RPC has moved! These pages have been kept for historical purposes

Verad · **04-15-2015, 07:29 PM**

Over the last few days, the following image, drawn on cheap parchment, can be seen plastered around the city and streets of Ul'dah:

No signs or wordings accompany the image. Some of them are torn down if they are placed in unauthorized locations, but some remain.

On occasion, the following words are painted on city-streets, intermingled with other local graffiti:

Topple the Scales

Anstarra · **04-15-2015, 08:10 PM**

The day was hot, which wasn't saying much. Sea of chaos though Ul'dah could be, at least it was reliably hot. That the one thing it was reliable about was a source of constant aggravation for Anstarra was more or less the summation of her relationship with the infernal city. (And with certain people, but that wasn't something she felt like thinking about today.)

"Don't feel like thinking about any bloody thing today..." she murmured, in response to her own thoughts. No one noticed the comment, or at least, if any of the servants on the cafÃ©'s terrace did, they were polite enough to pretend not to notice. Unfortunately, not thinking about things wasn't an option.

For the twelfth time or so, she looked at the parchment. And for the twelfth time or so, she had that gut feeling that foreboded nothing good. The drawing was clever.. visually-derived from Ul'dah's flag as it was, it surely caught the eye. The draconic symbology was more worrisome, and likely the cause of her indigestion.

Taking another sip of chilled wine, she struggled to wrap her head around what it could all mean. In retrospect, trying to take time to think while in the heat and mildly drunk was really just not the most efficient of methodologies, but she didn't want to leave town just yet (and not drinking wasn't really an option). Despite how much she hated it here - especially of late - this is where things were happening. If only she could catch a glimpse of whoever was putting these blasted things up...

"It has to be those two. Right?" More agitation, more chaos. It stank of Gerchon and that No-Eyed Man. People were buzzing, to be sure. No small number took offense at the obvious deformation of their beloved flag. Combined with all the madness in the skies over Mor Dhona and upper crust of the city alike... well, her sense of foreboding had ample soil in which to take root.

They needed to hurry up. Destroy the wyrmtears, clear out the threat for good and all. She needed to talk to Orrin about that.. while she'd been watching the skies the night before, the blindingly obvious realization that even if destroying the tears drew the Horde down on them, it would likely take days to arrive by flight unless they did it somewhat closer to Dravania, had chained onto the notion that the dragons would likely arrive seeking a LOCATION, not specific PEOPLE. And would proceed to unleash their rage on anyone and anything they found, at that LOCATION.

Which had kindled other possibilities.

An abandoned locale might be a good place for dragons to show up in force, but how much better, oh, say, a Garlean Castrum?

"Now that would light up the skies..." she muttered, smirking as she folded up the parchment, tucking it away. "Topple the Scales indeed..."

McBeefâ„¢ · **04-15-2015, 08:20 PM**

"Hmmmph..." Evangeline scowls, running a finger over the rough paper of the poster.

"Only one person gets to topple Ul'dah, and that's me."

The next few minutes are full of rustling paper as Eva pastes one of her own Revolutionary posters on top.

She takes a few minutes to admire her handiwork, before pulling a small glass jar from her pocket, the pair of wyrmtears rattling inside. "And I hardly thing these are the way to do it." Evangeline had begun to keep the stones on her person, Orrin's ambush proved they were too well sought after to leave alone.

"This seems Leofric's and Gerchon's work. If only I knew why they gave me such stones... they curse Ul'dah and the dravanians with one breath, at the same time they support them both."

"Ah well." She pockets the stones again, "Hopefully Orrin is having some luck rounding up the troops." She sighs, "And Leofric and Gerchon will speak to me before interfering."

V'aleera · **04-15-2015, 09:54 PM**

"Topple the Scales", that this poor nation would be so fortunate.

A sneer curled the edge of V'aleera's lips as she held the paper in her hand, eyes narrowing at the bare and obvious draconic imagery. She had never liked heretics; the depths of their trickery were matched only by the wells of their insanity and cowardice. In some ways, she regretted the fact that her purpose in the homeland did not give her the pleasure of ending more of their lives. But in other ways, she was grateful that her duties had her face off against the far more ferocious and forthright enemies of the Fury; the dragons themselves.

