After a long day of shamelessly making a damn fool of himself, it came to be for the good Flynt Reddard to go to Flynt Beddard. Making his way through the Gate of Nald after a heart-to-fist with the Grindstone, sure he got rid of it once and for all; that goddamn bird flew down from the high heavens, delivering what may as well could have been a message from the Twelve saying 'Go fuck yourself.'.Â
Thankfully, Flynt was beaten and bruised well into sanity for the next few hours, taking the note from the chocobo chick's talons. Opening it up, he first felt threatened. "What do I owe?", was the first thing that sprung to mind, but really, after some healthy dosage of common sense, he figured that he was being asked out. Alright. Cool.
Shooing the bird off, he proceeded to his room in the Quicksand, which reeked of urine, bodily fluids, and daddy issues as per usual. From there he awaited the day, which in literary context, was the next one, go figure. Flynt didn't feel the need to dress over-the-top, the Major was simply going to another PR stunt to boost his ego.Â
Dressed in a black coatee, topped with a striped bowtie, accented by riding pants and spurred leather boots; Flynt looked like he came back from a chocobo race, drinking with peabodies and gamblers staking their hard earned cash on wealthy pricks with too much gil than what they're worth. Regardless, he was sharp. Just what he needed.
The Hyena marched off, nose up high, to the city's central aetherite, taking the rift to Limsa Lominsa, another subsequent warp to the Culinary Guild on the upper decks of the portside city. From there, he took a seat at one of the vacant tables, unsure who he's going to see, for the letter did not quite specify. He kept his chin propped up on a bent hand, the other staying firm on the stiletto on his pant-leg, half-expecting a bag to come over his head, half-expecting an adoring fan to come waltzing in to court him.Â
Thankfully, Flynt was beaten and bruised well into sanity for the next few hours, taking the note from the chocobo chick's talons. Opening it up, he first felt threatened. "What do I owe?", was the first thing that sprung to mind, but really, after some healthy dosage of common sense, he figured that he was being asked out. Alright. Cool.
Shooing the bird off, he proceeded to his room in the Quicksand, which reeked of urine, bodily fluids, and daddy issues as per usual. From there he awaited the day, which in literary context, was the next one, go figure. Flynt didn't feel the need to dress over-the-top, the Major was simply going to another PR stunt to boost his ego.Â
Dressed in a black coatee, topped with a striped bowtie, accented by riding pants and spurred leather boots; Flynt looked like he came back from a chocobo race, drinking with peabodies and gamblers staking their hard earned cash on wealthy pricks with too much gil than what they're worth. Regardless, he was sharp. Just what he needed.
The Hyena marched off, nose up high, to the city's central aetherite, taking the rift to Limsa Lominsa, another subsequent warp to the Culinary Guild on the upper decks of the portside city. From there, he took a seat at one of the vacant tables, unsure who he's going to see, for the letter did not quite specify. He kept his chin propped up on a bent hand, the other staying firm on the stiletto on his pant-leg, half-expecting a bag to come over his head, half-expecting an adoring fan to come waltzing in to court him.Â
All he could do was wait.
![[Image: UsyQa9f.gif]](http://i.imgur.com/UsyQa9f.gif)
