The gauze was at the very bottom, beneath a bundle of haphazardly strewn clothes. Osric sighed.
I hate doing this. Hate it. But if it works on wanted street urchins from Limsa....
He set his jaw and rose to his feet slowly, taking in one last look before turning to the burly Ala Mhigan standing beside him. "Private Lancaster."
The new recruit snapped a crisp salute. "Yes, Sergeant!"
The hells am I doing? This cully has two fulms and at least sixty ponzes on me. The hells am I doing?
What he was doing was hooking the handle of the footlocker by the tip of his right boot and lifting it off the floor, ever so slowly....
"Private, does this look organized to you? Does this look like it meets regulations, to you?"
"No, si-"
Osric snapped his right foot up, and the near side of the footlocker jumped four fulms into the air, just enough for the sergeant to lean back, place the sole of that same boot against the locker's underside, and kick out, sending the contents flying as the box slammed back onto the floor, right-side down. "NO, IT GODS-DAMN DOESN'T, DOES IT?"
Lancaster's mouth fell open as his eyes tracked the footlocker. Now. Do it now, before that legendary highlander rage sets in and you wake up tomorrow missing half your face or worse.
Osric stepped forward, looked up into the big man's face, and set his voice to growling.
"Private Lancaster. Private Gregson has been grievously injured in the line of duty, and has been hauled back to the barracks. The medics have their hands full, and he needs immediate attention. Where is your gauze, soldier?"
He could hear Gregson shuffling behind him. By the Twelve, please be standing at attention by the time I turn around. One dressing-down is enough for today. Please.
"I... I don't know, sir. Somewhere on the floor, sir."
"That's right, Lancaster. Regulations exist for a reason. If your gear isn't squared away per said regulations, they might as well be somewhere on the gods-damned floor. Bloody well right, because if this wasn't a hypothetical, Gregson might have bloody well bled out by now, you-"
"Chief Sergeant Melkire."
Osric paused, still glaring up into the private's face through his pock-marked mask. He pivoted his hips and turned his head to find Lieutenant Peak waiting for him. He glanced back to Lancaster. "Have this sorted out before I get back."
He stepped over to Peak and saluted. "Sir."
The Roegadyn - always an odd sight here - passed a couple of sealed scrolls over to him. "Orders from Commander Swift. We're assigning additional men to the security detail at the Royal Ball tonight, to relieve those stationed there. You know, cycle in some fresh eyes, keep everyone alert, the usual. Your name came up. Corporal Kokojo will look after things here for you while you're away. Go now."
Osric snorted. This should have been Blades' work... but then, the General likely wasn't comfortable with the thought of Monetarist lackeys anywhere near the Sultana.
A quick nod and salute, and then he was passing Peak by, heading out of the barracks, heading for Hustings Strip and the Chamber of Rule....
I hate doing this. Hate it. But if it works on wanted street urchins from Limsa....
He set his jaw and rose to his feet slowly, taking in one last look before turning to the burly Ala Mhigan standing beside him. "Private Lancaster."
The new recruit snapped a crisp salute. "Yes, Sergeant!"
The hells am I doing? This cully has two fulms and at least sixty ponzes on me. The hells am I doing?
What he was doing was hooking the handle of the footlocker by the tip of his right boot and lifting it off the floor, ever so slowly....
"Private, does this look organized to you? Does this look like it meets regulations, to you?"
"No, si-"
Osric snapped his right foot up, and the near side of the footlocker jumped four fulms into the air, just enough for the sergeant to lean back, place the sole of that same boot against the locker's underside, and kick out, sending the contents flying as the box slammed back onto the floor, right-side down. "NO, IT GODS-DAMN DOESN'T, DOES IT?"
Lancaster's mouth fell open as his eyes tracked the footlocker. Now. Do it now, before that legendary highlander rage sets in and you wake up tomorrow missing half your face or worse.
Osric stepped forward, looked up into the big man's face, and set his voice to growling.
"Private Lancaster. Private Gregson has been grievously injured in the line of duty, and has been hauled back to the barracks. The medics have their hands full, and he needs immediate attention. Where is your gauze, soldier?"
He could hear Gregson shuffling behind him. By the Twelve, please be standing at attention by the time I turn around. One dressing-down is enough for today. Please.
"I... I don't know, sir. Somewhere on the floor, sir."
"That's right, Lancaster. Regulations exist for a reason. If your gear isn't squared away per said regulations, they might as well be somewhere on the gods-damned floor. Bloody well right, because if this wasn't a hypothetical, Gregson might have bloody well bled out by now, you-"
"Chief Sergeant Melkire."
Osric paused, still glaring up into the private's face through his pock-marked mask. He pivoted his hips and turned his head to find Lieutenant Peak waiting for him. He glanced back to Lancaster. "Have this sorted out before I get back."
He stepped over to Peak and saluted. "Sir."
The Roegadyn - always an odd sight here - passed a couple of sealed scrolls over to him. "Orders from Commander Swift. We're assigning additional men to the security detail at the Royal Ball tonight, to relieve those stationed there. You know, cycle in some fresh eyes, keep everyone alert, the usual. Your name came up. Corporal Kokojo will look after things here for you while you're away. Go now."
Osric snorted. This should have been Blades' work... but then, the General likely wasn't comfortable with the thought of Monetarist lackeys anywhere near the Sultana.
A quick nod and salute, and then he was passing Peak by, heading out of the barracks, heading for Hustings Strip and the Chamber of Rule....
![[Image: 1qVSsTp.png]](http://i.imgur.com/1qVSsTp.png)