A pained cough resounded from the ground below, and the noisy jingling of chain-mail alerted her to the Blade struggling to rise to his feet. A growl emanated from the Ishgardian's throat and she delivered a swift blow to the man's head with her boot, sending him back into an unconscious state like his partner who lie still several fulms away. As much as she despised the wretches called Brass Blades who pretended at being keepers of law, she had come to realize that sending them to their makers only complicated her stay in the city further. Since her last close encounter, she had elected to begin exercising some restraint.

Turning her attention back toward the parchment, she quietly reflected on her recent encounter with her fellow knight. Halgren was a Fortemps man, and their judgement was to always be taken with a large grain of salt: naive mavericks, the lot of them. Nonetheless, his proposed plan was not a terrible one. It offered many possible victories, with few drawbacks.

Crumpling the paper up in her hands, she tossed it aside into the gutters of the street like the garbage it was, setting on her way back to the hostel where she kept residence.

With luck the scales will topple in this wretched city; but not by your hands. I will find you where you lurk and slither. You will suffer. You will die. And the Dragonsong will fall silent in Thanalan once more.

Praise be Halone: the Fury's will be done.

Zelmanov · **04-16-2015, 02:40 AM**

It was naught but a moonâ€™s time away from Thanalan and the heat was already unbearable to his Ishgardian sensibilities. The covers were kicked to the foot of the bed in a crumpled, wrinkled pile. Despite being clad in just his small clothes, his recovering body was covered in sweat. He tossed and turned to one side and the other before he shot up, wide eyed, panting. He pivoted so that his legs hung over the edge of the bed, feet pressed against the cold Ulâ€™dahn marble of the inn room. He put a single hand to his forehead and closed his eyes.

All he could see was the defiant silhouette, outlined by the sun, as it bared down upon him. He had barely survived that fight. Setting down his lance into the stone of the Steps of Faith, pointing skyward, bracing against it as if in prayer while the front claw of the building-sized dragon fell upon him.

When he opened his eyes to banish the vision, he saw what remained of that battle upon his own body. Though unscarred, he was nearly crushed: armor dented in, spear blunted, spikes torn away; the impact resulted in a myriad of blackish-blue bruises, remnants of the internal bleeding he suffered. He remembered his blood seeping through the scales and plate of his equipment. He had been bedridden for nearly a fortnight, barred from combat for days and as soon as the fighting died down he made way back to Ulâ€™dah to finish what he had started. And it was only now that the injuries all but faded away entirely. Yet Orrin could see them still upon the pale skin of his.

It was some 20 years ago when Nidhogg last reawaken and laid waste to Coerthas. Orrin was only 8 summers old back then. He was sequestered off safely with his mother and newly born brother behind the walls of the Holy City. It was a luxury that could be afforded by a nobleman inquisitor like his father. He only had tales to go on about the terrible might of the horde. It was said that Nidhoggâ€™s call to chorus blanched the face of men who have been hardened by years of war. That none had seen the true power of the Dravanians until one fought while Nidhogg no longer slumbered.

Indeed, it was when Orrin laid eyes upon Vishap at Daniffenâ€™s Collar did he truly understand the battle cry of â€œbanish your fearâ€. And banish it he did. Vishap fell, corpse consigned to the void beneath the mighty bridge that led to the sea of clouds, vanquished by him along with a veritable army of sellswords and Ishgardian loyalists. However he knew that he and the unit he commanded were lucky, getting away with wounds as opposed to deaths.Â He had witnessed what was just the beginningof Nidhoggâ€™s fury and he knew full well that Vishap was only the beginning, the prelude to a true baptism by a bolero of fire and claws.

It took an army, he reminded himself, a staccato of cannon fire with accents of Dragonslayer cannon, all bolstered by the harmony of spears and arrows singing through the air to fell Vishap. What if a dragon of similar might were to show upon the tearâ€™s concerted destruction? What if it was something bigger? He had no army, only a small band of allies he deemed suitable to orchestrate what he considered a fitting finale. He had to afford every advantage he could for them for he knew not what would come. He needed an area large enough to accommodate the beast, cramped enough to rob it of its flight and movement for the sake of his comrades, and remote enough so that should they die, the dragonâ€™s ire could not fall upon any other settlements of man.

