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The Coming Storm 【Complete】 - Printable Version

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RE: The Coming Storm 【Semi-Closed】 - Nero - 11-29-2014

The Elezen and his associates glanced around with grim looks on their faces. They turned to and fro, only to see that the narrow alley that had provided them with such an ample kill box had now served to trap them with a wall of bodies and chainmail. The Elezen was still clutching his hand that had been slashed, and his baleful gaze carried deep contempt. The trio of them spun slowly a few times to find that they were well and truly surrounded, and their riflemen had retreated.

"As the Blade said, you have one chance," the figure, now revealed to be a woman, spoke firmly. "Surrender now or your life may be forfeit." At her offer, the Elezen's face curled into a spiteful scowl. He barked out a bitter laugh in response. The hoarse laugh only grew in its crescendo as the Brass Blades grew closer.

"Where do you think we are, you pompous bitch?" he spat, coughing slightly as if choking on his own amusement. "My life is already forfeit. Anyone forced in this shitehole" he swept his arms to the run down buildings of Pearl Lane. "got nothin' to lose." He pulled out a dagger from within his sleeve and his companions, still wielding their weapons, turned from the woman and lashed out at the approaching Blades.

RE: The Coming Storm 【Semi-Closed】 - Roen - 12-01-2014

Broken Nose frowned. The Roegadyn knew the bandits would not surrender, for they rarely ever did. This would end bloody.

It was always the same. Broken Nose was a lowborn himself, had worked himself out of poverty by joining the Brass Blades. He knew the desperation that drove many who otherwise had nothing to seek the security and safety in numbers that came with being part of a gang. While he would not admit it openly, the Hellsguard knew it was very much akin to joining the Brass Blades.

Despite the fact that he wore his armor with some measure of pride, Broken Nose was no fool. Like any other bandit gangs, the Brass Blades too extorted money from helpless merchants, and strode about with an air of authority because they were great in number.

What set them apart was that they were owned by the Syndicate--the true power in Ul’dah.

And while the Brass Blades were rewarded with coin and power, as well as some small semblance of legitimacy in their job, these thugs were only paid with fear and submission. They drew strength in showing their willingness to punish their enemies, in making examples of those who stood up to them. It was against their very natures to cower...and given the impoverished conditions that drove them to this life in the first place, none of them ever wanted to go back. Rarely did they relent without resistance.

So when the Elezen and his two guards turned towards them with weapons drawn, Broken Nose growed, “Cut them down! Take one alive for questioning!”

The Brass Blades had been staying close to the wall as to not make obvious targets of themselves from shooters up top, but when the shutters did not open again, they stepped into formation, raised their shields, brandished their scimitars, and met those that came at them.

Broken Nose charged the large Hellsguard to the Elezen’s left, meeting the bandit’s brute strength with his own. He bashed away the thug’s drawn weapon with his round shield and brought about his scimitar across the Roegadyn’s chest. Killing armed bandits was always easier than taking them alive. He wanted to call them fools for fighting armed Blades while they themselves wore only cotton robes.

Then a metallic thunk caught his attention as he shot a glance to the Elezen, the apparent leader of the group. The Wildwood’s eyes went wide, then began to roll upwards as he stumbled forward. Behind him came another clang of a shield as it clattered across the stones. Broken Nose glanced behind the Elezen to see the paladin he had just met with moments ago; it was her shield that had been lobbed at the back of Wildwood’s head.

Broken Nose only spared her but a moment’s glimpse as he turned back to the Hellsguard in front of him, but inwardly he thought that maybe with her about, they can take a few alive. Paladins and their succor. For the longest time, he had regarded them with disdain--both Free Paladins and the Sultansworns--for they always walked about with an air of superiority about them. It was as if their oaths had bequeathed on to them a mantle of righteousness that put them above the rest of the laws of Ul’dah.

But now, in the last many moons that he had come to know Roen Deneith, he had come to appreciate some things about their value system. And their unique set of skills.

He was beginning to have some hope that they may actually not kill everyone this day.

RE: The Coming Storm 【Semi-Closed】 - Roen - 12-09-2014

Roen tugged her hood lower over her eyes as she pulled away from the wounded Highlander. At least he was breathing, which is more than she could say for the others that took gunshots to the chest. She sat back onto her legs as her gaze went from her bloodied hands to the crimson stains that ran in between the stones. There were almost half a dozen bodies unmoving in front of her, all shirtless and sporting similar tattoos that marked them as members of a group of bandits called Hammerbeaks.

When she was part of the Sultansworn Order, Roen had been given the files of high profile bandit gangs as well as various noble houses. Protecting the Sultanate required knowledge of those who might threaten or even support it. The Sultansworns, the Immortal Flames, and the Brass Blades were all debriefed of notable criminal elements and the powerful figures that led them. Hammerbeak was barely mentioned, for they did ‘lay claim’ to some of the minor territories and streets within Ul’dah. But as long as they did not incite obvious violence that threatened the citizens at large, they were left alone, even if their existence was already known by the authorities.

Looking at the bodies now, Roen wondered if this practice was a wise one. She had not questioned it then, as she was an initiate learning the ways of the Order, but since then she was beginning to question many things.

A pair of dark vermilion sollerets entered her line of sight, drawing her from her thoughts. “Deneith,” Broken’s Nose’s low voice rumbled just loud enough for her to hear.

“Only two lived,” she said quietly.

The Hellsguard paused a moment, then narrowed his eyes. “Never mind them, you shouldn’t have stayed.” He leaned in to keep his words just between them, glancing over his shoulder to the regiment of Immortal Flames that were exiting various buildings around them. Roen followed his gaze to one fair-haired Lalafell in particular, one who seemed to be giving the orders to the rest gathered.

The paladin stiffened as a few more glances were thrown her way--one Midlander Flame jutting his chin on her direction as he addressed the Lalafell. “Corporal Kokojo, isn’t that…?”

The Lalafell turn her direction, giving the paladin a once lookover. There was a slight narrowing of her eyes, and Roen realized that the Lalafell knew who she was. But then the Corporal turned back to the Midlander in front of her and answered without missing a beat. “I don’t recognize her, Private, do you?”

“No, Corporal, I don’t.” The Private quickly turned his attention elsewhere as well, coming to a stiff stance. Both the Immortal Flames began to walk away, quietly exchanging what they discovered above.

Broken Nose exhaled through his nose audibly in relief, then glanced past Roen to a few Brass Blades that were lingering nearby. “Well don’t just stand there! Clear out these bodies. Take those alive to the gaol and call for a physician to examine them.” He paused and pointed to the two Blades that were dragging away the unconscious Elezen. “And that one, put him in a separate cell. He will need to answer some questions.”

Both the paladin and the Roegadyn stood in silence for a moment longer as those around them went about and dragged bodies--both living and dead--away, before they spoke again. “Guns? Rifles?” Roen said quietly.

Broken Nose opened his hand, showing her an ornate pistol. “This was found on the ground. And the Flames are combing the buildings for those rifles. We caught the Elezen, but those who were wielding the rifles scattered.”

