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Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - Printable Version

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RE: Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - Verad - 02-05-2017

Offices of Pilus Ulf Rem Hartsblood, The Firmitas
 
Sveinn Kir Ironfist of the Special Expeditionary's Cohort's staff of architectus veteranus, Second Maniple, had reached his position through dogged determination rather than exemplary service. An engineer in the days of the old King, he had abstained from participating in the violence between the royalists of old and the Fists of Rhalgr, becoming instead one of the older generation who greeted the Black Wolf's invading legion with open arms instead of closed fists. Anything, Ulf supposed, to end the violence decisively. He had promptly applied for service in the legions and found his skill with Ala Mhigan engineering translated well, but not perfectly, to magitek. He had made no great inventions and received no accolades for exemplary service in the Emperor's name, reaching the rank of veteranus only two years prior after nearly two decades of service.
 
There were hundreds of men like Sveinn in the legions: men who, upon answering the call to serve the Emperor, would never excel to any great degree, nor bring shame upon the legions at large. They were necessary servants; after all, an empire of geniuses and prodigies was an empire of madness, as the existence and failings of the White Raven could easily attest. The adequacy of the average was vital for the machinery of civilization to keep functioning, and Ironfist was such a man.
 
Unfortunately for Sveinn, if the report Ulf had received was correct, even the average were capable of treason. That was certainly Architectus Nan Gravis' position, which he had repeated at length, with great vitriol, and not a little bit of spittle flying about the room. It was rare to find Virgil so furious about anything other than a failing in the Immersabilis or some setback with his project in the deep, but, to Ulf's surprise, the man was as much a patriot as he was an engineer.
 
"You - you utter - you incompetent!" Virgil paced the small room that constituted Ulf's working chambers aboard the Firmitas. Ironfist, for his part, was behaving as if he were in the midst of an inspection by the Emperor himself, with his posture straight as an arrow, his uniform impeccable, and his expression fixed. "You risked your life, you risked the lives of your men, and you risked an entire gunship! The Pilus' orders were clear! Clear! High altitude, observation and surveillance, and stay out of the projected area. What part of that was uncertain to you?! What part was - where is the blasted - " He snatched the parchment containing Ironfist's report. "How did you put it - yes, what part was 'open to interpretation', hmm? Well?!"
 
Ironfist offered no immediate response as Virgil gasped for breath. Ulf, who had remained seated at his desk, elbows resting on its surface and hands folded together, offered a gesture of approval to Ironfist. "You may speak, veteranus. Your superior has asked you a question." Any more of a pause and he feared Virgil would try to strike the man.
 
"Sir." Ironfist offered the faintest nod. "I apologize for causing confusion for the Architectus. His orders were explicitly clear. In aiding the Maelstrom ship, what I interpreted was our larger strategic goal." His tone was clipped, apologetic yet confident, and his expression fixed to a point on the wall behind Ulf's head. He's survived his share of reprimands in his service, thought Ulf. Strange to be chastising a man so many years his senior.
 
"Larger strategic - " Virgil began, but Ulf held up his hand. "A moment please, Architectus. In what way was the matter open to interpretation, veteranus?"
 
"Sir. The vessel was outside the territorial boundaries of Glo - of the protected colony." Ulf stifled a bemused smirk. Many of the soldiers had taken to calling the pirate's colony "Gloam" because of its ever-present overcast weather. He'd have to pass the title along to Slaeglac, who was still struggling to name the place without titling it after himself. "It would not have been subject to an intercept in the affected area by any of our forces."
 
"And I commend your restraint in adhering to those guidelines and not attacking the vessel. Why guide them to shelter?"
 
Ironfist's expression cracked -he frowned, and his brow furrowed, though only for an instant. "Sir, without direct assistance, the vessel would have been caught in the area clearly demarcated by the Architectus as out-of-bounds. That would have - "
 
He hesitated. Don't say it,thought Ulf. Don't say the right thing to the wrong person.
 
"That would have interfered with the operating area and introduced an unknown variable in the Architectus' experiments. We felt it prudent to guide the vessel to avoid that possibility."
 
Virgil’s anger didn’t deflate, exactly, thought it was restrained. He pulled back a fulm from Ironfist, and his breathing slowed to something steadier. Ulf’s own shoulders slumped in the slightest relief. “Having Eorzean vessels in the field of operations was entirely the point, veteranus. Your attention to detail is appreciated but an unwelcome intrusion on these experiments. The Pilus shall see to your punishment, and see to it that his men follow explicit orders.” He shot one glare at Ulf, such that even his third eye seemed to accuse him, before storming out of the room.
 
A five-count passed before Ulf felt comfortable to speak. “You’re certainly losing command of your gunship,” he said. “A moon in punitive chores, and then perhaps you’ll be able to work on maintenance at the launch deck.”
 
“Sir, they would have died out there, all of them. There was nothing right about that storm – aether-readings in the ship were off our meters. If we hadn’t – “
 
“Veteranus, it was an armed vessel of the Eorzean navies, and hostile to our intentions. If you are ever again able to intervene like this, save your conscience for an unarmed trading vessel. As it is you are lucky they didn’t reward your efforts by shooting you down, and doubly so that the Architectus didn’t demand your head.”
 
“Sir – “Ulf tried to silence him with a glare, but Ironfist kept speaking. This was the peril of becoming familiar with the troops, he supposed. They became familiar with you in kind. “Sir, we are defenders of the colony, not an invading force, are we not? If we aggress, we undermine – “
 
Ulf rose from his chair. “I will remind you, veteranus, of our superior’s just-stated need for orders to be followed explicitly, and without such creative interpretation.” He waved his hand. “You are dismissed. I shall speak to your centurion about appropriate punishment.”
 
He could sense a moment before Ironfist turned to leave in which the latter’s face screwed up with . . . something, Ulf couldn’t tell. Outrage? Indignity? Even worse, the burning need, felt at the strangest times by the strangest persons, to tell the truth to someone above them? He couldn’t say. But it nagged at him as the soldier turned to go.

“Wait. A moment more, Veteranus. How many feel as you do?”

RE: Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - LiadansWhisper - 02-10-2017

Deep in the East Shroud, 7 years ago:

Blood on her hands, in her eyes, in her hair...screaming...

It was just another midsummer day, the sun bright and hot. She'd started out before dawn, intent upon visiting all of her usual haunts deep within the woods. There were sure to be mushrooms, herbs and berries for the taking. She'd spent the better part of the morning clambering over roots and wiggling her way through bramble patches and was finally making for home, the sack at her hip full to the bursting with her finds. Her clothing was perhaps a bit worse for wear - stained with mud in some spots, moss in others. Even her waist-length braid of red hair had a twig or three tangled in it - evidence of her adventures in the brambles and trees. She'd just made it past the stream that ran out of the woods towards the fields outside the village walls when she smelled the smoke.

The world washed red and green and brown, the ground itself moving, taking, breaking. But all was quiet in the center. She could see everything, hear everything.

She ran along side the stream, nearly slipping and falling a time or two in her haste to get out from the cover of the forest. All gangly legs and no coordination - her mother promised she'd grow into her body, small though she was. Not yet a woman fully grown, she had time yet. She nearly fell on her face as she pushed her way through the last line of saplings, then stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes widening in horror as she stared in the direction of her village. Not one house...but all of them...roofs ablaze, black smoke filling the air. In the distance, she could hear screaming. People screaming. Women screaming.

Where was her mother? Where was her father? Her sister...

The redhead shrugged off the sack - it would only slow her down - and took off running towards the gate as fast as her legs would carry her. It took her only a few minutes to reach the gates, to see the first bodies. She realized then that the fires were no accident, no disaster. No...they were deliberate. Agnes Tanner lay on her face in a pool of her own blood, the too-still body of her infant daughter still clutched in her arms - little Hilda had only just reached her eighth moon the week before. Agnes had been stabbed through the back, as though she'd tried to flee and not moved fast enough.

Only a few steps away lay Elwyn Milner, his trusty axe resting a few ilms from the tips of his bloodied fingers. Half his head was gone, his brains spattered over his clothing. She began to shake, turning to look towards the houses just inside the low wall - a wall meant to keep wild animals out, not people. Before she could stop herself, she found herself moving, suddenly desperate to know where her family was. She forced herself to keep going, past the bodies of friends and neighbors, determined to make it to her house.

She wanted them to pay. They would pay for everything they had done. They would pay for what she had lost. For what they had taken.

She heard the rough laughter before she saw them, blowing smoke obscuring her vision, making her cough. Soldiers, clearly, but not Wailers. Nor Adders. She'd seen those, from a distance, of course. But she'd seen them. These men were neither. Black and red armor, metal...so much metal. Then she saw why they were laughing - they were toying with someone in front of her house. A woman, shoving her back and forth between them as the woman wept piteously.