His eyes then trailed to the armor neatly piled in the corner. The faint runic glow on the helm of his newly forged Drachen Mail mimicking the selfsame glyph upon the head of the stalwart dragoon statues that acted as protectors of Ishgardâ€™s wards. Gifted by Ishgard, executed skillfully by Camp Dragonhead's own Belldonna Angelimiuex, it was a symbol of his service. It was humbling and empowering all the same. Should he lead these allies and friends into battle, he would not fail them.

McBeefâ„¢ · **04-28-2015, 01:25 PM**

Evangeline finishes hitching the carriage, wood and leather connecting its sturdy frame to the pair of draft Chocobos. Their panniers were bulging with parcels and bags, small kegs of gunpowder strapped to their side. It had taken weeks to prepare the powder needed, countless anxious hours in the workshop, one spark away from annihilation. Yet she had succeeded, and hopefully it would be enough to strike a blow against the beast.

The carriage itself was a simple two wheeled affair, holding a long and slim brass cannon, reinforced with bands of Ishgardian steel. The Phoenix Rose had taken this struggle personally, and her companions had sent multiple teams to brave the battlegrounds of the Stone Vigil, in order to retrieve cannon diagrams and raw materials. Vaughn, Jaques, Lyria, Angora, Syress, Mattias, and others, risked their lives so that she might have this chance. Still others helped in constructing it. Otto's workshop had forged the barrel, bronze for weight and flexibility, Ishgardian steel for strength and power. The cannon was light, less than a thousand ponze, but could throw 12 ponze shot with terrific power. Even more important were the special armaments Kage Krueger had constructed. Built from a split anchor, two great harpoons, linked to strong chain, lay nestled next to the cannon. These would be fired first, hopefully preventing the beast's escape.

As she begins leading the birds down the long path to the Burning Wall she runs her fingers over name painted on the barrel, "Thorn..."

McBeefâ„¢ · **05-08-2015, 03:29 PM**

The rain poured down, thunder echoing through the narrow canyon while bursts of lightening illuminate flashes of a frantic, desperate struggle. The Drake was not what they had expected. A best that assaulted the mind more than the body. The Dragoons and Lady Crofte struggled with it in the canyon below, dodging snapping jaws and slicing talons as they attempted to close with the beast.

However more dangerous than the claws, were the screams.

Evangeline crawls over the muddy ground, tears mixing with rain as she pulls herself up onto the cannon. It was a beautiful thing, a work of art in soft bronze and firm steel, polished and engraved with the mark of Otto Vann. It was in fact, elegant enough that its cargo, an ugly harpoon of twisted black iron, seemed almost sacrilegious in comparison. This was the work of Kage Kreuger, his ship had given its spare Anchor and Chain for this enterprise, reborn as an implement to bind a dragon, rather than a ship, to earth.

It was this harpoon she needed to fire now. She had spent the last day calculating and planning, figuring out firing arcs and solutions for all possible landing spots. Yet before she can fire the charge, the dragon's scream once again pierces the air.

Her mind flashed to another time, another place, the flash of swords, a severed head on bloody flagstones, the screams of a small girl. Cruel chains, burning irons, if only... why had she... when... someone.... help...

Evangeline flashes back to reality, biting her lip until she can taste the coppery flavor of blood. Grimacing she adjusts the wheels and levers, the cannon barrel gliding smoothly into position. The Elezen fires, and for the moment, the canyon is not filled with the roar of dragons, but the roar of mortals. The Harpoon sails, flying on a sheet of flame, its chain drawing out behind it in a long arc, before it sinks deep into the flank of the dragon. It roars, this time in pain as the chain wraps around it in its struggles.

Without even watching her handiwork, she begins packing powder into the cannon once more, as V'aleera and Orrin pounce on the distracted beast.