Roen frowned. It was not of Garlean make--those she recognized easily enough. This one originated from Vylbrand.

“Plans fail. Somethin' always goes wrong. Victory goes to the prepared. And you have not so much as asked him about the weapons."

The sergeant’s words rang in her ear. He had suspected that there were weapons smuggled in, not just the supplies for the refugees as Nero had claimed. Roen had not given much weight to it…until now. Now there were bandits within the streets of Ul’dah that were wielding weapons they should not even know how to use.

“I need to speak to that Elezen.”

Broken Nose cocked a brow at her. “Are you serious? The corporal there just turned her back on you, to give you a way out of this without possibly getting arrested and dragged off to the gaol yourself, and now you want to walk into one to talk to a prisoner?”

The paladin grimaced, but still nodded. “No one said I was going to make this easy for you,” she said apologetically. “But I need to know where these guns came from.”

The Hellsguard crossed his massive arms, looking down at her with a reproachful scowl. “You don’t think we know how to interrogate a prisoner?”

Roen sighed, giving him an imploring look. “I am certain you and the Flames both have your ways, but I need to know before it is known officially. Once I do, I will leave the walls for you to figure things out.”

The Roegadyn glared at her for a moment, then slumped his shoulders with a sigh. “I'll see what I can do. I can probably reason with the corporeal that this is a Blades matter and falls under our jurisdiction, at least for a bell or two until things get sorted out. But once they start collecting more evidence of Limsan weapons, it will be turned over to the Flames. And your friends the Sultansworns likely will be poking their nose about too, no doubt.” There was a hint of a sneer as he said the last, but Roen noted that it no longer held venom as it once used to leaving his lips.

The paladin nodded. “Aye, I suspect the same. Which is why I need to ask my questions first.”

Broken Nose let out a long exasperated sigh. “I should've never let you convince me about this reformation business.” He shook his head.

The paladin flashed him a small, quick smile. “You convinced yourself. It is not my doing.”

The Roegadyn rolled his eyes and turned from her, tucking the weapon in hand away as he approached the Immortal Flames. His arms were out as if to make an offering, but Roen could already see the Lalafell look past him back to her. There was a sharpness to corporal’s gaze, and she nodded absently to what Broken Nose was offering. But Roen could see the Lalafell’s thoughts were already two steps ahead.

As were her own. Roen needed to find out where those weapons came from. She was trying her best not to let her mind wander to where it wanted to go, where it had no choice to go.

Limsan weapons, smuggled into Ul’dah and given to bandits.

“Ask him about the weapons,” the sergeant’s voice echoed in her head again.

She needed to talk to the Elezen.

RE: The Coming Storm 【Semi-Closed】 - Roen - 12-26-2014

The Elezen was a pitiful sight to behold. His head hung slack and his robe had been taken away, revealing a slight frame battered and bruised by the Blades that had arrested him. His face was gaunt and his ribcage was noticeable, the skin of his chest stretched tight across his bones.The chains of the iron bonds that held his wrists jingled as he began to stir awake. When he tilted his head up slightly to notice who was standing on the other side of the bars, he let out an annoyed snort and looked away.

Roen had no sympathy to spare for the man. She had been sneaked into the Blades gaol by Broken Nose after he claimed jurisdiction over the incident in Pearl Lane. She only had until the Flames arrived before she had to make herself scarce. She had insisted on questioning the prisoner first, before the others could put him to question. She had to know.

“I need you to answer some questions for me,” the paladin said calmly, breaking the silence between them.

The Elezen barked out a laugh, or tried to. What came out was frustrated sputtering and hacking coughs. "I don't recall asking for one of the Jewel's whores," he finally snarled contemptuously.

"Continuing to resist will only make things harder for you.” Roen sighed patiently. “It does not have to be that way."

"Oh, so that's how it goes, then?" the Elezen sneered. "First it's 'I'll break all your teeth out one by one if you don't talk,' and now it's 'You're only making it harder on yourself.'" The bandit tried to spit at her from the back of the cell. The projectile fell short, but the message could not have been clearer.

Roen frowned. She knew the brutal methods that the Blades employed, she had been part of their organization once. His words of such threats were not false. "You did fire a gun. In the streets of Ul'dah. That alone could have gotten you killed."

"I've fired dozens of guns in the streets of Ul'dah. This just happens to be the first instance of any o' you clueless gobshites noticing it."

"It is not a common thing, the weapon you wielded, that pistol. Where did you get it?"

The Elezen scowled. "The Holy See o' Ishgard gave it to me himself.”

“It was well made.” Roen slid her arms across the bars, coming to lean on the crossbar. "I suspect I know who might have supplied those weapons." A part of her already felt a hint of dread seizing the air in her chest. She hated what she was thinking. "I only need you to confirm a few things. In exchange, you tell me what you want. I will see what I can do."

The bandit’s scowl turned into a vitriolic smirk. "Oh, I see. I'll have a few ribs intact by the end of this moon if I just tell you everything you want to know, is that it?" He turned his head away. "Go waste someone else's time, stuck-up bitch..."

She bowed her head for a moment, shaking it slightly. "I will not lie to you. What I can probably get you is limited. But..." she sighed. "What else will you do?" She frowned, hesitating a moment on her next words. "I am trying to help. I am working with someone who wants to help you.”

The Elezen said nothing, his head turned to stare at the wall. The silence continued for several more minutes before he spoke again. "The guns came from my boss, and no way in the hells would I be tellin' you where he is." The scowl returned. "'sides, that face of yours says that you already know. You just haven't admitted it yet."

Roen blinked and she felt herself stiffen slightly. Her voice had quieted even more although she was now struggling to keep it as even as possible. "When did you get them...? These guns." Her mind was already racing to calculate how long it had been since Nero’s wagons were confiscated.

The prisoner’s expression mellowed somewhat, though it was still undeniably belligerent. "A long while ago. Just ain't bothered using them until now. Got'em long enough ago to spend time learnin' to use them," the Elezen said, his expression curling into annoyance. "I ain't telling you no more shite."

The paladin slid her arms out of the bars, crouching down to meet his gaze at eye level. “What will you be telling them?” She glanced warily to the door even as she whispered the question.

"Hah!" the Elezen barked. "A few bells in their loving care and I won't be havin' a jaw that can tell them anything." He seemed resigned to his fate yet defiant, even as his emaciated arms shook against the manacles.

Roen exhaled, her shoulders sagging. She recalled hearing about Natalie’s methods of interrogation; the Sworn had methodically pulled out Delial’s fingernails one by one as she asked each question. It was not just the Blades who were known for their cruelty. The paladin shuddered to think what the Elezen may face with his unwillingness to cooperate. But there was a part of her that also feared what he would tell them about who had smuggled in the guns. "Is there anything I can do for you?" she finally asked, her voice too resigned.

Another contemptuous "tch" escaped from the prisoner's mouth. "Maybe show up in less clothing next time. Or stick a few of those bastards on your way out," he sneered.

She sighed again, glancing one more time toward the door. "Do you not want to make some difference before you meet your fate?"