She moved towards them as if in a dream, putting one foot before the other, unable to process what she was seeing. Then her mother caught sight of her, and broke away from the soldiers - only briefly. She stood rooted to the ground as her mother ran to her, screaming that she should run. Her mother got only few yalms away from the soldiers before her body suddenly jerked, and she fell to the ground in a heap. A man stood over her mother's body, his sword red with her blood.

"Mama..." The word was a bare whisper out of the redhead's mouth as she stood, her feet seeming rooted to the ground as she stared at the body of her mother. Then, she was screaming, because her mother was dead. Her mother was dead, and she realized that she could see her father's body just outside the burning husk that had once been her home. She shook her head and started to back away - one step, two steps. Then then soldier made a move in her direction, and she darted away, running for her life.

The redhead's knowledge of the small village came in handy as she snaked her way between the burning buildings, the smoke obscuring most of her sight. She could see the gates of the village, and beyond the safety of the woods, when a hand closed around her arm in a painful grip, stopping her in her tracks and knocking her to the ground. She heard an audible popping sound as her shoulder exploded into pain so intense she saw black spots before her eyes. She was screaming inside her head, coughing and struggling as she was dragged to her feet. That's when she heard it.

That they would dare.

It was low and rumbly, distinctly inhuman - the kind of voice you would expect an earth golem, perhaps, to have. If earth golems could speak, anyway.

That they would dare harm one of our chosen.
That they would dare bring fire here.
Burning our land.

The soldier that held so tightly to her arm that she would later find finger-shaped bruises in her pale flesh was yelling into her face, but she couldn't hear him over the voices in her head.

The ground abruptly shook, and the other soldiers with him stopped watching to look around nervously. One took hold of the soldier holding her arm, the action breaking his tirade as the first treant crashed over the wall.

They will pay.

The soldier holding the redhead dropped her arm to run, shoving her towards the treant, likely hoping that it would attack her instead. But the treant veered around her to chase the soldier as the wind picked up and the ground shook once again. She stood in the middle of the street, cradling her arm to her side as a gust of wind began to swirl around her.

I want them to pay.

She wanted it more than she wanted to breathe, more than she wanted to live. In her mind, all she could see was her mother falling to the ground, her father's skull split open, his brains spilled upon the grass. The faces of Agnes and Hilda and Elwyn and Einar and Dalla and so many others passed through her mind's eye. But she could hear them...the voices. The trees, the air, the land, even the water. Their rage filled her, suffused her limbs, bled into her mind. Her loss was their loss, her grief their grief, her need for vengeance their cause. And she gave herself up to them, uncaring of the consequences. She had nothing left to lose.

Let them all burn. Let them suffer, as my kin suffered. They deserve this.

She found herself cocooned in the midst of the chaos. Nothing touched her, save the air that swirled around her almost protectively. She watched as the trees themselves seemed to come to life, roots and brambles emerging from the forest to wrap around the legs of men attempting to flee in terror. They'd heard the stories, but they'd never believed them. Not really believed them, until it was far too late.

She watched men torn limb from limb, blood streaming into the air, and she felt nothing but rage and grief. They were no longer people to her, but monsters...evil monsters who had destroyed her home, taken everything from her. They deserved to die. But then some began to beg and plead for their lives. They were young, around her age, most likely. They wept, and they pleaded, and they died, and something like sanity began to filter back into her mind. She realized she was soaked in blood, the copper taste of it thick in her mouth, the scent of offal emanating from the bodies that surrounded her. One soldier - little more than a child - screamed for his mother before a treant crushed him beneath a rock, and she was suddenly filled with horror.

What was she doing? What were they doing? They were people. They were people.

Oh gods, she didn't want this. She didn't want this much blood on her hands.

Except, she had no idea how to stop what she had started. She begged and pleaded, to no avail. She could feel the power coursing around her, but could not understand how to control it. It was as if that knowledge was just beyond her reach, a memory she couldn't recall. She beat her will against the rage of the spirits and found herself utterly outmatched, at the head of the raging storm but with no ability to direct it.

What have I done?




La Noscea, present day:

Liadan curled her hand around the small shell she'd found on the beach, sitting on a rock just out of reach of the gentle waves. She looked out over the water, her expression pensive as she thought over the last few days. The fear that had suffused her when the Imperial gunship had come to the aid of the Iron Bitch.

They're evil, and yet they are men, and not monsters. And that somehow makes it so much worse.

She looked down at the shell in her palm, running a finger over the ridges that crowned its gentle shape, then looked out over the water again. After a few moments, she tossed the shell out into the water.

A thousand lives saved, would that be enough to tip the scales? For what I did? For what I didn't do?

Show Content


RE: Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - Knight Kat - 02-10-2017

Small island near Vylbrand.

Sand gave off a quiet crunching sound as a boot pressed into it. Several more foot-falls followed as two armored figures paced along the beach of a tiny island near Vylbrand. The beach was relatively deserted with nothing but debris laying on the sand. The ocean waves gently lapped on the shore to their right as a steep mountainside rose to their left – presenting them with a solid wall of rock. Qara Hotgo’s dark blue armor created a dark silhouette under the light of the setting sun while Maric Thornharte’s bright silver armor of the same high-mythrite design still had enough light to gleam.

Not far ahead of the duo were a band of Xaela reluctantly leading them toward a shoddy encampment. Their garb was tattered, and their forms lacked the typical male Xeala musculature. They were malnourished.

The group lead Maric and Qara right up to a Xaela man in chainmail that sat on a rock with a Xaela woman in his lap. For such an affectionate position, the Xaela woman did not look happy. Her head was bowed, and her gaze directed at the sand. However, the man raised his head and smirked at the two guests. His chainmail was better than what the others had, but it too was tattered and rusted.

Maric walked directly to the couple with a smile. His pure, white teeth gleamed as much as his armor. Even his slicked-back blonde hair seemed to glow a bit in the sun. "And you must be the Khan, miss...?" He asked; his question clearly directed at the girl.

The Xaela woman was young. She grew utterly surprised by Maric. Her head was locked in place as she seemed afraid to see the reaction of the man she was sitting on. The "Khan" himself just raised a brow. "What have you rock-heads brought me? A Hyur with bad vision, and a woman in armor? They do not look like captives."

Qara bowed in Othard style. "Qaratai Hotgo. I'm a warrior. This is Maric the Thornharte Horncutter. He just likes girls." She spoke softly.

The “Khan” placed an elbow on his leg, and rested his head on his fist. "I am Ghanar Khan. This is a new tribe of my making. Many of us come from the Haragin. What, Qaratai of the Hotgo and Maric the Thornharte Horncutter, have you come to me about?"

"We would like to negotiate the end of your violent raiding of the countryside, and offer you the alternative of a far more prosperous and more comfortable existence serving at our side as resident vigilantes.” Maric declared.

"The nation of Limsa Lominsa has a better way for those like you. Long ago, the big green ones called Roegadyn lived like us, but now have a way that is better for everyone. I want your tribe to join me. Become privateers, fight worthy enemies and get paid gil, food and anything you can steal from enemies. You will get what you need to make a ship too. A large sea boat. And you get all this for respecting only some laws." Qara clarified – her voice raising so the whole ‘tribe’ could hear.

"Basically, help the locals instead of fighting them, and they'll reward you with loot and more fulfilling enemies to fight. Overall, not a bad deal, wouldn't you agree?" Maric added with a hint of confident sincerity.

Ghanar shook his head. "We follow no laws. Let those who wish to stop us try." He spoke as he pet the girl on his lap. The whole of the Xaela group were watching and listening now.

Maric rolled his head. "And try they will. Lominsa has ships, fleets, and many, many soldiers that she'll send to crush you once she figures out what you're doing..." He lifted his hand to his eyes, and gazed out at the ocean. "That's where they'll set up broadsides...then they'll start raining cannon fire down on you... I think you'd rather not be blown up." He shrugged. "Besides, this is a bit boring, don't you think? Sitting on the beach, picking on farmers? It makes you soft, that's why your guards were subdued so easily.”

“Your tribe follows -your- laws. You follow laws too. You can't sail the sea like Haragin from long ago because you have no ship. You can't attack settlements because the soldiers are too much for your small warband. You can't afford everything you want, and you have nothing to stop the rain from hitting your head. You are stuck with laws of weakness." Qara responded with a hint of sternness in her voice.

Ghanar listened to each of them while being oddly attentive. He lightly pushed the girl off his lap then stood. "I will bring my tribe all that in time. They will get stronger, and we will survive." He looked around to all the others in the camp. "Do not listen to this Hyur and a woman. They were sent to scare us into submission! But we will not submit!" He shouted into the crowd; his once-calm voice now booming.

The Xaela around them started muttering to each other in discussion. Ghanar began to look displeased as his declaration was met with uncertainty. One man stepped out from the crowd. "Why offer us this? What do you get in return?" He asked Maric and Qara.

Qara took a step forward. “I want to lead you. That ship I talked about, I need a crew for it. Xaela who aren’t afraid of the ocean.”