She just... had to concentrate...

The dragon roars again

------------------------------------------

Evangeline wakes up, chest heaving and sheets slick with sweat, a now familiar situation for her. The dreams had not gotten worse, but they had also not gotten better. That night had broken something in her, something that simple healing could not fix. She stares up for a moment, before the gently snoring of Klin breaks her musing. The titanic Roe lay slumbering on her couch, like always. In the side room, she knew, also lay the smaller form of Angora. Smiling softly, Evangeline closes her eyes, content that whatever the future held, she would not face it alone.

McBeefâ„¢ · **05-11-2015, 01:43 PM**

It had taken some time, to find a copy of the text.

"The Lay of Leofric" was indeed banned, as Lady Anstarra had said, but what was banned in Ishgard, was good business in Ul'dah. It had been just as dour as Anstarra described.

Leofric, the Ishgardian Knight, had fallen in love with a heretic, a grave sin. Yet despite his love,he still condemned her at her trial, sending the woman to be executed. At the end of the play he faces the dragons, wracked with sorrow, and is slain.

The no eyed man had edited his copy of the piece, and Evangeline did the same with hers, altering the story and characters for a more romantic outcome. In her version Leofric did not denounce his love, and upon the eve of her execution, absconded with her. The two travelled far away, and lived the rest of their lives in love and peace, away from the spectre of war.

A little sappy, but just the kind of ending she liked. Reading through it one last time, she nods, closes it, and tosses it into the shallow grave. It had not been fun, the trek out to the burning wall, finding the site of their battle, and digging the pit. However something inside her screamed it must be done.

In front of her towered the crumbling pile of rock which interred their recent enemy. The great drake, whole wailed for Leofric as they pierced it with cannon and lance. Certainly they owned the beast no favors, it nor the One Eyed Man, yet at some point the cycle must be broken. Perhaps just once, a pair of souls might escape this struggle between Ishgard and Dravania.

On top of the book she tosses the calcified heart of the No Eyed Man, dug from his corpse, at rest in Verad's house. She had not seen the end of the man, nor seen much of him at all. His heart was perhaps the final mystery about him, half human, half stone wyrmtear. She watches the softly glowing organ at the bottom of the pit, wondering once more what the connection was between the man who called himself Leofric, and the tale of the same name.

Shrugging she begins shoveling dirt into the pit, the dull glow of the heart fading beneath the soil. Eventually she finishes, and stamps the dirt flat. In the stillness of the night, she moves to her knees, and gives an awkward prayer for the souls of both who are buried there.

Verad · **05-11-2015, 10:41 PM**

Panic at the Sacrarium!

No-Eyed Man Shot!

Top Royalists Under Suspicion!

Normally, Didino Dino was not one to read the myriad scandal-sheets that plagued the city of Ulâ€™dah. It was all trash, so he was told by those he paid to read such things, mere rags that often sought to propagandize against the rightful place of the Monetarists and the Syndicate within Ulâ€™dahn society (though, he noted with some pleasure, a few buyouts of late had many of their editorial staff changing their tune). Even when they were aflutter with the rumors of conspiracies and Dravanian cultists lurking about the city, heâ€™d abstained. Gerchon had requested a free hand, and Dino had given it, for as long as he was able to manage.

On the evening that the No-Eyed Man had left the estate to give his final performance, however, Dino had requested as many of the broadsheets on the incident be brought to him as soon as possible. He rose just before the noonday bell, much earlier than usual, in order to read the results along with his breakfast. Each headline left him with an increasing state of glee, and when he reached that about the Royalists, the Dunesfolk bounced in his bed, spilled a bit of his chilled apkallu egg and opo-brain soup. Well, that was all right. It was time for a new one anyhow.

The only headline that gave him pause, a slight frown, and a desire to fire the person whoâ€™d collated the information, was Spahro Llornâ€™s. It was an earlier article, surely mixed in with the rest of the dross, and likely relevant to the larger picture, but this kind of inattention to his specific instructions was unforgivable. He made a note to dismiss the man. Although - had he given specific instructions? Well, of course he had, he wouldnâ€™t have said otherwise. Better to dismiss him anyway just to be sure.

