The Sagolii was not kind to carrion. Outside of the few oases in the region, scavenger birds were unlikely, so corpses tended to go about the business of bloating and/or mummification (weather depending) with relatively little interruption. On occasion, a sandworm would rumble through the region and scoop up a body into its maw, but this was a messy process that left almost as much in the way of torn limbs and gobs of flesh on the ground as was actually consumed, an unfortunate drawback to not having a jaw. Otherwise a body fallen was a body in what would eventually become its grave, once the sand and wind got around to covering it up.
By the time the pair reached the Dravanian camp, the bodies had only had a few days to be subject to the desert's distinct lack of tender mercies. It helped that their killers had thought to pile and burn the bodies; even if the remains of their hastily-constructed shelter remained standing, the rest appeared to be ash and bone, piled near the remnants of what had likely once been a great wing protruding from hastily scrabbled earth. It was all, Gerchon noted from his position atop a rented chocobo, very thorough.
Sighing, he dismounted and approached the remains of the camp first. His companion chose to stay off his feet. Let him, thought Gerchon; the better to save his strength. How anybody could stand the desert heat in an outfit made of mostly black leather and buckles, he couldn't imagine. But his partner had insisted upon it. Image was everything, he said. Well, there was something to that.
He pushed metacommentary aside and squatted down near the pile of bones and ash, filtering through the remains with the tips of his fingers. "Very thorough," he said aloud, before glancing back over his shoulder. "Cultists and drake alike. Another dead end, I think."
The No-Eyed Man cursed, his words muffled behind a thick bandanna that concealed the bulk of his face. As if people wouldn't notice the buckles. "Suh thuh - " He said, paused, and then pulled down his mask. "So then that's the last of it, isn't it? Even this one was a shot in the dark."
Wrinkling his nose to ride himself of a few stray, windblown motes of ash, Gerchon shrugged. "It was a long shot. Has been for some time. But at least that's the Dravanians out of the way." Inwardly, he was disappointed - Fraideoux, when they'd spoken, had seemed a cultist at the end of his tether. He'd thought desperation would make him more effective.
"The Duskwight and the Keeper must have been freed, though. They've seen you. And me." The No-Eyed Man was good, to be certain, raising an eyebrow to express disapproval, looking proper and regal atop his mount. Dedicated, Gerchon would give him that. "We're at risk at the estate, are we not?"
"Mmm . . . " Gerchon blew air out of his lips in thought. "No. No, I don't think so. No law enforcement, yet. No proof. The Duskwight has a reputation for the outrageous, and there's still a Blade after him according to Dino. He'll keep his head down. They might make an assault, I'll warrant." He smiled. "But that's more fun than risk for us, and lots of risk for the dragoons."
Once he was satisfied that the Ishgardians had, in fact, destroyed a priceless relic of a corpse of the old Horde like so much kindling, he slumped down into the sand and uncorked his waterskin. The plan was going wrong. That wasn't cause for alarm. It was a plan that had gone wrong a half-dozen ways by now, and it was still in operation. This was how he liked things: flexible, mutable. He'd seen the schemes of the dune-turds and they operated like beautiful pieces of Ishgardian clockwork - finely crafted and well-tuned, but one small speck of dust in the wrong place and they went all awry. Better to be uncertain of success, he felt, then utterly certain of failure.
His partner, it seemed, did not share this enthusiasm. "We could just vanish," he said. "Plant what we need, and then light off for another city."
Gerchon raised his eyebrows. "You're saying this? After all of that? It seems anti-climactic, don't you think?"
"Mayhaps." The No-Eyed Man shrugged his shoulders. The buckles jingled, but even that sound seemed immensely important when he did that, as if this jingle was the jingle that would shake the heavens. "But what other recourse do we have? We're out of relics, and they're harder to find by the day. The drop-boxes are full with junk - I think one of Dino's men reported a rosary made out of dried pasta at one point - and our mutual contact was unable to confirm the second shipment."
"Then that's what you'll have to do, isn't it? No purchasing agents, no catspaw. Time to work the charm." Gerchon turned to smile brightly, though his eyes moved to a point beyond his partner's position. Something glinted in the light of the desert sun. Metal. It moved no farther or closer. His eyes narrowed.
"Do you remember that story from one of Dino's dealers? Haig, wasn't it?"
"About the cat breaking in and gutting a visitor? Unexpected, to be sure." The No-Eyed Man didn't seem to follow the train of thought. That was fine; Gerchon agreed. It had been unexpected. That always caught his interest. "What do you think she wanted?" his partner continued.
"Grudge, from the sound of it. It was very focused. Reliable things, grudges. Point a person at their target and they'll do anything to help with it." He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, a habit that often occurred in the midst of serious thought. Back in Coerthas, people had likened it, both unkindly and otherwise, to the tapping of a dragon's claw.
"Well. We have Primrose. And we have a few other angles. And if push comes to shove, we have the last resort - if you're prepared."
The No-Eyed Man flinched. "If I must."
"Good. Now, let's see if we can get what she asked, keep things moving." Gerchon chuckled, and sincerely at that. "Drachen ore, of all things. Whatever she's making, it should be interesting."
"And how, pray, are we to find drachen ore here?"
"Simple, the same way we got our wyrmtears back." Gerchon rose to his feet and dusted off his knees. The glint vanished.
The No-Eyed Man furrowed his brow. "What - we have tears? Did you find more?"