The Elezen merely glared at her. "I'll tell you this much. If you kick people often enough, sooner or later they'll learn to kick back. As for difference? Hah! What difference? Only ones who make differences are people with money. People who can tell other people what to do. There ain't nothing for us to do, cause we don't want change. We want a war."

Roen leaned in, frowning. "And what would a war accomplish?"

The bandit smirked. "Pay evil unto evil. You can't change this cesspool. We're just little kids, breaking mommy's vases for attention. When she don't notice the vases, we steal the jewelry. When she don't notice the jewelry, we smash the windows. When she don't notice the windows, why, we'll just burn the houses down. That's all them rich people care about, so we make them notice us. They won't be turnin' away. Not this time. Not when their blood be spillin' down their gilded steps and their servants be pleadin'. No, we ain't gonna be ignored anymore."

"...And then what..?" the paladin rasped.

His hateful glower became more vehement, more intense, as if his glares alone could murder someone. But soon it began to subside. "Then? Then the rich people's rich friends come along, and kill us all for gettin' their carpets dirty. And that'll be that. Cause ain't that how it always ends? Cause to them, people are trash. Just refuse you can sweep under the rug, and when the garbage start pilin' up, you just hire someone to burn it away for you."

Roen shook her head, her expression now full of dread and sadness. "Then why do this? If that is the end your foresee? There has to be a better way. People are not refuse. Do you not see? Even as you suffer under their foot, you still believe as they do. You still propagate what is so wrong with this place."

Suddenly, the prisoner thrashed violently against the shackles and the iron bar clanged as the chains rattled in his rage. "Then what would you have us do, you arrogant bitch? You can go eat shite, you and your better way! You know what a better way means for someone like me?! It means not watchin' my sister starve! It means findin' a place to sleep where I won't wake up with roaches! It means killin' everyone who tries to rob us! It means not havin' to consider slavery just to get food at the end o' the day!"

The Elezen's spindly, too-thin form flailed like a bundle of sticks as he practically frothed at the mouth. "When's the last godsdamned time you went hungry?! When's the last time you had to stare at mold on your goddamned bread?! No, I don't see you, blind justice-sucking harlot! You wanna know why?! I'm too godsdamned busy starin' at my own ribs! I'm too busy lookin' at the places the poor aren't allowed! I'm too busy lookin' at a city, who don't give a single godsdamned shite! You can go rutting yourself with your godsdamned better way till your own daddy can't tell you from the whores on the street!"

His last vitriolic words echoed off the hard stone walls as the outburst seemed to drain all of the energy from the Elezen; he laid panting in the aftermath of his rage. Cold sweat dripped from his face, running down a thin nose and gaunt cheeks as he stared at the ground, battered breaths drawing attention to the frail chest that drew them.

Roen bowed her head, her forehead coming to lean against the bar. "You are right," she confessed quietly. "I have not suffered as you have. I do not know poverty as you do. And perhaps that makes me naive. But there is nothing that would ever convince me that killing others, bathing the streets in blood just for attention is ever the right solution." She frowned at seeing his labored breathing. "I wish someday, you would be able to see the change come." Her words were quieter, saddened. She doubted he would survive this imprisonment.

"Get away from me," he rasped in disgust. His torso heaved as he hacked and wheezed out several painful coughs, the spittle stained crimson with blood.

The paladin rose back to her feet, letting out a long sigh. He clearly suspected she knew who had delivered the guns. And perhaps she already did. When she turned for the doors, he rasped grimly, "He…he'll punish this city." The Elezen’s gaze seemed gripped with delirium. "Everything. Everyone who stood by and watched. No shelter from the storm that's coming."

Roen stood still for a moment longer before striding toward the door. She heard the last of his words, rasped softly, echo off the walls:

"Everyone's gonna die. By fire and smoke and steel and a shower of blood."

RE: The Coming Storm 【Semi-Closed】 - Roen - 12-26-2014

Broken Nose did not like this. He did not like this at all.

The Hellsguard Roegadyn crossed his massive arms, firmly planting himself in front of the entrance to the gaol. He knew his looming form alone was a deterrent for anyone who was even thinking about going into the dungeons. Others probably saw him let one enter--a cloaked figure who said not a word in passing--but the Blades knew enough not to ask questions. Broken Nose maintained his silent and intimidating scowl...at least until the Immortal Flame corporeal entered through the doors of the Headquarters.

Thal’s Balls, the Roegadyn thought to himself. Deneith should have been long gone from the gaol by now, but she had not yet made her exit. He watched as the blonde Lalafell made her way toward him, strolling by desks and other Blades. She seemed oblivious or uncaring of the glares thrown her way; the Immortal Flames were never a welcomed presence in the Blades Headquarters.

The little Flame came to a stop before the large Hellsguard and gave a formal salute. "Nothing yet?"

"He's shackled inside. Gave us a bit of a fight. And--" Of course it was at that moment that the door opened behind him. Deneith always had impeccable timing for trouble. He growled under his breath as he kept his eyes on the Lalafell. "I let this one go in a little earlier. She was a bit insistent."

"Ah. Corporal,” the cloaked woman said quietly as she stepped out from the gaol.

"Tch. The sergeant's papers make that quite clear." The corporal turned to face Deneith with a frown. "Is this altogether wise? She's going to be here shortly..." The Lalafell spared a glance over her shoulder towards the front door.

Broken Nose rolled his eyes in immediate agreement. "She was supposed to be gone by now, corporal."

Deneith remained stubborn as ever, much to the Hellsguard’s chagrin. “I actually have a spare Blades uniform if it is needed. I would like to stay if..." She glanced between Kokojo and Broken Nose. "...do you know which Sworn is coming?"

Kokojo snorted without turning back around. "Given the gravity of the situation, that should be obvious."

The Blade grumbled, nearly tossing his arms into the air in a helpless gesture. Sure, why not just imply to the corporal that the paladin visits regularly enough so that she stows a Blades disguise in his office? He gave the Hyur a pointed look of annoyance.

Deneith did not seem to notice his ire, relief washing over her face. "If it is Ser Crofte, I think we will be alright."

Broken Nose noticed the condescending smile toward the paladin afforded by the Flame, but before either of them could respond, the doors to the Headquarters opened again to admit Coatleque Crofte, two other Sworns in tow. “Why don’t you duck back into the office and come back looking a little less conspicuous,” he rumbled to the paladin under his breath.

“Too late,” Kokojo hummed as Ser Crofte approached, thankfully leaving the two other Sworns to wait by the entrance. Maybe this won’t go so bad after all.

"Ser Crofte," Broken Nose greeted the woman gruffly, his salute slow to come. He was doing his best to keep any hint of distaste from his tone.

There seemed an uneasiness that flitted about her countenance only for a moment, before the Sworn reciprocated the salute, following it up with a small bow. "Sergeant Nose." It was immediately followed by the Flame salute to the Lalafell next to him. "Apologies, I do not believe we have met." she said, addressing the corporal.

"Corporal Haruko Kokojo, ser. I believe you knew my former sergeant, back when he was with the regulars.” The Lalafell pushed herself off the wall she had been leaning on, returning the salute.