The Lanternâ€™s article was troubling, of course. It came too close to the truth, even if it was misplaced. Whether or not the No-Eyed Man had been Dravanian himself, Didino didnâ€™t know. Gerchon had assured him otherwise, just as heâ€™d assured him he was himself an ex-patriate. But it was still too close, and if Miss Llorn had mentioned Didinoâ€™s own name in the paper, it would have put him under suspicion. Fortunate for him, then, that no such connection appeared.

Fortunate, too, that the No-Eyed Man had been able to use the article so neatly, to deflect the claims at the scene, so the article said. Fortunate that heâ€™d been able to implicate the Royalists that had hired the cultists to spread relics in the first place, mere moments before his tragic end. A strange thing, watching a man arrange his own demise; Didno had been sure he had a double somewhere, but no, heâ€™d been insistent that he die, well and truly. Curious, but one rarely found a loose end that tied itself.
Between that, the sellswords in the crowd, and the assistance of the Blades, the No-Eyed Man had a final showing that left dozens injured, members of government exposed to charges of corruption, and a dramatic, definitely permanent exit. All well and good.

Didino smiled and took a sip of his soup. It wasnâ€™t quite chilled enough, the texture of the opo brain a little rubbery. Heâ€™d have to fire the chef, as well. It had been a shame to see Gerchon take his leave from his service - he really seemed to take to being a steward. A pity that heâ€™d parted ways once the Syndicate had taken an interest in his plan, but that, too, resulted in one less loose end to tie off.

Minor annoyances, all. The names of the Royalists that had hired the pair in the first place had been passed to the Syndicate. In due time there would be an investigation, an announcement, and their little â€œconspiracyâ€ would collapse. And finally, finally, Didino would reach the upper-middle ranks of the hierarchy. Mayhaps heâ€™d finally get an invitation to the better parties.

The thought very nearly made him spill his soup again. He was careful to finish it quickly and cleanly, however, and soon went back to sleep, never minding the spill in the sheets.

---

â€œItâ€™s been nice, though,â€ Donnell protested, underplaying his dismay. Malin was at least well-versed enough in the nuances of his smirks to know when this one was really an upside-down frown of a very literal sort. â€œYou havenâ€™t had to go back to the garrison in moons.â€

Malin dared not look over her shoulder, merely shaking her head and continuing to fill her pack. â€œA few moons too many,â€ she said. â€œItâ€™s been long enough that even Longhaft has looked up to wonder where the Twelve I went. Any later and heâ€™ll be asking questions. I already expect a bellâ€™s-long verbal report to give him.â€ She was careful not to say â€œoral.â€ The captainâ€™s reputation of dallying with his soldiers was well-known, and though Donnell had never been jealous or suspicious where it wasnâ€™t warranted, he was one to tease. If he teased, sheâ€™d turn around, and if she turned around, sheâ€™d be tempted to listen.

â€œJust at least consider a transfer, would you? The other orders canâ€™t be all that bad.â€

Her face soured. The riot had passed around the news among the cityâ€™s guard posts with all due haste. It hadnâ€™t been anywhere near as serious as the refugee outbreaks last year, but a few dozen or so saw a fair bit of action that day. She recalled one guard in particular, a bruise on the side of his jaw, chuckling and treating it like a badge of honor. This one bitch, he said, sheâ€™d put the fist to him when he was just trying to calm her down, so of course he had to kick her teeth in, and sheâ€™d fallen back with blood from her mouth, and see if she stood up again after that.

Was she a cultist, Malin had asked, in spite of her better judgment, and the guard shrugged.

Sure, he had said. Why not.

â€œOh, they can,â€ she said to Donnell, taking another bundle of clothes from her dresser.

â€œCome now, at least the Rose - â€œ

â€œWould still put me out in Horizon, and thatâ€™s close, but not the city. There would still be travel.â€ At last she turned her head, lips up in a smirk of her own. â€œDonâ€™t tell me I spoiled you here in the city all this time?â€

â€œA bit.â€ He frowned, picked at the ring on his hand. He said it itched quite often, and had since theyâ€™d bonded. She tried not to think of it as an ominous sign.

