Lansquenet
1. A gambling game of chance
2. Archaic spelling of Landsknecht -- German mercenaries
3. The drums carried by the Landsknecht
![[Image: pdsSsjj.png]](http://i.imgur.com/pdsSsjj.png)
(Art by Ansemaru)
It’s a cold day in Limsa Lominsa, a late-autumn rainstorm rolling off the sea and spraying the spires and white stones of the city. The wind howls, the air is laced with salt spray, and nobody seems to mind, because they’re all packed into the floor of a bar on the lower decks, jammed together like sardines in a tin and putting off enough body heat to offset any inclement weather.
The stage in front of them is low and obscured behind a sailcloth curtain painted with simple blue designs. There’s a Roegadyn woman, tall and poised, currently standing in front of it, keeping the crowd engaged with a story of a sea voyage gone hilariously wrong as the minutes count down to the start of the show.
“-and that was when we found out that the order was misread, and the fifty pounds of dodo jerky was nowhere to be found. Because there were fifty live dodos in the hold, you see, and they weren’t exactly happy to be there.â€
Behind the curtain there is precious little division between “backstage†and the stage itself, other than a carefully-positioned wall of wooden backdrop pieces. Behind the wall is a mess of crates and boxes, props and costume pieces strewn about the floor, and in the middle of them all are a small and motley crowd of individuals.
“Hold still, unless you want to fasten the back yourself.â€
A severe-looking Miqo’te glares over her spectacles as she helps a delicate-looking Elezen man into what appears to be an elaborate wedding dress.
“S-sorry, I’ve just got butterflies again. Big crowd tonight.â€
She sighs at him, and one of the other actors comes to comfort him, laying a hand on his shoulder. She’s another Elezen, whose blue complexion seems to pale in comparison to the outrageous blue wig she has on.
“You’ll be alright! You only have to jump off the stage once, and this time, nobody will forget to catch you!â€
The individual shrouded in a bulky winged costume behind the two makes a vague, sheepish gesture, before trying to also put a hand on the Elezen’s shoulder. Said hand being inside one of the costume’s wings makes it a more difficult endeavor than planned, and the Miqo’te fixes them with a withering look, before continuing to lace up the back of the dress.
“Besides, all you have to do is stand up there and play pretend. You all know exactly who’s doing the real work tonight. It’s going to be a big night, with a crowd like this.â€
Through the curtain, they can hear the emcee’s voice ring out above the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen! If I could have your attention, please, the show is about to start!â€
The curtain starts to raise, and the actors scramble to take up their positions in the wings. Behind the woman, a beautifully painted facsimile of a church in the sky is revealed, and both Elezen, dressed as a bride and groom, take the stage. From somewhere unseen, a bard strikes a dramatic chord, and the Roegadyn gestures broadly as she steps aside.
“Our story begins in the far-off land of Sphera, where vicious primals run free, and summoners are the only hope of the people. But for our fair heroine, Luna, that hope is quite distant. Will she escape the clutches of her wicked groom? Will she save the world?â€
She takes a bow, as the actors step forward. “You’d best sit tight, if you wish to find out. This will be one hell of a story.â€
It’s a cold day in Limsa Lominsa, a late-autumn rainstorm rolling off the sea and spraying the spires and white stones of the city. The wind howls, the air is laced with salt spray, and nobody seems to mind, because they’re all packed into the floor of a bar on the lower decks, jammed together like sardines in a tin and putting off enough body heat to offset any inclement weather.
The stage in front of them is low and obscured behind a sailcloth curtain painted with simple blue designs. There’s a Roegadyn woman, tall and poised, currently standing in front of it, keeping the crowd engaged with a story of a sea voyage gone hilariously wrong as the minutes count down to the start of the show.
“-and that was when we found out that the order was misread, and the fifty pounds of dodo jerky was nowhere to be found. Because there were fifty live dodos in the hold, you see, and they weren’t exactly happy to be there.â€
Behind the curtain there is precious little division between “backstage†and the stage itself, other than a carefully-positioned wall of wooden backdrop pieces. Behind the wall is a mess of crates and boxes, props and costume pieces strewn about the floor, and in the middle of them all are a small and motley crowd of individuals.