More muttering discussion erupted from the group, but Ghanar paced over to the Xaela who spoke out, and threw a punch into his face that knocked the man into the sand. He growled as he turned to Qara. "We aren't from tribes lead by women. I will not step down as leader. I -can not-. You know this."

"You could just be a leader who has another leader..." Maric offered helpfully; pacing over to the displaced lap girl to give her a reassuring smile. The girl actually cracked a slight smile to Maric despite the fact that she looked like she was trying to stay unnoticed.

Ghanar shook his head. "Go away. I will let you both live. You are no threat to me. They will not be led by a Hyur or a woman." He headed back for his rock, but Qara stepped up further. "I challenge you then. If you think I'm too weak as a woman, prove it."

"About bloody time..." Maric muttered. He then quickly smiled again, and glanced back to the girl. "Your name, Miss?" The girl met his gaze. "Nergui Ejinn." She spoke quietly.

Ghanar picked up his spear then gave it a twirl. "You do this, I kill you. This isn't a game, Hotgo woman." His voice took a grim tone. Qara simply nodded once then turned to pace for a clearing.

Ghanar stood opposite of Qara, and held his spear in one hand. The plundered chainmail was his only real armor, but like any male Xaela, he was an imposing figure. "You've forgotten your homeland, Hotgo. I was a warrior back home." He shifted his stance into battle-ready with spear out, and haft held in both hands.

Qara slid a mythrite zweihander off of the holster on her back. The helmet held under her arm was set and secured on her head before she pulled the visor down over her blue-ringed, red eyes. "I know what you are. I'm sorry, but I have to cut off your hands. It's the only way to make sure you live, but can't be leader."

"You could just cut off one," Maric offered helpfully. "Or a foot..."

Ghanar roared and charged for Qara. Several strides from his starting position, he lunged; throwing his weight into a long thrust, but she angled her body so the spear glanced off her armor. She twirled and chopped in one fluid motion. His spear was severed then she shoulder-bashed into him. He staggered back, but stayed on his feet. With a grunt, he drew an old cutlass from his belt.

Seeing that Qara could actually fight made the group begin cheering. But it was unclear for whom they cheered in the noise of meshing words, and voices all raising at once.

"Good. Good!" Maric clapped his hands. "Use your aggressive feelings girl! Let the hate flow through you!" He chuckled as he placed a reassuring hand on Nergui's shoulder. "She's my prize pupil."

Ghanar and Qara began to furiously trade blows on each other's blades. A slash for her head missed as she ducked, but he followed with a slash downward that sliced against the armor on her arm. Sparks flew as she sent a reprisal slash across his midsection that rang as it slid along rusty chain.

They squared off again then began pacing in a circle. Ghanar suddenly growled. "Enough!" He reached to draw something from his lower back with his free hand. Qara had seen what it was already. She let out an exhale, and focused. Red, scale-pattern aura began to form around her before Ghanar got the weapons aimed aimed - an old one-shot pistol.

He fired. Reddish light flared at she was hit. A loud ring from the impact on her breastplate echoed along the beach. Qara was knocked onto her back.

Maric squinted, but some in the group roared while others gasped. The Hyur called out to Qara; clearly not to concerned. "You have a bad track record with guns, you know." He tssked.

Ghanar gave Maric a perplexed look. "She's dea-" he began to speak, but Qara leaped back up onto her feet by throwing her legs up and forward. One palm opened as she held her hand toward her foe, and a purple hex formed in front of it. "Yes, I know..." She spoke in mild irritation as she fired a trio of aether bolts. Ghanar was struck three times, and staggered enough to drop his empty gun.

Qara swiftly stepped forward and sliced away his hand that held the cutlass. Ghanar yelled and threw a hammer-fist punch down at Qara. Her left arm is brought up in time to brace the blow as she raised her sword under his wrist and sliced in a quick, curt motion. His other hand is removed. He staggered further before falling into a kneel with bloody nubs where his hands used to be pulled in towards his midsection.

Qara turned to the group. "Ghanar Khan is no longer a Khan. He can't be your leader with no hands." She panted to catch her breath. "This power I have is from learning... Learning the ways of people like Maric and others. One thing I will change for you is the rank of Khan. It is gone now. I'm Qaratai, your Captain... If you accept me."

Lost in the heat of the moment, some of the group cheered while others muttered back and forth. They all had a choice to make: fall back on one of their own, or follow this new Xaela who offered them a new life.

Maric stepped over toward Qara. "...I like that last part, about having them learn my ways. Should I consider these Xaela a fresh batch of squires?"

Qara smiled lightly even as she continued to catch her breath. She opened a container on her belt, and painted a blue line under her right eye. "Someone help Ghanar before he bleeds all the way... None of you have to die." She called to the group before looking to Maric. "Maybe... But more like someone to help teach them things about Eorzea."

The Hyur hummed and snatched the paints up off her belt. "I'm proud. I should reward you. Do you have any requests, since I know you don't like back-rubs?”

"Help me keep my promise to them. They are Haragin. They belong on the water. They need armor, weapons, a place to stay and food for now. When the ship is made, they can start earning everything themselves." She responded.

Maric turned the paint container over in his hands, and glanced over to Ghanar. "That man had respect, and promise. He had bad habits, but he genuinely cared about honor and his people. And he was strong too. He could have served brilliantly... Now, he can never be anything. He will live his life remembering this moment with sorrow; realizing that it was here and now that he lost any control of his life, and any hope for his own future... If he chooses to continue living at all..." He paused. "It's a shame that such cruelty is sometimes necessary." He popped open the container, and painted a strip of black under his eye.

Qara frowned and lowered her head. Maric’s tone had not been a scolding one; he merely wanted to teach her about the implications of her actions. Had there been a better way? Did she accomplish the most noble results with her choices? Even after such commitment to her course, she did not know the answers. She responded with silence.

RE: Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - LystAP - 02-21-2017

[A multitude of letters sent out from Ul'dah through a network of couriers and contacts. Eventually, the contents would reach its intended recipient, although it may be possible that some contents could be intercepted/]

To my dear red-shirt man,

I pray this letter will find you, under what circumstances you may find yourself within. I apologize for the means of this letter's delivery, but the lack of your real name made it difficult to be specific.

Rumors are abound in Vylbrand and Thanalan, of rumbles in the east. I recently met the acquaintance of one Edda Eglantine, and we had a wonderful tea party where we exchanged dialogue.

We discussed the ceruleum issue, and she contends that her family is innocent of any wrongful involvement and that given the volume of shipping her family is involved in, a single ship in Limsa is hardly of evidence for involvement by her family regarding an alleged ceruleum field. With what information I had, I found no reason to press the charge. She was very interested in the documents you left me. I found no reason to deny her a copy of such documents, given the vagueness of the evidence presented. She and I departed as friends, and I hope to continue correspondence with her in the future.

As formal reconciliation in regards to a personal wrong, I recently boarded and went to sea on  the Maelstrom’s ironclad, the “Iron Bitch,” captained by one Anstarra Silverain. Over the course of the journey, we encountered an unnatural storm.

[A map detailing a patrol route approximately south of the major island of three in the Rothlytht Sound. A circle and writing highlight points of interest, including the point of contact with the beast men and the island that the Iron Bitch took refuge.]

Within the storm, the Iron Bitch engaged a swarm of Sahagin-like beast men, of which we subdued a few and returned their corpses to Limsa for autopsy.

[A relatively well-drawn sketch of a rather ugly-looking beastman is included with the letter.]

On that ship, I was accompanied by Captain Silverain and her crew. There were also two other individuals present, a Jana Ridah, a conjurer by the name of Liadan. Liadan sensed that a mechanical device was behind the storm and the strange creatures that emerged from the depths, while engaging in her conjury magicks. It mayhap be possible that an Allagan device is behind the storm, alongside the sahagin creatures, which may be chimera. While I jested at the beginning, after hearing Miss Liadan’s statement, and upon a cursory examination of the beast men, I mayhap be closer to the truth than I had presumed.

Of note, we encountered a Garlean gunship from a ‘Gloam’ defense cohort. It assisted the Iron Bitch in escaping the storm. The legionaries were apparently well-aware that the Iron Bitch was a Maelstrom vessel and I surmise that they assisted out of mayhap honest concern for fellow sailors, after briefly conversing with their crew. They do not appear to have been awares of the nature of the storm, nor the ‘chimerical’ beast men involved. I am unawares of a Garlean outpost in the area, although I cannot say given my limited knowledge of the range of their magitek devices.

I hope this letter find you well, and that we may meet again in the future, I will be aways from this storm for awhile, as a means of self-reflection. Pray again, take care.

May the Traders grant you fortune,

Hihisa Hisa

RE: Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - LystAP - 02-22-2017

 [A well-written document, among a few maps and drawings, expertly stuffed in a discrete envelope. It appears the author (or a servant) is an professional at compressing space (and/or cheated with magic). There's also a faint smell of cake.]