"I assume you got the report on your way over." Broken Nose's tone was casual, even as the Flame and Sworn exchanged formalities.

"Lady Coatleque Crofte of Her Resplendence's Royal Guard," the Sworn said with a bow before nodding back to the Roegadyn. "Aye, I have read the report of what happened. A firefight in the streets. I am here to evaluate the situation only."

"--Not to slit his throat, right?" interjected the Lalafell.

"If further action is required then we--" Ser Crofte stopped and looked at the corporal. "No. My office does not murder captives."

The Immortal Flame’s eyes narrowed at the emphasis. "So long as we're clear. Commander Swift was rather adamant: no repeats."

Broken Nose smacked his lips in distaste, knowing full well whom the corporal was speaking of. Even the Blades were aware of the execution that Mcbeef had carried out of the pirate prisoner. There were rumblings about whether it was hurried and why. Wasn’t that the start of it all?

The Sworn straightened herself before responding. "As I said, I am here to evaluate the situation. This is not, as of yet, a matter for the Sultansworn." The woman’s eyes strayed to the cloaked figure with an eyebrow arched in question as Deneith was wordlessly slipping away.

The corporal took that moment to move in front of the Sworn, gesturing and heading toward the gaol. "I'd rather not be here all night. Shall we?"

"Yes, please,” Crofte responded as she too turned her attention back to the matter at hand.

Broken Nose did not spare the cloaked figure a glance as he sharply turned and opened the doors to the gaol, leading the Flame and the Sworn inside. Kokojo only allowed him to guide them for a few steps, before impatiently darting ahead, peeking into each cell. “No...no…oh, shove off, you probably mugged a merchant…ah, here he is.”

"Let's just say he hasn't been all that talkative so far,” the Hellsguard said as if that would explain the bruises and welts on the near emaciated Elezen. He crossed his arms again, leaning against the wall to allow for the other two to inspect the prisoner. Kokojo was already holding onto the bars to intently look over the bandit.

"When was this man last fed?" Crofte asked.

"Irrelevant." Lalafell reached one hand back behind her and snapped up at Broken Nose. "You recovered small-arms, yes?"

Broken Nose shrugged off the Sworn’s inquiry. He was starting to think that Crofte was not that different from Deneith. Soft. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. "Feeding the prisoner is never our concern, ser." He nodded to the Lalafell. "Pistols. This one had a fancy one too."

"My men recovered a single rifle,” the corporal said without turning around. "I'll have it sent 'round to both your offices. The commander will need to sign off on that first once we've finished our own inspection."

"Firearms are not readily sold in Thanalan. I assume these were smuggled in from La Noscea?" The Sworn glanced between them.

The Blade sergeant nodded. "Looks like Limsan make, from the look of things."

Kokojo bit the inside of her cheek as she turned her head to look up at Crofte. "Does that mean anything to you? I'm at a loss."

Crofte crossed her arms but remained rather straight faced. "That remains to be seen." She moved forward to the cell to address the prisoner. "You there. Can you speak?"

"Piss off," came the rasp from the back of the cell. The Elezen raised his head; he was obviously in a weakened state, but his face still managed to conjure a scowl.

Broken Nose rolled his eyes. His men had gotten similar answers already of course, when they had first brought him into the gaols. The Elezen was not unlike the rest of the bandits he had come across, full of anger and never in any mood to cooperate. And this one seemed especially venomous. But his attention was soon pulled away from the exchange between the Sworn and the prisoner to the corporal, who approached him with a sadistic expression on her face.

“I need a spare bucket. And do you have a chocobo stable nearby?”

The Roegadyn cocked a brow at her and thumbed toward the door where one hung on the wall. “Have at it. And the stable is a few paces to the right out of the building.” As he watched the corporal walk back out, he called out after her. “Ya need something corporal? I can get one of my men…”

"No, no, I absolutely must do this myself. Be back shortly." The Lalafell hurried back down the corridor.

Broken Nose stared absently after the Lalafell. He shook his head, muttering a curse or four to Nymeia under his breath. He continued to listen to the volley of polite questions from the Sworn and the vitriolic responses from the bandit for a few more minutes. He spied Deneith entering the corridor in a Blades uniform, trying to be as unassuming as possible.

"Why not just leave me to die already, stupid bitch…or get…get on your knees and beg if you want me to tell you that badly." The Elezen coughed again, grinning slightly as the chains jingled.

Broken Nose tapped the keyring on his belt with a warning look. "Maybe won't be smiling with a few broken teeth?"

The prisoner ignored the thinly veiled threat. "The Hammerbeaks preyed on all of the poor in Pearl Lane. They ran rampant for several moons…and would you believe who came to help?" He coughed. "Would you…believe who gave a single toss about those jackals, or the people…the people they fed on? Why not tell me, you ignorant bint? I'm sure you already know the answer."

The Hellsguard scowled at the implication, giving the Blade by the door a pointed look. But then came the disgusted cries of a dozen Blades outside. Soon the door to the gaol swung open again, the corporal returning with a bucket held between her legs with both hands. It sloshed about with...something that made Deneith immediate step back with a hand covering her nose and mouth.

Kokojo grinned at Broken Nose. "Open it."

RE: The Coming Storm 【Semi-Closed】 - Roen - 12-27-2014

"Honestly, is this necessary just yet?" Ser Crofte protested, clearly alarmed by what the corporal held in her hands.

Broken Nose gave no objection as he unlocked the cell and swung the door open for the Lalafell. He was not about to get in the middle in between a Flame and a Sworn.

Kokojo took two small steps inside and threw the contents of the bucket over the poor malnourished Elezen. With excrement covering both the prisoner and the wall and floor around him, she stepped back outside, slamming the bars closed again. She smiled proudly up at the Sultansworn. "There. Now he's fed, I pissed off, and you can live up to your name, Shite-licker Crofte of the Brass Blades." Almost instantly the levity was dropped for a stern expression. "He's a criminal, not some misguided sod."

The Roegadyn held up a hand subtly toward the door to keep Deneith there, just as Ser Crofte gave him a glance as if to question the apparent title. She was speechless, as he was. Broken Nose merely shrugged.

The Elezen retched and coughed, the sound not unlike a whetstone being ground against a block of granite. Even through his gagging, a weak laugh could be heard occasionally interjected through the spasm of dry heaves. "Yeah…see…she's…that little bitch ain't lying to herself…hah. Just like Pearl Lane…see, she knows she's just an animal. She knows that she ain't any better than just throwing shite around. Take a page from her book, why don't you..." The prisoner looked as if he was about to retch again.

Kokojo smirked over her shoulder at the bandit. "I have a pedigree."

"Yeah, I'm covered in your pedigree," came the spiteful response amidst heavy coughing.

The Sworn shook her head in stunned silence before turning to the corporal. "Twelve forfend we should act civilized. Do this your way then." She put her hand to her mouth as if to fight off a wave of nausea and backed away from the cell.

