Melkire sat at his desk with two distinct envelopes, filled with two distinct sets of parchment, cradled in either hand.
On the left: orders. Orders to depart post-haste for the Ring of Ash. According to his papers, the sergeant routinely in charge of Amalj'aa relations, one Anzio Zansio, was currently unavailable and therefore unable to tend to his duties. Osric didn't buy into that tripe for an instant: Zansio was Yataghan, and the Yataghans, though a relatively reclusive lot, were exemplars of service. If his fellow sergeant was unavailable, it was because Command had made him unavailable. This was likely Swift's latest scheme to breed redundancy in the grand company: the more Flames the beastmen grew accustomed to, the better the relations; and if every unit had a liason available to send to the Amalj'aa, all the better.
On the right, though: a register. An in-depth listing - compiled, kept, and maintained by the Maelstrom - of every known smuggler, smuggling crew, and smuggler's vessel to have sailed the Rhotano Sea, the Strait of Merlthor, or the Sea of Ash within the past six cycles. The register contained detailed descriptions of appearances, activities, and suspected whereabouts of many of the listed entities. He'd had to call in too many favors and pull too many strings for his comfort to acquire this packet, but he'd deemed it necessary. The logic had been irrefutable: each and every word that Roen had let slip had led him to the conclusion that her associate was neither a local merchant nor a more exotic cousin from the north. Not Gridanian, most certainly not Isghardian, Ala Mhigo was no more, and Sharlayan had not been heard from for far too long... which left Vylbrand. Limsa Lominsa, or one of the lesser ports.
Osric pressed the envelope in his right hand up to his forehead and closed his eyes, thought long and hard. Something was still not right, something in Roen's story didn't quite jive with reality. The one question he kept coming back to was this:
Where's the profit margin in his personally retrieving relief supplies from the Blades?
There was none, of course, which raised another question:
Where's the profit margin in shipping only relief supplies?
Again, none, which led to:
What else had been confiscated?
He must have been shipping something, something he couldn't afford to lose, something that had been mixed in with and hidden amongst the goods for the refugees. Osric did not believe in altruistic businessmen; in his experience, there was no such thing as "true" altruism when it came to finance and capital. Whatever that unknown commodity had been, it seemed reasonable to assume that it was inherently related to this sudden push for reform.
When Osric had presented the possibility of reform to Roen sevendays ago - more than a moon now, to be honest - she'd seemed disinclined, and he couldn't bring himself to blame her for wanting distance from a corrupt and seemingly unsalvageable city.
So what changed?
Something, some notion, some idea had captivated her... or some one. This associate, perhaps. Anyroad, what mattered wasn't that it had happened; what mattered were the potential repercussions.
In his experience, there were no honest merchants from Limsa who'd go out of their way to mire themselves in politics this way... which meant a smuggler, or a pirate. Goods said smuggler. Smuggler meant there'd be records to be found with the Maelstrom.... so here, now, the envelope in his hand that he'd be taking along with him, that he'd spend bonfire-lit evenings poring over, committing the contents to memory.
Three suns. Three suns spent half a desert away. Roen, you'd better step lightly 'til I get back.
He'd already called Kanaria over their personal linkshell to let her know where he was going, already notified his company where he was going by note. Osric did not want to be here when the captain learned that the commander had gone over his head by taking away one of his soldiers, even if only temporarily. Erik would not take this well.
Chief Flame Sergeant Osric Melkire stood, dropped both envelopes momentarily onto his desk, walked over to his armoire, retrieved his soldier's uniform, pulled the overcoat on over his Red Wings doublet, pulled on boots and gloves. He hated formal dress, but the situation called for it. Beastmen relations... touchy, those.
He plucked the two envelopes from atop his desk, tucked them under his arm, and headed out the door.
On the left: orders. Orders to depart post-haste for the Ring of Ash. According to his papers, the sergeant routinely in charge of Amalj'aa relations, one Anzio Zansio, was currently unavailable and therefore unable to tend to his duties. Osric didn't buy into that tripe for an instant: Zansio was Yataghan, and the Yataghans, though a relatively reclusive lot, were exemplars of service. If his fellow sergeant was unavailable, it was because Command had made him unavailable. This was likely Swift's latest scheme to breed redundancy in the grand company: the more Flames the beastmen grew accustomed to, the better the relations; and if every unit had a liason available to send to the Amalj'aa, all the better.
On the right, though: a register. An in-depth listing - compiled, kept, and maintained by the Maelstrom - of every known smuggler, smuggling crew, and smuggler's vessel to have sailed the Rhotano Sea, the Strait of Merlthor, or the Sea of Ash within the past six cycles. The register contained detailed descriptions of appearances, activities, and suspected whereabouts of many of the listed entities. He'd had to call in too many favors and pull too many strings for his comfort to acquire this packet, but he'd deemed it necessary. The logic had been irrefutable: each and every word that Roen had let slip had led him to the conclusion that her associate was neither a local merchant nor a more exotic cousin from the north. Not Gridanian, most certainly not Isghardian, Ala Mhigo was no more, and Sharlayan had not been heard from for far too long... which left Vylbrand. Limsa Lominsa, or one of the lesser ports.
Osric pressed the envelope in his right hand up to his forehead and closed his eyes, thought long and hard. Something was still not right, something in Roen's story didn't quite jive with reality. The one question he kept coming back to was this:
Where's the profit margin in his personally retrieving relief supplies from the Blades?
There was none, of course, which raised another question:
Where's the profit margin in shipping only relief supplies?
Again, none, which led to:
What else had been confiscated?
He must have been shipping something, something he couldn't afford to lose, something that had been mixed in with and hidden amongst the goods for the refugees. Osric did not believe in altruistic businessmen; in his experience, there was no such thing as "true" altruism when it came to finance and capital. Whatever that unknown commodity had been, it seemed reasonable to assume that it was inherently related to this sudden push for reform.
When Osric had presented the possibility of reform to Roen sevendays ago - more than a moon now, to be honest - she'd seemed disinclined, and he couldn't bring himself to blame her for wanting distance from a corrupt and seemingly unsalvageable city.
So what changed?
Something, some notion, some idea had captivated her... or some one. This associate, perhaps. Anyroad, what mattered wasn't that it had happened; what mattered were the potential repercussions.
In his experience, there were no honest merchants from Limsa who'd go out of their way to mire themselves in politics this way... which meant a smuggler, or a pirate. Goods said smuggler. Smuggler meant there'd be records to be found with the Maelstrom.... so here, now, the envelope in his hand that he'd be taking along with him, that he'd spend bonfire-lit evenings poring over, committing the contents to memory.
Three suns. Three suns spent half a desert away. Roen, you'd better step lightly 'til I get back.
He'd already called Kanaria over their personal linkshell to let her know where he was going, already notified his company where he was going by note. Osric did not want to be here when the captain learned that the commander had gone over his head by taking away one of his soldiers, even if only temporarily. Erik would not take this well.
Chief Flame Sergeant Osric Melkire stood, dropped both envelopes momentarily onto his desk, walked over to his armoire, retrieved his soldier's uniform, pulled the overcoat on over his Red Wings doublet, pulled on boots and gloves. He hated formal dress, but the situation called for it. Beastmen relations... touchy, those.
He plucked the two envelopes from atop his desk, tucked them under his arm, and headed out the door.
![[Image: 1qVSsTp.png]](http://i.imgur.com/1qVSsTp.png)