To my dear friend, Edda Eglantine

I pray this letter finds you well, Edda. I have recently returned from a journey onboard a Maelstrom ship, where I encountered a series of unexpected occurrences.

The ship was named the “Iron Bitch”, a notable representation of Limsan vulgarities. The ship is captained by a member of the Foreign Levy, a Captain Anstarra Silverain. I was also accompanied by ‘adventurers,’ a Miss Jana Ridah and a Miss Liadan.

As a gesture of reconciliation for a recent wrong in Vylbrand, I was volunteered by the EATC board to serve onboard a Maelstrom vessel for a moon. We began our journey along one of the 9th Fleet’s typical patrol routes, sailing approximately south of the Rothlyht Sound. It was a routine patrol, one that both my father and the Limsan authorities agreed that my presence would cause minimum harm. 

However, once we passed by south of one of the major islands in the Sound, events turned unexpected. It was at that time a unnatural storm appeared; a Garlean gunship also choose the opportune to reveal itself at that time. Surprisingly, the gunship choose to assist our vessel that was caught in the storm. 

It was the Twelve’s favor that our ship was one of the few ironclad vessels with a magitek engine, and that we had sufficient supplies of ceruleum to run the engine, despite the recent shortage. We followed the Garlean airship towards shelter at a nearby island. However, we were engaged midway by unknown beast men, whom appear somewhat associated with the storm.

[A map detailing a patrol route approximately south of the major island of three in the Rothlytht Sound. A circle and writing highlight points of interest, including the point of contact with the beast men and the island that the Iron Bitch took refuge.]

Pray note that I called the storm unnatural. Miss Liadan, a conjurer from Gridania, at first attempted to avert the storm through her magicks. However, she apparently encountered interference in her spell, thus, attempted to use her magicks to determine the cause of the storm. As the storm hit the ship, we were assaulted by the beast men, whom dragged a few of the poor crew under the waves.

Our crew engaged the beastmen and succeeded in driving them back, although a few of us were thrown overboard and had to be rescued. We managed to subdued a few of the strange beast men, and returned their corpses to Limsa for autopsy. I assisted in the preservation of the corpses, per my training at the Ossuary (a disagreeable skill for some, but one that is honored by the Traders.) 

[A relatively well-drawn sketch of a rather ugly-looking beastman is included with the letter. Highlighted with ink is the beast man’s weird looking head, distinct from that of a Sahagin.] 

After gathering a significant amount of aether, Miss Liadan succeeded in calming the storm. In the process of finishing her ritual, Liadan sensed that someone, mayhap  something mechanical was behind the storm and the strange creatures that emerged from the depths. While it was a jested at the source being an Allagan device; after listening to Miss Liadan’s explanation, it mayhap be entirely possible that a relic of Allag was behind the storm, alongside the sahagin creatures, explained as be chimera.

In regards to the Garlean gunship, apparently it belonged to a ‘Gloam’ defense cohort. I do not know where this Gloam is, but given the size of the gunship; I daresay it is in close proximity to the area, less they have a larger airship nearby as a fueling station.  I am unawares of a Garlean outpost in the area, although I cannot say given my limited knowledge of their magitek devices. 

It assisted the Iron Bitch in escaping the storm. The legionaries within the gunship were apparently well-aware that the Iron Bitch was a Maelstrom vessel. After briefly conversing with their crew, the young man whom spoke to us was very cordial, despite the political relationship of our nations. They do not appear to have been awares of the nature of the storm, nor the ‘chimerical’ beast men involved.

I pray once more that this letter finds you well, my friend Edda. I will be aways from this business, do be careful if you choose to intercede in this mess. 

I sense ominous events in the future, as Miss Liadan and the others also brought up the possibility of primal involvement. 

May the Traders grant you eternal prosperity, Edda.

Sincerely,
Hihisa Hisa

RE: Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - S'imba - 02-27-2017

S’imba stood in Vesper bay watching the last of the massively large shipment of aether crystals being loaded onto the ship. Easily big enough to garner the notice of special groups who watch for movements of such large shipments of items that beastmen tend to gather and horde. A Lalafell walked up to S’imba to ask a few more questions about the nature of the destination of the shipment. “The island of gloam is the destination but miss Delphim asked that they be deposited on a nearby island since her crew is the only ones that can make it through the unusual storms that are found in the area.” S’imba replied to the man’s questions about where the crystals were going. “Drop them off on the island specified and leave, she said she would rather not waste time being bothered by people who might ask questions.” He said to the Lalafell giving a small smirk. “She wanted to teach a desperate man by the man of Slaeglac the ability to fend off a Garlean threat as well as let the alliance just let them be.” S’imba reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a few more documents to hand off to the man. “I don’t actually know what she wanted them for, but based on what I know of her, she doesn’t tend to make mistakes in anything she does so I can guarantee these requests are accurate.” He said nodding his head to the Lalafell who then ran off to finish the loading. S’imba stared out to the ocean coldly. The saltiness he felt for the humiliation he felt for making a mistake anyone could easily make and acting so self-righteous only to be more than willing to sell them out to the Garleans unless they intentionally weakened the alliance to help some people who didn’t want to be free of Limsa. True he had no desire to see the people on that island killed whatever she was thinking to protect them was definitely not a good way to do it. As Zanzan put it there was a new moon over a castrum that Eorzea had to deal with. The last thing that was needed was yet another weak point that the Garleans could easily break through. With any luck this would create enough of a scare to make the pressure on Slaeglac to evacuate the island and return to the alliance. While S’imba himself held no love for the grand companies he still felt they were necessary for the protection of Eorzea. Everyone said Slaeglac refused to see reason, he needed to have no other options left. There were innocents on that island, the Maelstom was preparing a strike force to kill everyone on those islands, the islanders refused to leave, they had supposedly been working with an army of garlean defectors with an experimental whaleship. No matter the situation there was very little chance of stopping the strike force. The fact that he could get back at Leanne was definitely a major perk of this decision it was still his best plan to actually convince the people to flee to actual safety and avoid needless bloodshed. As he watched the crystals finally loaded and the ship depart he gave a smirk. “I might be going to one of the hells for this.”

RE: Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - PhantasticPanda - 02-28-2017

((A bit time-displaced. A follow-up post http://ffxiv-roleplayers.com/showthread.php?tid=17399&pid=282443#pid282443 Much thanks to Kiht/Qara for editting the RP!))

Dry docks in Southern La Noscea, early morning.

Zanzan Yanzan was leaning with his back against the stone wall of a drydock building; waiting patiently for the arrival of a certain group.

Many ticks after the meeting time, Qara Hotgo approached with the group of Xaela in tow. Most of them wore tribal rags that were were dirty, weathered and torn.

The Lalafell peered towards the group as they made their approach. "Ah! You've all made it! I worried if it would have taken longer. Uncle can be quite... Impatient, as you would know, Qara." He then regarded the rest of the group, offering a broad smile. "Greetings to you all! I am Zanzan Yanzan! Surely Qara has spoken about me, yes?"

Qara smiled. However, most of the rest looked at him with their faces resting in neutral scowls. Only the girl beside Qara responded. "Yes, she says you be second in command."

"I told them a little about you, yes." Qara answered.

"Oh... Ah... Just a little?" He sounded mildly disappointed, pouting for just a brief moment before smiling again. "Right then! This appears quite the friendly group!" He said, despite all the scowls. "Mayhaps... We shall start with some names?" He peered to each one with anticipation.

Qara turned to the group. The one beside Qara bowed. "Nergui Ejinn." The others just stood there. "Tell him your names!" Qara shouted abruptly then turned back to Zanzan with a smile. Some grumbled their names, a few stepped up and clearly stated theirs. One noteworthy male who had a different kind of horn on each side of his head smiled and spoke. "Möngö Haragin."

Zanzan ducked momentarily at the sudden shouting, then cleared his throat as the others grumbled out their names. "Right then! Nergui, Mongo, and.. the rest! A pleasure to meet you all! Now, let us meet the man who will be aiding in the ship's construction!"

As they made their way up to the building docks, they found two Lalafell men standing, glancing over a rough blueprint. The area was already busy with activity, as dockworkers moved and readied the construction materials. Zanzan began to pace over towards the two, calling out, "Uncle! My apologies! We're---". He was quickly cut off as Bobobo spun right around to face the group. "Late ye are! What did I tell yah!? I ain't got all sun and moons for yer lazy arse!"

Qara Hotgo stepped up, and cleared her throat as she smiled at Bobobo. She made an Othard-style bow. "Not his fault. Is mine. I had to get the crew ready. Keeping watch on time is a new thing for Xaela. In Othard, we only had the sun and moon."

Bobobo regarded Qara then smirked widely before letting out a hearty laugh. "I just like ta give me nephew shite, is all. Now... This is yer crew? Ta be honest... Ye all looked like ye just washed up ashore."

She blinked. ".......They did. No ship means we have to swim a lot." She spoke in a tone that made it hard to tell if she was jesting. "Both them and me need a lot more things and work to be ready."