The Immortal Flame nodded briefly before turning back to the bars and slipping inside the cell. She stood only a fulm away from the man. "I learned this from a Lominsan. Last chance."

"I've been...given a dozen 'last chances' in the past three suns..." the Elezen mustered up what spittle he could as he spat on the ground. "Do…do your worst."

The little corporal shrugged, then drew her blade and, in the blink of an eye, set the point against the man's groin and shoved it in against the bulge.

The agonized cry that came out of the Elezen's weak frame was truly pitiful, and more animalistic of an expression of pain than anyone knew he was capable of. His teeth sunk into his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, and his chest heaved with heavy, pained pants in lieu of screaming.

"CORPORAL! For Menphina's sa...sake...!" The Sworn made one move toward the cell, then staggered backwards once again from the smell with her hand over her mouth.

"Picking the part you like the most, huh?" he gasped out in between loud, pained groans. He writhed against the manacles, the iron chains jingling in a symphony of protest.

The Lalafell played just barely with the hilt and pommel, raising her left gauntlet to her face as if to inspect her nails. "Now, I can either pull this back out, or I can twist it as I push it further in. Your call."

Broken Nose only watched, his thoughts dark but his form unflinching. It seemed the little Flame had some bite to her after all. He only pushed off the wall when he saw Deneith darting forward, quick to place a hand on the woman’s shoulder to stop her protest. The Roe shook his head at her in stern warning. He could see her shocked expression even behind the mask.

The Elezen did not respond, merely biting his lip as his spindly body twisted and turned, as if trying to crawl away from the pain.

"A name. Make me believe it. Then mayhap I'll stop,” the corporal slowly and painstakingly moved her sword-arm closer to the man, gradually rotating her wrist as she did so.

The writhing and crying out continued until the Elezen finally gasped. "A…a woman…came by…to this cell. She'll know. She…urgh…was there...in the alley." Even with his face twisting in an agonized expression, the prisoner managed the ghost of a grin. "You…you want answers? Maybe try looking at your precious paladins first."

Deneith wrenched her shoulder away from Broken Nose’s hold, stepping toward the cell and swinging the door open. "Corporal. Stop. Stop this now. Please."

The Elezen barked out a laugh that was more akin to a gasp than an expression of amusement. "Nah…let her…let her do her thing! You never cared before…when…when someone did this to us…if they were Blades or Flames or bandits..."

"Corporal, that is enough!" The Sultansworn’s voice echoed off the stones, this time holding firm in its indignation.

"Hmph." A wrenching motion drew the sword out, along with some blood, before the corporal reversed her grip on the hilt and slammed the pommel forward into the Elezen's face. She didn't pause to inspect her work as the prisoner slumped forward; she strolled past Crofte, sheathing her blade as she went. "Fetch a medic," she told Broken Nose. Only then did she turn to Crofte. "I was told the criminal was to be left alive. I was specifically not instructed as to the rest of his treatment."

Crofte merely shook her head at the Flame. "Who else was at the scene? I was not aware of any Sultansworn present in the streets."

Both Kokojo and Broken Nose exchanged a look before both of their eyes went to the second Blade that was with them. Deneith had already entered the cell past Kokojo, kneeling in front of the man as if to see if he was conscious. The Roegadyn shook his head in disapproval. She was too soft for this.

"You're outed. Talk." The Lalafell’s voice was calm and cold, and it cut through the tension like a knife.

It was not until then that the Sworn paid the second Blade any mind, but now Ser Crofte turned her attention to the woman in the cell with the prisoner.

Deneith seemed to pause for a moment, keeping her back to them all as if hesitating. But slowly she rose and pulled the turban and the mask off her head as she turned. "I was there,” she said quietly, the Hyur looking straight at the Sultansworn. "I was the one in the alley."

Broken Nose heard the long exhale that was released through the Sworn’s nose. "Of course it was you."

The corporal glanced between the two women. "The sergeant and I have a prisoner to see to. Perhaps you could take this outside."

Take the chance given, Broken Nose wanted to say out loud. The less he knew about the details of this, better off he was. It would be easier to keep things legitimate, with less things to hide. But the two women seemed not to hear it.

"No need,” Crofte answered curtly. “Based on what he said and the current revelation, I know what I wanted to."

Kokojo gave Crofte a narrowed eyed look. "If this is a foreign matter--and I suspect that's the case, given the manufacture--then you're obligated to share what you know with the Flames. If not through myself, then through Swift."

The Sworn crossed her arms and turned her back to Deneith, looking only to the Immortal Flame. "Indeed. I will speak with my Captain and then to your commander. This issue may be far bigger than we suspected."

The confusion in Deneith’s face was clear as she exited the cell to approach the Sworn. "Can we speak?" she asked quietly.

It was obvious that Ser Crofte was looking anywhere but at the paladin. "No,” she said flatly. "I have a report to file now. If you would excuse me." Clearing her throat, she walked swiftly past them, only calling back to Kokojo when she was nearing the door. “See that he lives, Corporal. We may still have need of him." With that she she exited, the heavy door closing behind her.

"...Twice. I told her twice." The dunesfolk woman sighed.

Broken Nose stared at Deneith, who stood there with a look of confusion before she too took her leave without another word. The Roegadyn shook his head as he began to lumber out of the gaol to fetch a medic.

If Deneith knew who had brought guns to the streets of Ul’dah--and was now on the outs with her one ally in the Sultansworns--this whole thing was headed down a path he did not want to imagine. And now both the Sultansworns and the Immortal Flames had an inkling of it, even if neither Kokojo nor Crofte were ready to act upon it just yet. And he couldn’t discount the Brass Blades getting involved, since he himself had been made privy to the knowledge.

Broken Nose did not like this. He did not like this at all.

RE: The Coming Storm 【Semi-Closed】 - Nero - 12-28-2014

Night had fallen over Ul'dah, the cool glow of the night sky enveloping the Jewel like a blanket. A Brass Blade walked briskly through it, tugging on the cover of his turban over his eyes. The sound of mailed boots clicking on the cobbled streets sounded too loud in this quiet corner of the city. While the warm glow of lights and the festive shouts of people still echoed from the Sapphire Avenue, the area in front of the Brass Blade headquarters was relatively still. Inside was a token force of Blades, but many of them were out and about, enjoying Ul'dah's street life.

The lip of the Brass Blade curled somewhat as he entered the headquarters and made a straight line to the gaol. No one questioned him. It was generally true that if you act like you belong somewhere, most people won't stop you out of fear of raising a fuss. It was rather gratifying to know that that principle held true even in places of authority. The area in front of the entrance to the dungeons was empty save for a single Highlander Hyur standing watch. Things were going just as planned.

The first Brass Blade made a small gesture as he approached the door to the dungeons. He wasn't wearing the traditional bronze mitts but was instead wearing gauntlets that allowed him to extend his right thumb and index finger forward. The Highlander Hyur nodded and swung the door open. As the first Brass Blade entered the gaol, he passed a small pouch to the Highlander with his left hand.

The farther one descended into the dungeons, the fouler the stench became. It wasn't just sweat, blood, and excrement; it was desperation, and fear. The Brass Blade gave cursory glances to each of the cells until he found the mark he was looking for. The sight gave him pause.