“Hold still, unless you want to fasten the back yourself.â€
A severe-looking Miqo’te glares over her spectacles as she helps a delicate-looking Elezen man into what appears to be an elaborate wedding dress.
“S-sorry, I’ve just got butterflies again. Big crowd tonight.â€
She sighs at him, and one of the other actors comes to comfort him, laying a hand on his shoulder. She’s another Elezen, whose blue complexion seems to pale in comparison to the outrageous blue wig she has on.
“You’ll be alright! You only have to jump off the stage once, and this time, nobody will forget to catch you!â€
The individual shrouded in a bulky winged costume behind the two makes a vague, sheepish gesture, before trying to also put a hand on the Elezen’s shoulder. Said hand being inside one of the costume’s wings makes it a more difficult endeavor than planned, and the Miqo’te fixes them with a withering look, before continuing to lace up the back of the dress.
“Besides, all you have to do is stand up there and play pretend. You all know exactly who’s doing the real work tonight. It’s going to be a big night, with a crowd like this.â€
Through the curtain, they can hear the emcee’s voice ring out above the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen! If I could have your attention, please, the show is about to start!â€
The curtain starts to raise, and the actors scramble to take up their positions in the wings. Behind the woman, a beautifully painted facsimile of a church in the sky is revealed, and both Elezen, dressed as a bride and groom, take the stage. From somewhere unseen, a bard strikes a dramatic chord, and the Roegadyn gestures broadly as she steps aside.
“Our story begins in the far-off land of Sphera, where vicious primals run free, and summoners are the only hope of the people. But for our fair heroine, Luna, that hope is quite distant. Will she escape the clutches of her wicked groom? Will she save the world?â€
She takes a bow, as the actors step forward. “You’d best sit tight, if you wish to find out. This will be one hell of a story.â€
-------
Blood spills onto the stage.
A Miqo'te woman has fallen to her knees, red welling from the new gash in her chest. Another woman, a tall drink of Elezen, looms over her, sword clutched in hand. Their eyes meet, and even through the dull haze of smoke and alcohol fouling the dive, the audience know they ain't through. They talk. The cat’s pitiful, not for the way she pleads, but for the glimmer in her eye that tells you she’s praying and calculating, working up to hope that she's got a chance out of it. One look at the Elezen, the cold steel of her eyes and the cruel set of her mouth, makes it obvious that not a single of the Twelve has plans for her that don’t involve a hole in the ground and a gig as cheap fertilizer.
The sword goes through the cat’s stomach. The lights dim. The curtains drop. The room’s near silent. It was a good story for a shitty saloon.Â
There’s a small smattering of applause. There’s more laughs and drunken whoops. Miners and the other roughnecks that make up the dive’s clientele aren’t the discerning type – something as clear as the homebrew swill they’re knocking back by the gallon. They want flesh, violence, cheap highs and lows, anything that’ll take their minds off their own miserable little lives; they spend their days scuttling underground, sore and tired, all their work serving to make another rich while they barely scrape by.
The curtain lifts. A Miqo'te lass and Elezen lad are poised on stage. They’re not wearing much besides makeup and smiles. They’re trying for salacious, but there’s nervousness pinching both their faces. Still, they dance, and they’re good, and the crowd is quiet, enjoying themselves. She’s bronze, he’s pale. The contrast catches the eye. The jewels laid across their bare skin catches the low burning lantern light, and gleams as sinfully as they sway.
No one pays any mind the new people hustling through the door, even with one of them dragging their feet and attempting to break free. The few who turn their heads to the scuffle of boot on hardwood floor aren't bothered.
The two on stage finish with a flourish, the knife-eared boy lifting the cat in the air and she twirls down the lanky length of him and ends up clinging to his leg when the lights and curtains drop again.
The burst of applause is riotous. People stomp their feet, whistle, shout encore. They want the glitter back. Mostly they just want to look at the two awhile longer.