Bobobo nodded firmly, "Well then! Yer all be workin' with me and Salba Valba." He paced back to the other Lalafell before giving him a hard pat on the back. Salba peered around for a moment, his attention finally averted from the rough blueprints. He wore more formal clothing, and donned glasses that featured different lenses of magnifications that made his eyes appear comically much larger than they actually were. "Ow..." Salba simply stated.

Salba then studied the group with discerning eyes. "Pray tell me you all know how to build a ship."

Qara glanced back to the group. “Bow.” She commanded, and Nergui repeated the word in Xaela, and the group bowed. Mongo stepped forth. “I and some others know how to build boats…” He pointed to one of the dry-docked ships. “But those? Only in legend did the Haragin build those. We can listen and learn. We can carve and shape the wood without mistake, but to build a ship… That is new to us.”

Salba studied them for a moment longer, tilting his head left and right then grunts. "That'll do I suppose. We're going to be building a Catamaran. A large one at that. If you think those ships are legend, you'll be seeing a true one in the making." He nods. "I expect you to pay attention to every single detail of construction out there. I've a record to hold, and this ship will not fail, got it?"

Most of the Xaela seemed unmoving aside from glances they casted at each other. One muttered “what is a cataman?”. “A cat man? That’s not a boat…” Another answered. Qara cleared her throat. “Two large boats stuck together to make a ship. Listen to him! Maybe you don’t know him, or care about his record. I know you all might not know what to think about Lalafell… But this ship is going to be your life. All most of you can give is hands, and in trade, they make you a ship. Respect them, and together you can make the Haragin legend real.”

Salba watched Qara with a stoic expression. He then looked to Bobobo, nodding with a grunt. "Work will begin soon once the details have been ironed out." He called out before resuming his work on the blueprints.

Bobobo looked up at the Haragin. "Listen 'ere. This is me nephew. He's good at sailin' but I ain't really sure if ye lot are! You can speak about legends and stories like me nephew, but I'll hafta see yer sailin' with me own eyes. So! I've gathered some folk ta be crewin' with all of ye. True sailors! Oi! Get over 'ere!"
A group of several Lalafells by the far wall behind the tribe pushed themselves up and off the ground as they began to approach. Contrastingly to the Haragin, they wore well-fitted clothing for seafaring travel. Some even carried axes on their shoulders.

Muttering broke out between the group of Xaela. “How do these tiny people sail anything?” One asked. Qara turned to the group. “Who asked that?” The group paused and looked at her. “Back home I rode a horse better than any man because I was less heavy. To guide horses is not about weight or strength.” She paused. “But if you still do not believe, wait and see.”

"I like her." A voice escaped from the Lalafellan crew. The source paced out to reveal an older Lalafell, with the only indication of his age being his mustache, and some greys in his hair. "I'm gonna assume you’re going to be the Captain of this new ship, aren't yah?"

Qara turned to him and nodded. "Qaratai Hotgo. Captain Qara or Captain Hotgo will work." She paused as she surveyed the Lalafell; she was going to be their Captain too... "The Haragin are new here, but they chose me to be Captain. Zanzan will be Quartermaster. You didn't chose us yet, but if you do, this ship will be yours as much as it will be the Haragin's."

The Lalafell offered a smile then nodded. "From Captain to Captain." He gave a sailor's salute. "Well, I ain't a Captain any longer. I thought I can retire and put the sea behind me, but it is where I was born, and where I will choose to die. And hopefully not too soon, hah!" He nodded again. "Afede Jafede. You have our services for the time being... The next few moons will decide if we stay, or we leave. Don't disappoint, -Captain-." He said more so in a sincere way.

Qara bowed her head for a moment. "The next moons will decide a lot. You will be part our mission to save people, stop a war and maybe be part of a story people will tell their children and great children."

"Hah, sounds more exciting than casting lines and and smelling like fish all my years before. But be it pirates, sagahin, and storms, my people have crossed seas many times over. We'll see if those scaled cloud-breathers over there still think they're better than us." Many of the Lalafells began to grunt 'threateningly' towards the Haragin.

Mongo just smirked and rolled his eyes as Nergui took a posture which portrayed her discomfort. The others, however, were not so dismissive. “Is cloud-breather insult?” One muttered. “Are the ground-fruit trying to start a fight? I can’t tell.” Another spoke. “They will be hard not to trip over during battle.”

"Ground-fruit!? Hah, that's a new one!" One Lalafell spoke up. "Oi, why not let us use those horns to hang our coats while we do all the hard work!" Another one called out. The group began to pace up to the tribe, though Afede simply stayed where he was at.

"Mayhaps it is time to give your first order, Captain." Zanzan loud whispered to Qara.

Qara leaned over to Zanzan. "Okay, Quartermaster, what order is that? Time to do your job too. Back home I would make them wrestle, but they won't work so well after that... Hurt legs and bruised heads are bad for building things."

"If they are so keen on proving themselves, mayhaps a round of free drinks to those who can transport the most lumber and sails for the ship. I am sure Salba and Uncle Bobobo would think better for quickening the work outside of building."

She nodded then stepped up to the squabbling crew. “You want to fight? Maybe that will prove some things, but you are all just refugees and ex-sailors until this ship is made, yes?!” She spoke loudly and clearly. “Prove yourself making this ship. The ones who can get the most wood and sails to where Bobobo needs them gets free drinks. Waste your time fighting if you want, but the ones who start working now get a head-start… The rest of you get sore muscles. Choose now. No more arguing.”

Bobobo regarded the crew then pointed towards the west. "We still got lumber and metal tat needs carryin' over 'ere. Ta faster ye get them, the faster we can start workin' on this ship!"

The Lalafell crew suddenly began to move towards the area directed at them, their sensitive hearing catching Bobobo's command from afar.

The Haragin mutter between each other. In their poverty-stricken time in Eorzea, they had found the value in spirits and ales. Most of them quickly moved to follow.

Bobobo closed in and swung a firm smack against Zanzan's back. "Oi, ye gonna stand around and pretend ye don't exist? Get ta helpin' too." Zanzan let out a deep sigh then regarded Qara and Nergui, "If you need any assistance... Do ask."

Bobobo called out, "And stop yer flirtin'!"

Qara smiled at Zanzan. "We will ask if we need help." She spoke at casual volume then lowered her voice to a whisper. "Or to save you." She snickered.

Zanzan huffed then deflated quickly at that truth. "Pray, do so...."

RE: Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - Melkire - 02-28-2017

Somewhere on the Deep, within the confines of the gun decks of the Revenge, Osric Melkire sighed as he laid in his hammock and perused a small slip of parchment.

Yayabuko Rorobuko

KNOWN RELATIVES CURRENTLY SERVING THE MAELSTROM
Yayabuki Rorobuki
Yayatomo Sasatomo
Tarubuko Garubuko

Mealvaan’s Gate & Arcanists’ Guild membership lists forthcoming.

He scowled, tucked the parchment away, and rolled over to fetch Hihisa’s letter. He owed the woman a response, after all.



Elsewhere, far off in the distant Goblet, Pierre Glaisyer slipped into a rather spacious apartment chamber and shut the door behind him in complete and utter silence, so stupefied was he by the sight that awaited him. Papers. Papers everywhere, from being pinned up on the walls to strewn about the floors to littering every visible worksurface. Strings, too. Many strings, leading from one piece of paper to another, in various shades of red and black and blue. The sight of it all was… surreal, to be sure, considering whose apartment this was.

“Pierre! I have it!”

A bellyful of laughter greeted the Elezen as he rounded the corner of one of the partitions within to find Tengri Geneq waiting for him. His captain was hunched over a desk, furiously writing out what looked to be a short and punctuated letter. As he watched with one eyebrow raised high, the Xaelic man rolled up the letter, tied it with a piece of string, and turned offer the scroll of parchment to Pierre himself.

“Deliver this to Summerfield posthaste.”

“She’s on a catamaran,” objected the former Ishgardian as he took the letter. “At sea. Ortolf is with her, as you well know. We only just finished trading shifts--"

“You speak as if mere oceans pose great difficulty. You are a Crow, are you not?”

The demon -- for that’s what they all looked like, to Pierre, each and everyone of them, surely demonic to resemble dragons so -- the demon leaned in close and spread his hands, fingers splayed, as if performing a magic trick.

“Fly.”

RE: Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - Verad - 03-02-2017

Offices of Pilus Ulf Rem Hartsblood, The Firmitas, Sea of Jade

“Retreat.” To the Architectus’ ears, Ulf didn’t seem to be fully aware of what he was saying, repeating Virgil’s own statements as if to try out the sound of them, as if the term was new and unfamiliar.