The Elezen's sack trousers were covered in blood stains and the cell reeked of sweat and fecal matter. What was once a spindly, if reasonably alive Wildwood had thinned and shrunk into a mere skeleton covered in taut, pasty skin. Darkened bruises encased his wrists where manacles held them and were only defeated in hue by the bruises on his face and body. His chest heaved with laboured breathing.

The Brass Blade opened his mouth to say something before stopping and wordlessly swinging open the cell door. The Elezen seemed to barely lift his head up as if to acknowledge this new torturer before his neck went slack. The Brass Blade then withdrew a small vial from his belt, uncorking it. The vial was filled with a translucent, viscous liquid, and driven through the cork was a small golden needle. He knelt down to the Elezen with the needle covered in the almost gelatin-like substance, glancing his head up.

What a wretched place to be in.

The Brass Blade looked down and examined the Elezen's calf. It was easy to see the blue veins against the stretched skin. With a careful motion, he pricked the Elezen's calf with the needle; the hole was minuscule but was surrounded by just the barest visible purple tinge. The Elezen did not react to it at all.

He corked the bottle and sighed, standing up. It would only take a few hours for the substance to take effect. Perhaps even less, given the Wildwood's pitiful state. The Brass Blade corked the vial and walked out, double checking to make sure the turban covered any notable features of his face.

The Brass Blade walked out of the dungeons and back into the streets of Ul'dah with nary a word.

The night went on.

RE: The Coming Storm 【Semi-Closed】 - Roen - 12-29-2014

“He’s dead, alright.”

The medic withdrew his hand from the corpse, flicking his fingers in distaste at the stench that had seemingly been laid upon his skin from its brief contact with the dead Elezen. He rose, turning to face a very displeased Brass Blade sergeant who loomed over him at the cell’s entrance.

“Halone’s frozen ass…” Broken Nose gritted his teeth. “Weren’t ya s’pose ta keep him alive?”

The Midlander shrugged helplessly. “I treated his injuries and stopped the bleeding! It doesn’t mean that I can fix the months he’s gone without food--or his general well-being for that matter! He didn’t die primarily from the wound inflicted by the blade to his...jewels, so to speak. He died because he was unwell and malnourished. And beaten.”

The Roegadyn Blade frowned. It was obvious the medic had no love lost for any criminals he treated, and Broken Nose knew that they only did what was minimally necessary for certain prisoners. It was usually the more violent criminals that got the least amount of care. And this Elezen certainly qualified. Still, the Hellsguard did not think he would waste away so quickly, given that the medic did see to him. But the labored breathing, the quick wasting of what little muscle he had left, and the coughing up of blood…the signs had all been there that he was not doing well. And yet they had still kept him in chains. He was a dangerous criminal after all.

Ul’dah never showed mercy to the weak.

“So no sign of foul play?” Broken Nose cocked a brow.

“Nothing obvious.” The medic glanced over his shoulder, frowning as a new wave of stench greeted them. “No new beatings since I saw him last. No broken bones or wounds. And usually any kind of poison would show some signs. Foaming at the mouth, bleeding gums, bloodshot eyes…depending on the agent used.” He shrugged again.

Broken Nose narrowed his eyes and poked his index finger against the Midlander’s chest. “Look him over again and make sure. You were assigned to tend to him and he died. Under your care and under my command. Neither the Sultansworns nor the Immortal Flames will be happy about this.”

The Midlander snorted disdainfully. “The man was a thug, sergeant. A murderer belonging to a bandit gang no less. I would say his death, as well as the Hammerbeaks cut down in Pearl Lane, will equate to being less criminals we have to worry about.”

The Roegadyn exhaled sharply through his flared nostrils, annoyance pulling his brows dangerously low. “Check him over again. I don’t care if you come out smelling and looking just like him. Got it?”

The medic grumbled but nodded, turning back toward the prisoner.

With the Elezen dead they’ll look for another suspect, Broken Nose thought darkly as he began to walk back down the corridor. The Brass Blades knew about the bandit gangs within the city walls, but so long as they were not threatening anyone significant, most of them were left to be. There were never enough resources that they could muster to fully counter all the bandits...and some of the gangs were admittedly a source of business for some of the Brass Blades. He himself had accepted a bribe or two in the past, or turned a convenient blind eye from time to time. At least before he'd chosen a new path for himself.

The Roegadyn also understood that the poor, after struggling to survive for so long and having little means to do so, often banded together in one group or another for the simple sense of security. There were many reasons why gangs were allowed to exist within the Jewel, but now that guns were fired and reports made, actions needed to be taken. Nobles would not want to hear about gunfire near their precious homes and streets.

Ousting all the bandits from Ul’dah would be a task all its own, and was likely to incite more violence since the bandit gangs were often armed. But since this last group had been armed with Vylbrand guns, the Immortal Flames would also want to turn their eyes to the source of such weapons...and that is when their attention would undoubtedly turn toward Deneith and her Limsan merchant--the one Broken Nose had met moons ago. An angry man full of hate for the Brass Blades and all the things wrong with Ul’dah. It couldn't end well.

I hope you know what you are doing, Deneith. The Hellsguard shook his head as he exited the gaol, the heavy door closing behind him.

RE: The Coming Storm 【Semi-Closed】 - Roen - 01-01-2015

What am I doing?

Roen sat on the beach watching the slow descent of the sun, its reflection on the waters setting the horizon ablaze with golden ripples. The night air was growing chillier; goosebumps ran up along her arms, but the paladin did not notice. The distant whispers of the foaming waves did little to sooth her troubled thoughts as she recalled the conversation just a bell ago.

She had confronted Nero, asked him directly about the bandits and their Vylbrand-made guns. She at first thought he would dodge the subject, he had not even deigned to face her, so intent was he on his task--carving a filigree onto an elaborate silver plate. He spoke to her, but his eyes were hidden behind his magnifiers, his form bent over his workstation. But when she asked, his answers came direct and clear.

He admitted that he sold weapons to the bandits in Ul’dah--that he sold weapons in many places, as others of his profession did as well. He also confirmed that there were guns along with the refugee supplies, those that she had helped him retrieve from the Brass Blades so many moons ago. That was the primary reason he wanted that shipment back. It had started all the way back then.

"From the very start I never knew the whole truth. How much do you not tell me?" she asked him.

"I did not know you very well back then. If I had told you that there were weapons, what would you have done? Had me arrested, perhaps. Insisted the weapons be thrown away or destroyed. What reason could I have possibly had to tell you that I was carrying weapons? If nothing else, our little spat at Lost Hope cemented the notion that you would never tolerate that kind of information, and lo was I correct.” His calm tone never wavered, and he did not turn his attention away from his work; his hands never stopped in their moving of the tools as he inlaid thin strands of metal and ceramic beads into the engravings.

"Have things truly changed since then? Do you only tell me what you want me to know? Because I am starting to wonder." She scowled.