Heaving a small sigh, she tied up the bag of her belongings and rose, turned towards Donnell, clasped his cheeks, pressed her lips against his temples. â€œYouâ€™ll be fine. You can come with me once the qiqirn arenâ€™t like as not to kidnap you for being there. It was all work anyway, save for Starlight, so Iâ€™ll be back for Moonfire. Weâ€™ll talk transfer then. All right?â€

A bow of his head and he nodded. There was less protestation on his part, more assistance with the packing. They sorted out their affairs, said their goodbyes and loveyous, and she was out the door. She walked a hundred yalms before she let a frown crease her features.

Transfer? There was no hope of it. But try explaining that. Try explaining that it was better by far to work in the hinterlands, where the enemies were in front of you trying to attack the Highbridge road, where the corruption was a little bit of graft and a few fines and putting up with the captain leering at your arse when his usual girls were out on a mission but never touching it because he wasnâ€™t that kind of man, where you could see a problem and make an excuse and go take care of it because everybody knew when you said you were going to try and solve a problem, they knew you meant it.

Take that, and then take the cities, where the guards were yesterdayâ€™s gangs made strong enough for someone with a shrewd mind and no scruples to decide to co-opt them, where people panicked at the mere thought of a threat they couldnâ€™t see, but still tried to exploit it for everything it was worth, fearing dragons and their relics but making cheap fakes to sell for the faintest hope of a half-gil. Where you could find a criminal and know, know in your gut that he had done something wrong, but be unable to perform any kind of real justice between apathy from the cityâ€™s orders and the hordes of the wrong-doerâ€™s heavily armed friends, who were sure he was being a better person now and therefore could not possibly be called to account.

Compare the two, she thought, and it was clear a transfer was impossible. It was the one gap in her marriage that would never quite be bridged. But compare it through her eyes, and a transfer was a slow creeping death, where a few compromises could be made, and then suddenly she was no better than a guard slapping his own somnus on a caravan; no better than a Monetarist hiring sellswords to hurt civilians and kill his own agents while the Blades looked the other way; no better than another leaving holy artifacts in a warehouse for some idiot peddler to loot.

Bellveil. The frown faded. In the end, she let him go, let the earnest pleas of a few of his friends convince her that three cycles in the oubliette wasnâ€™t what he deserved for his role in the whole mess. They had insisted on his better nature, the redhead in particular. Strange that sheâ€™d accepted responsibility for the robbery, she thought, but a sun later sheâ€™d checked old records and found the woman was wanted for a half-dozen different colors of conspiracy against the state. Character references in the city were useless without references of their own.

Too late to take it back now, she supposed, as she made her way through small streets and alleys to the city gates. She could only hope he wasnâ€™t already making her regret the decision.

---

The fire had spread faster than Verad had anticipated. He wasnâ€™t used to the business of building funeral pyres, particularly when they were on his front lawn. The body had been cold enough thanks to being stored on top of used ice-sprite cores that he had presumed he would need to make the flame especially hot, otherwise he wouldnâ€™t so much have cremated the remains as lightly thawed them. And, yes, true, he did stumble a bit and spill a bit more diluted ceruleum on the logs than heâ€™d intended, and tried placing a bit of spare Vylbrand gunpowder on the logs heâ€™d managed to stack together (a ponz was only a bit, right?), but these were all minor details in the scheme of things, mere wrinkles in the tapestry of the event that added up to a lengthy fold in the form of the semi-massive explosion that issued forth once heâ€™d set the pyre alight with a torch.

Once Verad had regained his senses, checked to ensure he hadnâ€™t lost his eyebrows (which was bad) or his beard (which was worse), he frantically gathered dirt from his garden patch to try and contain the blaze. Somewhere in the white-hot fire, he knew, lay the remains of the No-Eyed Man, his body recovered from the scene. Once he had enough dirt scrabbled around the blaze to hopefully contain it and keep his yard at least somewhat respectable, the Duskwight stood before it with hands folded together in front of him. Eyes closed in a respectful silence.