Of course, this was false. The Pilus had been chosen because he understood the value of a judicious retreat, and because the Special Expeditionary Cohort was a delicate project. The standard Garlean doctrine of dominating the landscape and refusing to step back in the form of static defenses like the castri would not work for radically experimental weaponry like the Firmitas and Immersabilis. They had to be willing to assess the situation and fall back as circumstances demanded. And right now, the circumstances didn’t just demand, but hammered on the door, stood outside in protest, and stalked the pair of them to their quarters to leave threatening notes at their doors. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

The Pilus was just such a man. Under his command, several fighting withdrawals that would otherwise have been routs turned into the preludes for successful counterattacks. He was brave, and attacked where it was necessary, but did not waste men needlessly. Surely, Virgil thought, the Pilus was not showing an idiot’s bravery in his confusion.

Perhaps it was the funeral. His last security check on the Eorzean traitors had seen him returning home bearing the body of Upper Citizen Thunderfell and several small injuries of his own. He had foregone treatment in lieu of ordering an immediate burial at sea, with honors befitting a member of the Citizenry. He had not been quite the same the rest of the day. If the Architectus had to think of a similar circumstance, it would be when his first submersible prototype had not withstood pressure, caving in on itself and crushing its pilot. Such a waste of a vessel! Until he’d discovered the error in his calculations, he had been just like Ulf - clearly troubled, but putting up a professional face for the sake of the Empire. A proper response.

This line of thinking made Virgil kinder than would ordinarily be the case. “Yes,” he said, repeating himself. “A retreat. Orders from the Viceroy. The buildup at the Wall is too great a risk, and the island will make an excellent point to project force and restrict the movements of Eorzean naval assets.” That was what the communique had said, anyway.

“I see.” It wasn’t quite dark in the room, which Ulf had chosen to keep in poor lighting, only the dim glow of his table-lights illuminating him. Nor was it quite silent, the hum of the engines which kept the Firmitas afloat proving a constant, droning noise. In better circumstances, Virgil could ignore the noise, but now it seemed to stretch the silence between Ulf’s words from a long one to a vacuum without end. “And the islanders?”

“Annexed, most likely, by the fleet arriving in force. Thanks to Thunderfell’s actions - Emperor guide her soul - they have all the infrastructure in place for a basic castrum, do they not?” Shelter, farms, industrial equipment. All designed to Garlean tastes, likely with only a few flourishes of the pirates’ own style to be removed. So Ulf’s reports had said to date. “They’ll make an excellent labor force, as well. Non-citizens, of course, but the Viceroy has been more than complimentary of their assistance.”

The Pilus shifted his weight in his seat. He had not quite been looking at Virgil - not that the Architectus could tell in the dark, not completely - as if his eyes were somewhere as far off as his voice, his mind remaining only to check in with them on the events in the room. “They will likely resist.”

Here, his voice helped him. It didn’t imply objection on those grounds. A mere statement of fact. Virgil could handle facts, if not insubordination. “Trivial,” he said, loftily. “Half a squadron of scattered pirate ships? Hardly a challenge. And your notes on the defenses are thorough correct?” Virgil lowered his head, regarding Pilus with his third eye. “Correct?”

“...Correct.” Virgil relaxed.

“Good. You’ve done very well for yourself, Pilus Hartsblood. We both have. The submersible is a proven tool for weakening Eorzean coastal defenses, and the Academy was always keen on the Firmitas. It will see deployment in an offensive role in the moons to come, I can assure you of that. Accolades and commendations for us both. And for Thunderfell,” he added, after the silence threatened to stretch again. “Falling in service to the Emperor is a rare gift for the Citizenry, you know. Especially at the hands of barbarians like that.”

“Yes. I know.”

Virgil leaned back in his seat, frowning. Perhaps the damage to Ulf had been worse than he’d thought. He had seemed well enough after the funeral, if muted, conferring with his officer corps below decks. He made a note to recommend the Pilus be watched upon their return to home waters, lest this was the beginning of grief turning into madness. Nothing that should have been cheering the Pilus was even rousing a smile, and he liked to think he knew the man well enough by now to know what would cause that, and that was hearing Yga would succeed.

He abandoned his mental calculations, deciding that he had at least made the effort, and that was all any man could do in the Emperor’s service to care for his fellow soldier. As long as the Firmitas didn’t sink on the way home due to its commander’s negligence, all was well. He would not risk the Immersabilis while it remained docked that way. “Mm. Good. Well, then,” he began, rising from his seat and turning to the door. “Recall the gunships on observation. We will sail by nightfall.”

“No.”

Ignore it, thought Virgil, his hand near the door’s access panel. Ignore it. It was the petulant remark of a man stricken with grief. There was every reason to believe that it meant nothing, and that the Firmitas would be away from this Glim or whatever and back to true civilization in good time. Ignore it. Ignore it. It doesn’t matter.

“Excuse me?” He glanced over his shoulder, eyebrows raised, daring the Pilus to speak again. Daring him to say anything other than “Yes, Architectus.”

“No.” In the dark, Ulf sat upright in his chair, his hands below the desk. “The Firmitas will stay, and it will assist in the island’s defense. Please return to your quarters, Architectus.”

Even in dim lighting, the crimson in Virgil’s face was impossible to miss. Nevertheless, he tried restraint. “Pilus Hartsblood, while I understand the desire to show the power of this vessel, the reinforcing fleet surely has it well in hand. The islanders will fall, and - “

The droning hum exploded. Well, it seemed to. A short, sharp k-krack of a noise and a flash of light from beneath Hartsblood’s desk. Something in the air vents? Maintenance ought to check on that. The lighting he couldn’t explain, but -

The pain caught up to Virgil’s mind before he could take full sensory stock and convince himself that, truly, he hadn’t just been shot in the leg from the other side of the desk. A veteran of battles conducted at the academy and not on the field, he took it as well as could be expected - collapsing on the floor in a keening wail and clutching the injured foreleg in the vain hope of keeping too much blood from escaping.

“Architectus, for your own safety, you will be confined to quarters.” Ulf rose, discarding his magitek bagnakh, a faint wisp of smoke trailing from its barrel and seeming all the brighter in his office. “My centurions will see to your comfort momentarily - this moment excepted,” he added, before pressing his hand to his ear. “As we planned,” he said. “Please confine any dissenters to quarters under guard. We will exchange them as prisoners at a later date.”

There was more, Virgil was sure. The pilus - no, the traitor, he amended, wondered why he amended anything, then remembered to amend that this didn’t matter he was dying - would place his boot on his chest and torture him. Get everything he knew. He would stand as firm as he could. He had failed utterly in detecting this rank betrayal, but he would die honoring the secrets of the Emperor.

But Ulf did not rise, and he did not place his boot on Virgil’s chest. He returned to his seat, and folded his hands together. “Now, Architectus,” he said, in the same far-off voice. “Tell me everything you can about Dagon. What it is. How it operates. Where to find it. And how to use it. Tell me all of this - “

“To hell with you, Hartsblood, to hell with you and every man on your - “

“Or I will load the Immersabilis with ceruleum and scuttle it,” finished Ulf.

It was a very fast interrogation.

RE: Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - LiadansWhisper - 03-02-2017

"What we fear doing most is usually what we most need to do."
-- Tim Ferriss

Aboard the Stormbreaker - en route to the Island called Gloam
Day 3

Liadan woke from a troubled sleep, glancing around her quarters, bleary-eyed. She sighed as she scooted into a sitting position, rubbing her temples with her fingers. The nightmares - likely a product of her worries - hadn't ceased since they'd set out. She couldn't help but wonder if she wasn't leading everyone on board to a certain death, for while she could probably contend with the artificial storm - especially given the addition of Arcanists who might assist her - the whale ship was something entirely beyond her ken.

She scrubbed her eyes with one hand, looking over towards the tiny port window spilling sunlight into the small room that served as her quarters board the Stormbreaker, needing to the the light of a new day. As she did so, her eyes happened upon a scroll that she didn't recognize. The fact that it was attached by a string to Heart's Grace only made it stand out more. After a moment's hesitation, she slid out of the tiny bunk she'd spent the night in, padding across the floor in bare feet.

Liadan hesitated briefly before detaching the scroll from the Padjali staff. She turned it over in her hands for a few moments, but finally broke the seal unrolled it. Silently, she scanned the words written upon the parchment.

She blinked a few times, then a blinding smile broke out over her face as she shouted, "By the Twelve, THANK YOU, TENGRI!"

Then she bolted for the door in her nightgown, entirely forgetting to dress for the day in her haste. She near-tore the ship apart hunting for the Lalafell, skidding to a stop in front of him, arms akimbo, her face alight with hope as she clutched the scroll in one hand, shaking it to emphasize her words.

"Zanzan, we don't need safe passage to Gloam! We have the means to tear the monster apart ourselves!"

Show Content


RE: Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - Verad - 03-12-2017

Preparations

(Any appropriate gearing-for-battle music is fine here, but to keep it in-setting I prefer For The Sky.)