"Roen, I've learned to trust you. I trust you to be honest to a fault, and ever the idealist. I also trust that you will never understand the concept of doing bad things for a good cause, much in the same way that I will never understand how you think this world can operate entirely without bloodshed." He only paused for a moment. "No, that's not fair. I should say that I will never understand how you think bloodshed is not necessary."

The paladin squinted but said nothing in answer.

"I am curious. Are you angry because of the weapons in Ul'dah, or because you did not know about them?"

Roen paused. She had come to him wanting answers, but...was her anger because she felt that she was betrayed that he had not told her? Or was it because he was selling weapons in Ul’dah? The latter was something his kind had always done. Had she expected that all his criminal activities would end when he agreed to work with her? Nero went onto to add that the shooting in Pearl Lane was in retribution for the killings and the violence that the Hammerbeaks had already committed against others. But that did not justify adding more fuel to the fire.

“I suppose both,” she muttered with a hint of indignation. She turned away from him. “Sometimes I feel as though I am supporting something that I have yet to realize what it will exactly do. That I am hoping for a result without knowing the full extent of all that will be broken and all the suffering that will be incurred along the way. I fear that I am on a path that will exact all the things that I once swore to protect people against. I fear that I am losing my way. And I have been defending you, to so many people and yet I know not what you are doing."

"Perhaps you do not want to know.” His quiet tone remained neutral, as ever. “Perhaps knowing exactly what I am doing will drive you to stop me. You weren't prepared to kill me before. Do you think, if you had to stop me, you'd be prepared to kill me now?"

Roen felt a chill run down her spine. She could naught but stand frozen still and stare at the wall ahead of her.

"I see.”

The paladin bowed her head with a pained expression, as if struck through the chest. "I gave my heart to you,” she whispered. “The very thought of you coming to harm..." She paused, shaking her head. “I do not know what I would do."

The sounds of tools and beads came to a pause. "I do what I must, Roen. That is all I have ever done,” he said quietly. She could hear him turn in his seat, perhaps to look at her. It was her turn to keep her back to him. "The weapons, the deception…do you believe that I would have done any of that, if I did not believe it to be absolutely necessary?"

Roen’s gaze drifted toward some burning coals nearby, the small sparks of ember taking flight only to be extinguished moments later. “Nay,” she rasped. “You told me that you considered all the options. And that you only choose violence if you believe there is no other choice. I believe you."

A sigh could be heard behind her and she heard him turn back to his work again. "In any case, this should turn the focus towards the Monetarists. If the bandits are expelled from the city, then so much the better."

Roen glanced over her shoulder to the back of his head once more. "One of the bandits, an Elezen, he implicated you through me. The Immortal Flames, the Sultansworns, and the Brass Blades. They will turn their attention to you."

She could hear the wry smile in his response. “Trust the authority figures to completely miss the purpose of the message. But then, I suppose that's not a surprise.” His hands resumed their work, maneuvering tools over the silver plate. “The one thing a man with power fears is losing that power. Maintaining that farce of 'law' is the only way they can think of to keep their power. The second I can turn the Flames and the Sworns against the Monetarists, when they stop chasing their tails and look up to see the bigger picture…that is when we win. Raubahn bears no love for the Monetarists, but he hesitates. The only thing required to be in power is for you to be willing to do what your opponent won't."

Nero let out a quiet sigh. "There is always some destruction before creation. Some demolition before rebuilding. As soon as people understand that…things can change for the better."

Roen did not give voice to her own doubts. That she too feared this destruction he spoke of. This process of tearing things down so that a better future can emerge, like a seed sown beneath the barren ground. She feared for the deaths that may come. She already woke in cold sweat at times, thinking of those who had already lost their lives in this struggle, both innocent and not. And yet hope remained deep within, that Nero’s dream of fixing the tainted Jewel could still come true. And in that, she could help Nero find his own redemption. That the streets need not flow with blood. That countless lives need not be lost. And yet, in holding on to that hope, she had already seen an entire family's bloodline die. Even though he had promised to become a better man since, there were times when Roen still battled her own apprehensions, despite the love she held for the man. Had she not come to find him this day, fearing him to have betrayed her?

Was her heart blinding her to the truth? Or was it giving strength to her faith in the man who truly needed it? Who would not be saved otherwise? And the city that would be left to rot as others turned a blind eye? She had to believe in the latter.

“Perhaps if I can talk to Ser Crofte and Broken Nose, to see where they stand on this…”

"I think you should avoid them for now,” Nero said matter-of-factly. "Despite your good opinions of them, all they can see is the status quo. That order is maintained. Good people as they are, both are incapable of seeing beyond that image."

Roen felt a her chest tighten with dread. "I had hoped to enlist their help. I had hoped that others would see what needed to be done. That we were not alone in trying to do this." She realized then, it was not dread. It was loneliness.

"But we are."

"No one seems to see it," she whispered. "Or want it."

"They've turned a blind eye to it. Can you blame them?"

Roen turned fully then, facing his back once more. Her voice shook. "What we are doing. Is it so extreme? Is it worth it?"

"Is it worth it..." Nero echoed the question, pausing in his work. "To be honest, I don't know. Perhaps all of this will be for naught. Perhaps the city will be even worse off when we're done." He sighed. "I do not know if it will be worth it. But I do know that things cannot stay as they are."

The paladin shook her head, slowly at first, then the gesture grew emphatically. "I have to believe it will be worth it. It has to be. Else all that has happened, all the deaths and suffering for even a chance at changing something..."

"If none of it is worth it…if nothing changes..." the smuggler seemed to falter, he stopped again. "Then I suppose the only thing left for me to do would be to atone for those I have harmed."

Roen scowled deeply at the implication. "I meant what I said. That after all this is over…I wish for some peace and happiness for you."

"You are too kind,” Nero said quietly. “I know what I've done. How loudly will the dead howl at me, if after taking their lives all I end up doing is living a life of content satisfaction?"

"Then call it a selfish thing,” Roen snapped, stepping forward. "I do not wish to imagine the end you see for yourself." She exhaled sharply, her words turning into a plea. “It is never too late to choose to do the right thing. To show mercy. To spare lives. To atone."

Nero set the tools down and leaned back as he took the magnifiers off his face. "Perhaps not. But what form will that atonement take, if I fail?"

Those words haunted her even now. Roen had no answers for him then. And as the darkness began to descend with the arrival of dusk, the sun having fully retreated from the sky, the paladin still had no answers to give.

RE: The Coming Storm 【Semi-Closed】 - Nero - 01-04-2015

"You are looking well." It was a flat greeting, made more out of habitual politeness than any sort of genuine concern. Said greeting was meaningless anyway: the Duskwight's attention was fully occupied by the large schematic on his desk, a slender blue-gray hand gracefully piloting a quill across the sheet. Despite the speed with which the Elezen wrote, there was no chaos in the movements. The motions were swift but contained a controlled complexity, like a ballroom dance.

"This is the first time we've seen each other face-to-face in moons, and that cold observation is all I receive?" Nero's trademark smirk accompanied his response as he leaned against the wall. Outside the secluded office, the blows of hammers and the shouting of workers could be heard.