Kyrael, he knew, would mock him for this, but Kyrael stuck his fingers in the corpseâ€™s nose for fun, so Verad considered the opinion unworthy of consideration. Other, more credible people might also consider this gesture somewhat amiss. Here was the funeral of a man who had riled parts of the city into panic, drawn Dravanian cells into their midst, and been at least partially responsible for Verad himself being kidnapped and nearly sacrificed out in the middle of the Sagolii. One did not need to be vindictive to find Veradâ€™s behavior somewhat odd.

What he would tell people, he thought as he watched the blaze, his eyes lowered enough to avoid being blinded by the bright light of a white-hot fire, was that it may have been so, but if he did not respect someone who had been his enemy after a fashion, then he could hardly respect himself. Dubiousness was all well and good, but it was possible to be both dubious and decent.

What he could not tell people, save in this moment, he murmured to the by-now ashen remains.

â€œI am sorry,â€ he whispered, his voice making the noise a bit low. â€œYou were brought here because of my own foolishness, and mayhaps you neednâ€™t be here at all otherwise.â€

People would argue with Verad on this point, he knew, as they had several times. He would, publicly at least, agree with them. But it was still his hands that left a warehouse door open, that left a pile of relics to fall into the hands of the Ulâ€™dahn populace, and left the city open to the predations of mischief makers like Gerchon. He was as complicit as the hands that brought the relics to the city in the first place.

â€œWe thought you a pawn at first, of your partner,â€ he said, as if the fire could listen. â€œBut you had your own plans, didnâ€™t you? The Lay of Leofric, the stones . . . â€œ

Verad quickly shook his head. There was no use speculating. The leads were dead in their entirety, in many cases quite literally. â€œWhether it was my hand alone or something else that brought you here,â€ he finished, â€œIâ€™m sorry it ended this way.â€

That said, he took a deep breath, and made a small gesture in worship of Oschon at his chest. â€œMay your path on the lifestream guide you to a better one than this.â€

A spark jumped and hit the grass. Verad yelped, and stomped it out with his boot. He went looking for more dirt. The blaze was growing, and the smoke rose high; someone from the Goblet Housing Authority was sure to file a complaint.

Aya · **05-11-2015, 11:17 PM**

"So the rumors were true..." she thought to herself.Â Her position somewhat back from the boulevard didn't provide a full view of Verad's lawn, but it was enough to bear witness to the roaring flames of an all-too-dubious pyre.Â Slender shoulders shrugged beneath a long, hooded cloak--the natural accompaniment to a sad-toned sigh.

Lewin had never known her - but, she knew the two had not been so very different.Â Had not the approaching steps of the censor hastened her own flight from the Towered city?Â Yet - he had dabbled in the forbidden - and when danger had surrounded him he still sought the spotlight of center stage.Â He had invited his end, perhaps relished it, and that is where their paths departed.Â

She sighed again - reflecting upon just how much everything had changed since those days in Ishgard.Â Here she clung, yet, to the shadows.Â Here she shied away from prying eyes; diverted probing curiosity.Â How very, very different, than those nights before the adoration of the crowd.Â

She pulled the hood a little tighter, taking one slow step forward.Â She thought, for just a moment, of what Verad must make of the entire affair.Â What indeed--she followed with several more, just as slow, light blue eyes drug along the scene in the fenced lawn-unconsciously seeking a sight of the man at the center of it all.Â The start of another long, quiet walk back to the city center.Â There the future awaited - in this too, she was different.