The Firmitas

The ship was humming with activity, though this was an understatement amid the drone of gunship engines as engineers fuelled and refueled, checked, and rechecked, armed and re-armed. Movement on-board the ship-carrier's flight deck happened in a highly-efficient chaos; the Special Expeditionary Cohort had trained and re-trained for exactly this moment, and all performed their roles in the way a mummer on the first night of a performance, fueled by a restless energy and anxiety, a knowledge that this all had to go right, that first impressions counted, and there would be no second chances. 

Pilus (No; he supposed commander was more appropriate at this point or simply Ulf) Hartsblood strode amid the bustle with a centurion on either side, not so much a serene point of calm in the chaos as a catalyst, spurring the soldiers nearby into movements even-more efficiently hurried than had been the case at but a word from him. "Make sure those markers are visible on the wings. I want no accidental fire from the Eorzean anti-air," to one crew. "Refit that one for bombardment, reassign it to the second squadron," to another. The centurions dutifully recorded his statements for those not in earshot, to make a better record of what went right - or how it all turned into an utter disaster. Either was possible, thought Ulf.

At one crew, he paused, glancing at the centurions with nod. They stepped back for him to speak, and that took a moment in coming to pass, letting the engineer crouched on the ground in front of him finish adjusting a panel on the side of his charge's hull. "Veteranus Ironfist."

Sveinn was too old and too long in the service to jump and be startled at the sudden address - Garlean commanders enjoyed their dramatic entrances, or if not enjoyed, performed them as if they were accustomed to the role. The engineer rose to his feet and, despite being half-stained in grease, offered a sharp salute. "Pilus." Ulf was glad he had chosen to wear his helmet today. It hid the wince.

"Put down the wrench and clean yourself. I have orders here for your reassignment." One of the centurio stepped forward and offered a parchment. "You will be piloting one of the assault craft for this operation."

Ironfist's brow furrowed. He had served his punishment at the Pilus' behest dutifully and without complaint, but had made no requests to pilot again in either man's recollection. "Sir?"

"I believe I was clear, veteranus. See yourself to the First Assault within the bell. They'll have your orders."

"Yes sir, only it's been some time since I've piloted an assault craft, and a boarding action - "

"I said nothing about a boarding action." Again, Ulf was glad of his helmet. It hid the smile. "You are damned and determined to keep the people safe. This shall be your chance."

The Lucky Lord

"Sorry, Slae," said Hannah, her voice only a little raspy. She hadn't taken a fatal hit in the exchange, but if a shot puts enough shards of wood in a woman Half-Gil's age, even a woman in her shape, it's bound to have an effect. "Think I'll be sitting this one out."

Slaeglac, seated in the one chair in her quarters that could be found among all the trinkets and charms Hannah left scattered around the room, offered only a nod. "No shame in that, miss. You've more'n done your part." Indeed she had, he mused, letting his hand drift to the sahagin-tooth necklace at his chest. 

Yesterday, The Lord had set off on its scouting mission early in the morning, and limped into Gloam's harbor well after the twelfth evening bell, sporting an injured crew, torn sails, a damaged hull, and a bleeding Captain Half-Gil, grinning broad and bright enough that her gold teeth glittered in the dark. The ship had come upon a Garlean cruiser in the afternoon and given battle. It had been a rough exchange from the look of things, but the Lord had gotten the best of the fight, and one Garlean vessel was even now making itself comfortable on the seabed of the Sound, settling in for a long and fruitful career as a sunken hulk.

Sinking part of the reprisal force was more than enough of a feather in Half-Gil's cap, but she also seemed to have come back with intelligence, a picture of the incoming forces. Cruisers as screeners suggested some larger vessels, and Hannah, a veteran of raids in Garlean waters, supposed they were bringing a pair of their "big guns," heavy vessels with long-range ordnance. It was like the Garleans to seek to bomb from afar, after all.

Hearing that, Slaeglac had laughed fit to burst. Fog had settled in on the Sound yesterday and seemed to have no intention of leaving. Their ability to sight would be limited to their own cruisers, and their ability would be limited. The circumstances were perfect for the Immersabilis to do its work. Slaeglac had yet to see the whale-ship in action; seeing it in action against Garlean vessels was, he was sure, going to be the high point of his day.

"Well you rest, Hannah," he said, patting her on the shoulder that didn't have a bandage, closest to him where she rest in her bed. "Keep the Lord in the harbor. She'll float, yeah?"

"Aye, she will." She pushed herself into a sitting position with some effort and a sharp grunt. "Captain - "

"That's fine. Get those sails repaired and keep yer ship's boats ready in case we need to move out those what are still on shore in a hurry. You leave it to us, and - "

"Captain, why'd y'want to hang?" The question took Slaeglac by surprise, but it looked as if Hannah had been chewing on it for a while. Her jaw was set and her stare unblinking, and her usual brassy cheer, present even in injury, was long gone. "Y'can't quit on people like that. It's givin' up th'game 'fore you've laid down yer hand."

He ruminated, dragging his hand across his chin and the scars thereupon. In the circumstances, it deserved an answer. "No makin' yerself a legend, a'right? You've done enough of that," Hannah went on. "Not a damn soul here doesn't know that. Ye spit in the Garlean's eyes an' ye stood up for us, to quit where we please without their say-so. Y'don't need to kill yerself for that."

Slaeglac snorted. "Hells, Hannah, makin' a legend's the last thing I want. It's the opposite. No big public hangin', no Slaeglac the Secessionist hangin' from the gallows. No legends. Just a quiet little death in a dark corner where nobody can watch. Think I could've swung that, if ye'll pardon the jest."

"But why?" 

"Because, damn it, this is still my island, an' it shouldn't be," he said at last. "Goldie's tryin' as speaker, but people still talk t'me. I'm the one they settled on. This's the sort of thing starts Admiral's an' Emperors, Hannah. Treatin' legends as if they can fix everything on account've who they are. But tha's not free." He shook his head. "If I wanted a fleet, didn't need to split from Limsa to do this. Freedom, Hannah. Just one place, free from all that, from legends and heroes and saviors, their deeds tellin' y'what to do into th'next era. If I could hang, like, or disappear, then that'd be the thing for it, wouldn't it? Nothin' dramatical, just a fadin' off."

Hannah stared at him. Despite his size and his stature, Slaeglac felt himself shrinking from Half-Gil's stare. "Yer daft," she said at last, and nothing more, as if that explained everything.

Slaeglac could only chuckle as he rose, "Maybe so, but that's how I think," he said, crossing to the door. "Rest up, miss. There's more work yet."

The door closed behind him, and Half-Gil found herself crossing her arms in irritation. The man gambled on everything. Pulled away the old salts of the privateering crew, trucked with Garleans, built his own island, turned the Garleans against themselves, and now he was running up against a Garlean force in front of a combined fleet of two nations.

The only way he was walking away from that without some kind of legend, she thought, was if he failed.

RE: Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - PhantasticPanda - 03-14-2017

Aboard the Stormbreaker, anchored just off the shore of the island of Gloam

Zanzan stood atop the railing of the top deck, the cold wind of the night battering against his body. His eyes were set on both the Haragin and Lalafells crewmen as they tended to the repairs and maintenance of the ship. Letting out a deep sigh, he waited and waited until finally, the small steps of a much older Lalafell approached from behind.

"You called, Quartermaster?" The man calls up to Zanzan.

"Mister Afade..." Zanzan nods slowly before hopping off to meet the man at eye-level. There was a moment of silence, as he held a somewhat somber expression. "How is the crew?"

"Ah, well, that surgeon of yours is doing hells of a good work down there with the wounded... Though I can't say it's enough for a few of the lads. The bombs got them good."

Zanzan's expression only saddens further as he lets out a heavy exhale, turning away from the view of the main deck with his eyes casting to the skies above. He stayed silent.

Afade studies Zanzan for a moment, before sighing softly. "Don't weigh yourself down like that. I know you and the captain are new to leading a crew. But the lads knew what they were signing up for on this ship. I've seen me own fair share of losses; crew mates, friends... What matters most now is you honor their deaths, and don't be letting them die in vain. And the captain and yourself have done just that, saving all those people on that island. That's more than anything I've done in me entire life."

Zanzan only lowers his gaze down to the floorboards.

Afade paces up to him, giving him a firm pat on the shoulder while using a free hand to gesture towards to the island; it was lit bright in celebration as even the feint sounds of music and cheers can be heard by their Lalafellan ears. "Look at that. You should be over there with the Captain. Heralding your victory and all that. I'll be betting those people down there are waiting to thank more of their heroes. Let me worry about getting this ship seaworthy again."

Zanzan sighs deeply again, growing a soft smile as h e finally sets his eyes back on the island. "You are right, Mister Afade. We did the best we can, and we won... I'll make certain the names of those lost will be sung and remembered beyond the seas and more. Even to the stars."

Afade lets out a hearty chuckle as he shakes his head to himself. "Aye, you can get back to that writing and singing. But keep with that attitude. Good for morale and all."

Zanzan finally begins to make his way off from the top deck as he gestures for a cutter. He pauses for a moment then grins widely back to Afade. "Oh, ah, and make sure the crew gets their share of celebrations. Captain's orders... Though I shall say there will be no limits to the rum tonight. I'm certain the Captain would understand."

