl it at the Elezen. Nonplussed, they flowed around it, letting the piece of furniture pass between them as they pressed forward into the alcove, ready to skewer the young Hyur where he stood.

The young Hyur who was no longer there. The young Hyur who was now somehow between them.

Common convention dictated that, when up against superior numbers and superior weaponry, one was to play for time, distancing themselves by any means necessary until opportunity presented itself. To engage with a line of steel blades was to ask for death. No sane person would therefore ever dash right into the waiting arms of the enemy.

Pugilists are not sane people. Sane people as a rule do not bring their fists and only their fists to a swordfight.

There is one downside to a sword that is often neglected, at times outright forgotten, and that is this: though the point may be used for thrusting and the edges used for slashing, a sword is rather dependent on a particular economy of motion, which in turn requires a certain amount of space with which to work in. Even the pressureless act of drawing a long blade lengthwise across the skin requires a fulm for the arm to draw back. Swords are not a weapon that are particularly effective at a range of mere ilms; indeed, there are few weapons that are.

Of those, Melkire was proficient with all of them.

His hands fell to the grips of the brass knuckles at his sides. He tore them from the tassels that tied them loosely to his belt, and the soldier went to work.

He exploded into motion, striking out, using the confined space to his advantage, aiming to rebound his would-be assailants off the very walls of the alcove that had turned against them in trapping them here with him. An uppercut to a sternum, a knuckle to a face, an elbow to an arm; every attack was a defense designed to keep their blades at bay, as he continued to pummel them with the thick bands of steel that were his weapons of choice. They seemed to realize their error - not amateurs after all - as they began trying to break away, to either fall back into the hallway or else win through to the bedroom. He wouldn’t let them. He kicked a leg out from underneath one of his opponents, stomped a kneecap belonging to the other, reached up with two fingers and a thumb to tug down hard on a hood, and so on and so forth. Meanwhile, the bands, the knuckles, the steel that was now cutting flesh with its sharp edges… but the small cuts and abrasions didn’t matter. What mattered was the sheer aching exhaustion they were bound to be feeling from the unholy beating he was giving them.

And then it happened: the one to his left staggered out into the bedroom.

The gutterborn took over instantly, dropping the knuckles to the floor, pressing up against the other Elezen, left arm up against the assassin’s collarbone, right hand searching under the buckles of his left armguard and coming up with a small custom knife. The knife was not special in any particular way, save that its blade was a mere ilm long past the hilt. An ilm was enough. He held it in a reverse grip, placed the point of the knife against the Elezen’s throat, hooked his left foot behind the man’s right, and fell into him.

Leg trips had been fairly common in the rough-and-tumble society of Lominsan street urchins. The lesson went something like this. A man on the ground is a dead man. Need a man dead, make him fall. Makin’ them fall at an angle was good; making’ them falls backwards was better. Hyur, Miqo’te, Elezen, Roegadyn, Lalafell, it doesn’t matter, they all have the same knees. No race in Eorzea has a natural resistance against falling backwards at an angle. Their legs simply aren’t built that way.

They fell to the floor, and the impact did his work for him, driving the knife home into the Elezen’s throat. He rolled to his right, wrenching the knife along with him, tearing the throat open as the other assassin returned to the fight, plunging his sword down and missing, embedding his weapon in the wooden floor. The gutterborn scrambled to his feet… only for an arm to wrap itself around his neck and the ice-cold prick of steel slide into his back.

His eyes widened as he reached back behind him and pulled the boy forward.

he got me he’s got me in-out-in-out-in-out one two three stab stab stab what do I do what do I

The boy grabbed at the arm with his right hand, reached over and around the Elezen’s neck with his left arm, and cried out as threw himself forward to his knees, just as the dagger was drawn out of his back. The height and weight difference contributed, but what it really came down to was build, and no Elezen had ever been built as stout and as sturdy as even the leanest and greenest of midlanders.

The assassin was thrown forward onto his own back, crying out in pain as Osric came to his feet, the whole of him intent on this gods-damned bastard. He stomped on the man’s right wrist, and the dagger went bouncing free; he scooped it up and slammed it down, driving it point first into the Elezen’s palm, pinning the hand to the floor. He pivoted as he fell to land with his knees between the assassin’s arms, ignoring the shrieks of pain emanating from below him. He grabbed the man’s neck in a chokehold with his left hand, and the Elezen’s left, that had just now been scrambling to free his right, now grasped the sergeant’s wrist in a futile attempt to win free.

Osric leaned in close, snarling. “Gods-damned misfortunate, ain’tcha? Ain’t a Blade y'can bribe to letcha go. Ain’t a Sultansworn, either, honorbound to take y'into custody and keep ya in good health. Nah, lad, I’m a Flame, and that means you’re piss outta luck,’cause y’are goin' t’give me what I want, and y’are goin' t'tell me what I wanna know.”

He pulled his own dagger from its sheath beneath his jerkin, wrapped his fist around the hilt, and held up the wicked serrated edge for the Elezen to see.

“Now. Let’s get started, shall we?”

He drew his fist back and decked him.





((THIS STORY CONTINUES HERE.))