Another chuckle. "Sorry. A passing moment's lie for my own amusement. Anyway, it really is quite simple - we take it from a dragoon."
By the time the pair reached the Dravanian camp, the bodies had only had a few days to be subject to the desert's distinct lack of tender mercies. It helped that their killers had thought to pile and burn the bodies; even if the remains of their hastily-constructed shelter remained standing, the rest appeared to be ash and bone, piled near the remnants of what had likely once been a great wing protruding from hastily scrabbled earth. It was all, Gerchon noted from his position atop a rented chocobo, very thorough.
Sighing, he dismounted and approached the remains of the camp first. His companion chose to stay off his feet. Let him, thought Gerchon; the better to save his strength. How anybody could stand the desert heat in an outfit made of mostly black leather and buckles, he couldn't imagine. But his partner had insisted upon it. Image was everything, he said. Well, there was something to that.
He pushed metacommentary aside and squatted down near the pile of bones and ash, filtering through the remains with the tips of his fingers. "Very thorough," he said aloud, before glancing back over his shoulder. "Cultists and drake alike. Another dead end, I think."
The No-Eyed Man cursed, his words muffled behind a thick bandanna that concealed the bulk of his face. As if people wouldn't notice the buckles. "Suh thuh - " He said, paused, and then pulled down his mask. "So then that's the last of it, isn't it? Even this one was a shot in the dark."
Wrinkling his nose to ride himself of a few stray, windblown motes of ash, Gerchon shrugged. "It was a long shot. Has been for some time. But at least that's the Dravanians out of the way." Inwardly, he was disappointed - Fraideoux, when they'd spoken, had seemed a cultist at the end of his tether. He'd thought desperation would make him more effective.
"The Duskwight and the Keeper must have been freed, though. They've seen you. And me." The No-Eyed Man was good, to be certain, raising an eyebrow to express disapproval, looking proper and regal atop his mount. Dedicated, Gerchon would give him that. "We're at risk at the estate, are we not?"
"Mmm . . . " Gerchon blew air out of his lips in thought. "No. No, I don't think so. No law enforcement, yet. No proof. The Duskwight has a reputation for the outrageous, and there's still a Blade after him according to Dino. He'll keep his head down. They might make an assault, I'll warrant." He smiled. "But that's more fun than risk for us, and lots of risk for the dragoons."
Once he was satisfied that the Ishgardians had, in fact, destroyed a priceless relic of a corpse of the old Horde like so much kindling, he slumped down into the sand and uncorked his waterskin. The plan was going wrong. That wasn't cause for alarm. It was a plan that had gone wrong a half-dozen ways by now, and it was still in operation. This was how he liked things: flexible, mutable. He'd seen the schemes of the dune-turds and they operated like beautiful pieces of Ishgardian clockwork - finely crafted and well-tuned, but one small speck of dust in the wrong place and they went all awry. Better to be uncertain of success, he felt, then utterly certain of failure.
His partner, it seemed, did not share this enthusiasm. "We could just vanish," he said. "Plant what we need, and then light off for another city."
Gerchon raised his eyebrows. "You're saying this? After all of that? It seems anti-climactic, don't you think?"
"Mayhaps." The No-Eyed Man shrugged his shoulders. The buckles jingled, but even that sound seemed immensely important when he did that, as if this jingle was the jingle that would shake the heavens. "But what other recourse do we have? We're out of relics, and they're harder to find by the day. The drop-boxes are full with junk - I think one of Dino's men reported a rosary made out of dried pasta at one point - and our mutual contact was unable to confirm the second shipment."
"Then that's what you'll have to do, isn't it? No purchasing agents, no catspaw. Time to work the charm." Gerchon turned to smile brightly, though his eyes moved to a point beyond his partner's position. Something glinted in the light of the desert sun. Metal. It moved no farther or closer. His eyes narrowed.
"Do you remember that story from one of Dino's dealers? Haig, wasn't it?"
"About the cat breaking in and gutting a visitor? Unexpected, to be sure." The No-Eyed Man didn't seem to follow the train of thought. That was fine; Gerchon agreed. It had been unexpected. That always caught his interest. "What do you think she wanted?" his partner continued.
"Grudge, from the sound of it. It was very focused. Reliable things, grudges. Point a person at their target and they'll do anything to help with it." He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, a habit that often occurred in the midst of serious thought. Back in Coerthas, people had likened it, both unkindly and otherwise, to the tapping of a dragon's claw.
"Well. We have Primrose. And we have a few other angles. And if push comes to shove, we have the last resort - if you're prepared."
The No-Eyed Man flinched. "If I must."
"Good. Now, let's see if we can get what she asked, keep things moving." Gerchon chuckled, and sincerely at that. "Drachen ore, of all things. Whatever she's making, it should be interesting."
"And how, pray, are we to find drachen ore here?"
"Simple, the same way we got our wyrmtears back." Gerchon rose to his feet and dusted off his knees. The glint vanished.
The No-Eyed Man furrowed his brow. "What - we have tears? Did you find more?"
Another chuckle. "Sorry. A passing moment's lie for my own amusement. Anyway, it really is quite simple - we take it from a dragoon."
Verad Bellveil's Profile | The Case of the Ransacked Rug | Verad's Fate Sheet
Current Fate-14 Storyline:Â Merchant, Marine
Current Fate-14 Storyline:Â Merchant, Marine