The thunder of the crowd is still fading when the curtains part, and a spotlight isolates a chair sitting centerstage. It's the loneliest place in a bar bursting with closehearted men and women. A Roegadyn sits in it, arms like tree trunks bound behind him. His head lolls, dark eyes glazed, one swollen shut with a nasty bruise.  His lips are burst and bleeding. The wind’s fallen out of the audience. The silence is deep, primal. It’s recognition. They know their boss, even bone-deep hurt like he is. A lot of them have thought good and hard about what he’d look like in such a state.
A new man steps up behind their boss. His tail slashes the air. His smile is knife-edged, toothy, and his blazing yellow eyes are cut sharp in amusement. His voice is low and warm when he speaks, but there’s a gravel underneath the smoke, like the man’s got coal buried deep down in his chest. He’s got the barest tang of an accent, something come crawling deep out of the hidden recesses of Gridania. He tangles claws in the Roegadyn’s hair and jerks the man’s head up to look out at the crowd. The Roegadyn's stomach drops out; he knows they're gonna watch him die.
“Final act: New Management.â€
Blood spills onto the stage.
A Miqo'te woman has fallen to her knees, red welling from the new gash in her chest. Another woman, a tall drink of Elezen, looms over her, sword clutched in hand. Their eyes meet, and even through the dull haze of smoke and alcohol fouling the dive, the audience know they ain't through. They talk. The cat’s pitiful, not for the way she pleads, but for the glimmer in her eye that tells you she’s praying and calculating, working up to hope that she's got a chance out of it. One look at the Elezen, the cold steel of her eyes and the cruel set of her mouth, makes it obvious that not a single of the Twelve has plans for her that don’t involve a hole in the ground and a gig as cheap fertilizer.
The sword goes through the cat’s stomach. The lights dim. The curtains drop. The room’s near silent. It was a good story for a shitty saloon.Â
There’s a small smattering of applause. There’s more laughs and drunken whoops. Miners and the other roughnecks that make up the dive’s clientele aren’t the discerning type – something as clear as the homebrew swill they’re knocking back by the gallon. They want flesh, violence, cheap highs and lows, anything that’ll take their minds off their own miserable little lives; they spend their days scuttling underground, sore and tired, all their work serving to make another rich while they barely scrape by.
The curtain lifts. A Miqo'te lass and Elezen lad are poised on stage. They’re not wearing much besides makeup and smiles. They’re trying for salacious, but there’s nervousness pinching both their faces. Still, they dance, and they’re good, and the crowd is quiet, enjoying themselves. She’s bronze, he’s pale. The contrast catches the eye. The jewels laid across their bare skin catches the low burning lantern light, and gleams as sinfully as they sway.
No one pays any mind the new people hustling through the door, even with one of them dragging their feet and attempting to break free. The few who turn their heads to the scuffle of boot on hardwood floor aren't bothered.
The two on stage finish with a flourish, the knife-eared boy lifting the cat in the air and she twirls down the lanky length of him and ends up clinging to his leg when the lights and curtains drop again.
The burst of applause is riotous. People stomp their feet, whistle, shout encore. They want the glitter back. Mostly they just want to look at the two awhile longer.
The thunder of the crowd is still fading when the curtains part, and a spotlight isolates a chair sitting centerstage. It's the loneliest place in a bar bursting with closehearted men and women. A Roegadyn sits in it, arms like tree trunks bound behind him. His head lolls, dark eyes glazed, one swollen shut with a nasty bruise.  His lips are burst and bleeding. The wind’s fallen out of the audience. The silence is deep, primal. It’s recognition. They know their boss, even bone-deep hurt like he is. A lot of them have thought good and hard about what he’d look like in such a state.
A new man steps up behind their boss. His tail slashes the air. His smile is knife-edged, toothy, and his blazing yellow eyes are cut sharp in amusement. His voice is low and warm when he speaks, but there’s a gravel underneath the smoke, like the man’s got coal buried deep down in his chest. He’s got the barest tang of an accent, something come crawling deep out of the hidden recesses of Gridania. He tangles claws in the Roegadyn’s hair and jerks the man’s head up to look out at the crowd. The Roegadyn's stomach drops out; he knows they're gonna watch him die.
“Final act: New Management.â€
Blood spills onto the stage.
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