Afade beams with a wide grin. "Aye. But don't be blaming me if they get piss drunk and slow down on the repairs."

RE: Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - Anstarra - 03-19-2017

Empty dye pots. Hair clippings.

In a room halfway across Eorzea, dust floats through sunbeams, as the sun rises.

Somewhere in the ocean, a red coat, trimmed with insignias of rank, floats for a time, and then sinks beneath the waves.



A life overthrown. Twelvescore more shaken, maybe sundered.

Two lives ended.


Anstarra stared unmoving into the brightness of the rising sun, greeting Azeyma through the greasy window panes. Two words, floating through her mind, resonant and unremitting in their implications.



"Now what."



[Image: 444ee2ff61883faabdc63d852d378e3d.jpg]



The sun gave no answer.

RE: Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - Melkire - 03-20-2017

"Osric, meet me in Vesper...we need to talk."



The Lominsan showed a bell or so later. Gone were all pretenses: he was dressed in little more than a shirt and breeches. He took one look around before walking into the plaza and sitting down on one of the benches with a sigh.

To his left sat a male Seeker dressed in rather sparse attire, after the fashion of the Dutiful Sisters. The tia glanced about, perhaps a little nervously, as Osric sat down - almost as though he thinks I was followed - but in the end, they both settled into an uncomfortable, awkward silence. That silence stretched on and on until, at last, S'imba asked...

"Did you set me up?"

Osric shook his head. "No."

"You realize it's difficult to not think that."

The Hyuran man glanced at the Seeker and spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

"What d'you want me t'say? That I took word o' the airship to Haelstyrmm, knowin' that he'd be happy t'let the colony burn? Aye, I took a risk 'n' gambled hundreds o' lives on you, Zanzan, 'n' the rest o' the captains. That I hoped that the commodore would be content t'leave our arrangement intact? Aye, I was a fool, 'n' the sadistic git decided t'pin the fault on the Revenge. That I stood aside when y'consented to be taken in? I'd have fought tooth 'n' nail alongside you if you'd refused, cap'n, the Spot be damned. Had a lead on the bastard what gave it to me anyroad. I'll own my sins, aye, but at least give my due."

He frowned down at the cobblestones, breaking eye contact.

"...you're a good man, to have taken me in. Good men deserve better than to be betrayed. Did I not pull back from killin' your friend when y'asked me to? For I could've managed it, sure as the sun rises."

S'imba took a deep breath and sat up a little straighter, began working some stiffness out of his mucles. "Are you in the clear now?"

The Lominsan sighed again... but he nodded vigorously.

Defendin' Wanngeimdottir against Silverain seems to have kept me in the Maelstrom's good graces." He looked up and smiled a little. "Glad t'see you're alive 'n' still breathin'. Got the Revenge back, or...?"

"Yeah... amazingly, Leanne gave her back instead of making me watch her burn it," S'imba said, rubbing his neck. "Those were not the charges I expected to be hit with, though."

Osric grunted as he eyed the horizon. "Said she would when she drove the crew t'mutiny. As for the charges... wish you or the others had told me sooner. Was like bein' raked by a ghost-ship that I didn't know was there."

"I didn't know those charges were there, either," S'imba said with a growl. "Not exactly ones I'm going to be able to clear my name of."

An awkward silence stretched between them again.

"You didn't do it, then."

"No...the shite with Jenny was some Auri bitch assassin paid off by the Monetarists... framed me for killing her... but I thought the Maelstrom had cleared me for that."

Another grunt. "Well... shite. Might not be your first mate anymore, but you're still m'captain and I owe you somethin' fierce. You want or need for anythin', you just ask. Startin' now."

"...any ideas what I should do?" S'imba asked, frowning. "Probably would have been better to just have gone quietly."

"Aye, but was Silverain what cocked that up, not you. She was slated for the hangman's noose the moment she killed those men. Was mighty glad t'see you drive her over the side 'n' into the drink." Osric leaned back and blew out a breath. "Damnable thing is, we had an entire crew's worth o' witnesses and testimonies. We could've slammed Haelstyrmm. Now... now, I don't rightly know, short of catchin' the real perpetrator what killed Hellfist."

"I know who and where the real perpetrator is."

The Hyuran man blinked and turned his head to stare at the captain of the Sultana's Revenge. "Then go get 'em. Clear your name. Don't bother anglin' for Hael; best t'get out from under 'n' keep sailin'."

"That's kinda the problem....she's through Zanzan's sister-in-law."

Osric winced as he sat forward, arms on his thighs. "Your call, there."

S'imba looked to the ground miserably. "I was supposed to be an Eorzean hero... now, thanks to Hael, I'm just another filthy pirate."

You sound bitter. Good. Best to be bitter. Ain't a damned thing that's fair in this life. Mayhap you'll grow sick o' the taste 'n' hit back.

Osric dropped a hand on S'imba's shoulder, though, and squeezed. "No, you're not. Your friends know it. Your crew know it. The folk you save know it. To the hells with the rest."

"I guess you're right." The Seeker sighed. "Well...I've officially been a wanted criminal in all three city states now."

That won him a chuckle. "Three...? Mayhap you'll try for Ishgard next. Make it four."

"Err...no thanks, they're mean to their prisoners."

The Hyur nodded. "Fair enough."

"So...what are the chances that the rest of the Alliance will come for me?"

A shrug. "Slim, if you avoid the city-states proper. Vylbrand's a right coeurl t'get to, what with Maelstrom at every port, but most o' Aldenard's easy enough. Grand Companies tend t'concern themselves with bigger fish. Syndicate's a matter o' greasing with coin. Gridania... don't rightly know. Seem swell for bigoted folk. Point is... Haelstyrmm can point fingers all he likes, but if he starts houndin' for us, it'll look like a vendetta. People'll start askin' questions. He can't afford that."

"Well then I should push him into making it a vendetta in a grand plan of revenge of my own."

Osric barked a laugh and stood up, offering S'imba a hand. "I'd like t'see that... but Kanaria'd have m'arse."

S'imba took the other man's hand and pulled himself to his feet. "Well it seems the only way I'm clearing my name is through Hael... guess that kinda screwed his plans to screw you over though... I'm sure he would have taken us down one at a time, had I actually been arrested... too many loose ends to be floating about."

"We would've thought o' something. But no point in bellyachin' over what could've been. We're dealin' with what is, now." They made eye contact. "Give me 'til after the hearin'. Once the Spot's off, I'm free t'help however I can."

"I'm sure you'll end up with some deal involving you bringing me back in before they'll remove it."

Osric rolled his eyes as he dropped his hands to his hips. "Jus' means I get to helpin' you that much sooner. Thom's near t'gettin' me their roster. They refuse me after the stunt I pulled? I start tearin' through them 'til I get my hands on the man I need."

"I like that plan." S'imba smiled, and in that smile was a flash of his old confidence. "Alright, tell me... my escape from justice last night... how would you describe it?"

The Lominsan grinned and crossed his arms. "Dashing. Inspiring. Legendary. The dread captain o' the Revenge, savin' a damsel from the gallows by escapin' with her into the Deep! Blessed by Lymlaen 'n' Nymeia, the Sea itself kept him safe and delivered the hero back to his crew o' heroes!"

S'imba grinned from ear to ear at that, blushing slightly at the same time. "Well... I tried my best."

Osric gave him a thumbs-up, and then pointed at S'imba. "You hold onto our pearl, y'hear? Practically family after all o' this. I'll keep you informed o' goin' ons, and if you ever need somewhere t'lie low, you're welcome with us."

"I'll keep that in mind," the tia said, returning the thumbs-up. "I may just come lie low, just to get something to eat."

His former first mate nodded.

"We're in the Goblet. Ward Twelve. Also own a nice bolthole up in the Beds." Osric turned and walked off, waving a hand in farewell as he glanced over his shoulder and called, "don't be a stranger, we owe you!"

"Thanks, Osric!"

Don't thank me. Twelve Above, don't thank me. Not for this.

RE: Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open] - PhantasticPanda - 03-21-2017

A Letter to Ojene Suinuet of the Maelstrom Command.

"Miss Suinuet,

It has come to my attention that the Captain of the Revenge is also accused of the murder of Jenny Hellfist. But that is not so. I was attacked by the very same assassin that killed Hellfist. During their second attempt, I pulled from their body, a letter from the Syndicate ordering for the Hellfist situation to be dealt with. I am willing to offer my own testimony for this tale."

Upon flipping over the letter, a more informally written passage can be found.

"I know who the assassin is... They are dear to me now. I wish to ask them to aid me in clearing S'imba's name from this accusation... But pray, I wish to ask for a favor. If they are willing to testify, I wish to ask they be granted protection, or a pardon for their crime. 'Twas not of her own wants to kill Hellfist, but the commands of those in higher power. Pray... Understand."