Zelmanov · **05-12-2015, 12:39 AM**

Orrin backed up with a little sigh, crossing his arms for a moment as he looked upon the freshly tied bundle upon the table. His hand reached out and traced over the front of it, feeling the firm steel that lay underneath. The campaign that had derailed his quest for answers to Ishgard's weakness had finally come to an end. Though disheartened somewhat by not bearing witness to the death of the two instigators first hand, he found it somewhat fitting. He was a Dragoon first, slayer of dragons, not a persecutor of heretics. To find his part concluded with the slaying of the mourning dragon was more than fitting. However, there was a bitterness that lingered in his mouth still.
Â
Thefinale came none too soon, wyverns managing to make it into Ishgard proper, emboldened by the reawakening of Nidhogg, meant that the nation was in dire need of the competent and healthy. Though he was returning, he felt as if he brought nothing back beyond his own conviction. In a sense, it was that he sought when he had first left, leaving behind his Drachen Mail in search of proving his true worth. What had he to show for it? For the lives he could have preserved if he had remained in Coerthas to fight?
Â
He had saved a heretic from the influence of the horde, had a hand in destroying a cultist cell, saved the lives of Ul'dahn men and women. These were things of worth to him, but to the state of Ishgard? He was no closer to helping his nation regain the strength that he felt they were lacking. Furthermore a single Wyrmtear still was free, in the hands of that damned Miqo'te.Â
Â
His face turned to that of a snarl for a moment before he closed his eyes and inhaled and exhaled deeply, letting the draconic rage subside. He takes his hand off the pack to turn away and thread his arms into the leather straps at either side to shoulder the weight. There was hope.

For even though much was left unanswered for him, he found answers to questions he did not know to ask. He knew now that his title was not given to him for lack of more worthy candidates: that he too measured to the men and women that fought and died before him. He knew now the strength of men over the will of dragons and those who surrendered themselves to them. And he knew now that people could find redemption and with that, perhaps a nation could as well. It was all he had to bring back with him to Ishgard and it would have to do, he could linger no longer.
Â
Orrin made his way to the door,opening it wide, letting the bustling sound of the Quicksands coming from below be heard. He ducked his head to get the burdensome pack through the frame and he shut the door behind him. In a way, his hopes lay with her, the woman who would return to Ishgard and seek hearing in front of the High Court of heresies. This was a woman who had the mind of the likes that first sought to forge the Drachen mail. The Ishgard he believed in would see her conviction and forgive her. Or so he hoped so dearly.
Â
He took solace in that the Mourner and its pall bearers lay dead and with it, perhaps granted Ishgard some reprieve by dispatching such a powerful member of the horde.Â It would have to do for now, he had a war to fight and a rogue tear to seek out.Â

Boo the Hamster · **05-12-2015, 01:09 AM**

Enju looked along the pyre from a fair distance away, believing he did far too little to help those who needed aid.Â He didn't want to be seen near the body, though he recognized Verad as he lit the body ablaze.Â His eyes were filled with anger, though his brow showed the pity he felt for the now fallen man.Â He can't really show how bad he was if he wasn't bad in the first place.Â So here he stayed, along the edge of a line to show respect or spit along his grave.

He thought back to the conversation made between Anstarra and Evangeline.Â The tale of Leofric.Â He's heard of it many times, the sad tale between a knight and a supposed heretic.Â He accepted death when she had died, walking to the horde with nary a shred of arms or armor, letting whatever grisly fate come to him.Â To hear of the Mourner was the dragon this whole time.Â Was the tale true after all?Â His mind raced to many possibilities, the tainted memory burning into his mind as he recalled that terrible battle, thinking he may have been just like Leofric or the Mourner herself if not for his master's aid.Â She helped save him from himself, and that was a debt that will keep for life.

He had a few words muttered, letting the wind catch them.Â But none were for the Hyur or Elezen. Nor was it for the Lalafell or Miqo'te or Roegadyn.Â It was for the heart that now remained seperated, and for the body of the No-Eyed Man.Â He spoke in the traitorous, heathen tongue.Â He knew of the language, but it was something every Dragoon knew, for each one could hear it speak in their mind.

"Rhesh lo van hel.Â Min hil Leofric sai kril.Â Lech orr sel kril.Â Shess ftarh ah kril."

("I pity you, creature of man. Your heart might have been for Leofric's plight, but now it can rest. I hope yours was not of similar plight, but now it may rest with theirs. Please look forward to your eternal sleep.")

« Next Oldest \| Next Newest »
Pages (3): « Previous 1 2 3

Scales in the Sand [Semi-Closed]

RPC has moved! These pages have been kept for historical purposes