"In all of our previous encounters, your initiation of contact was an action brought forth by practicality. An expectation of courteous pleasantries at this juncture is both superfluous and asinine." The chilly response was punctuated by the soft scratching of the quill on parchment.

Nero clicked his tongue. "I can't tell if you're blunt because of who you are or if it's because of my flippant attitude. A mixture of both, perhaps." The Duskwight did not deign to respond, merely brushing a hand past snow-white locks in a fashion suggesting that Nero's comment was not worth remarking upon.

The smuggler counted what lucky stars he felt he had left for having secured the cooperation of Arturieaux Bellamont. The pair of them had known each other during Nero's studies of thaumaturgy; the Elezen arcanist had spent a number of moons in Ul'dah studying the intricacies of thaumaturgy, and had been courteously escorted through the city by Nero when the latter was still an acolyte. To call them friends would be going rather far--the Duskwight's harsh rebuke, though masked in grandiloquent loquaciousness, was a sure indication of that--but they shared some measure of mutual respect between them. The arcanist was a certified expert in his field of aetherial flow and the principles of energy utilisation and conversion, and the smuggler even back then had a certain talent for obtaining rare and valuable materials without most people knowing. Given the Duskwight's rather ruthless nature in his scientific endeavours, the pair were a simple match. 

"In any case, I had a rare moment of free time, and so I wanted to inspect construction for myself," the smuggler said nonchalantly. "Take a look at my investment, as it were." 

The truth was far more petty and whimsical, and both men in the office knew it. Nero had traveled across Vylbrand to the hidden cove to distract himself. In the smuggler's mind, seeing the direct effects of his influence would help quell his wavering doubts. Roen had confronted him about the weapons shipment he'd brought to Scythe and brought to the forefront how often Nero had deceived others, including her. In typical Roen fashion, she'd managed to throw all of his thoughts and conviction into disarray. That was not to imply that it was purely her fault, but Nero deliberately tried to ignore her during their conversation and he knew it.

Speaking to Arturieaux was a subconscious effort as well, a silent cry for help. While Nero took pleasure in deconstructing the motivations and personalities of others--mostly to stroke his own ego--the Duskwight viewed people as puzzles to be solved. Speaking to Arturieaux was a way for the smuggler to unravel the mess that was his own psyche, and it was not the first time the former had done so.

"I fail to see the point. It is not as if you are qualified to properly judge such a monumental undertaking," Arturieaux responded, sniffing disdainfully. Nero raised an eyebrow. The Duskwight's phlegmatic disposition was not something that was easily adjusted to. Arturieaux was not being arrogant or insulting in his comment: in the arcanist's mind, he was merely pointing out an accurate observation. 

Still, it wouldn't hurt him to adopt at least some measure of social grace.

"Even so, mayhaps it would be prudent for us to move again," Nero said, gazing out the office's small window. 

The tone of the Duskwight's response was encompassed by a disdainful snort. "The foundation has already been laid out and we finally have set up the facilities to manufacture the necessary parts. Attempting to shift the location of construction now would merely throw everything into disarray."

"I realise that you don't like it when we make you walk--only the Twelve knows why they bothered to give you legs--but recent events have turned some heat on our activities."

"Your activities. And are you not the one who is used to evading the law? If you were less foolish then 'heat' is not something we need to be worried about." Their conversation was akin to a duel. The smuggler would broach a topic, the Duskwight would rebuke him with "foolish" this and "nonsensical" that, to which the smuggler would return with his characteristic sarcastic quips, only to be met with another cold, calculated response. 

Nero put on an indignant expression. "In my defense, that was because Scythe had decided to strain against his leash."

"And you are the handler who put that boorish man on a leash in the first place. Is it not your responsibility to control him?"

"Controlling him is different from supervising him. I'm not a fussy mother who can afford to ensure that the children behave in school. If he decides to throw chalk and kick another child in the face, then--"

"Then it is still your responsibility, even within the contexts of this idiotic analogy."

The smuggler turned, leaning his back against the small window and folding his arms. "Worry not, I've spoken to him about it. Nothing has changed. In fact, he'll be able to buy us some time."

Arturieaux turned his head somewhat to shoot Nero an irritated glare. "I distinctly recall your statement saying that the 'heat' was on us. That is the opposite of what you are saying now, if you are unaware." 

The smuggler merely smirked--a hollow gesture--and shrugged. "What can I say? I like to keep you on your toes. But yes, we had a little discussion and I took care of a problem of his. He'll behave how I want him to and cause some sporadic chaos. That'll be enough to turn the attention to domestic issues, so to speak."

"And yet, you are the one who supplied him with weaponry, so logically the focus of authorities will be on you." Arturieaux turned his attention back to editing the schematic as he spoke.

"The inherent problem with violence in Ul'dah is never the weaponry, it's who uses it. Even if I didn't supply them, someone else who is trying to make a profit would. If the Blades were at all competent, bandit gangs would never be a problem."

The Duskwight waved an idle hand. "Spare me your political ramblings. They are irrelevant. What is stopping you from having your paladin friend take care of it?"

Now it was Nero's turn to snort. "Roen is reliably competent but won't be able to take care of a problem like this. She has no authority. If what my contact in the Blades said was true, she can barely show her face in the city."

"And whose doing is that, I am forced to wonder," the Duskwight observed dryly. "Evidently this is becoming a running theme. Are you even aware of how capable you are of crippling your own allies?"

"Even so, you are still cooperating with me," Nero shot back in an attempt to divert the flow of the conversation. But Arturieaux had sensed the former's discomfort and had locked on to the target, ignoring the bait the smuggler had laid out.

"Ul'dah is her home and yet her association with you has made her a fugitive, and now you complain that she is unable to fix your problems for you. An exceptionally incompetent man you are, Nero Lazarov." On the one hand, Arturieaux's ability to not give a damn made the Duskwight incredibly capable of gaining the upper hand in a conversation, which is why Nero hated speaking to him at times. On the other hand, said "not give a damn" ability was what enabled Arturieaux to ignore all social etiquette and bring certain indisputable problems to the forefront, which is why Nero needed to speak to him at times.

The smuggler paused in his response, but the Duskwight did not relent.

"Do you love her?"

Nero's head whipped around at that. He was prepared for that line of questioning to come forth as soon as the topic of Roen arrived, but he was not prepared for it to be that blunt, even considering who he was speaking to. What was most surprising was that while Nero had mentioned Roen and her involvement to him, never had he mentioned any sort of affection or intimacy to Arturieaux.

"Why do you ask?" Nero responded carefully.

"Responding to a question with a question is a sure sign of an incompetent man, doubtful in his motives and flawed in his reasoning, and the most infallible downfall to most men is their shallow desire for a woman. She lacks the power to do what you wish to be accomplished, yet you keep her as an agent. You have told me that she insists on her idealism which clashes with your own principles and yet you remain involved with one another, to which I repeat my query. Do you love her?"

The smuggler folded his arms, turning his gaze down to the floor to gather his thoughts. "I...trust her. I value her. She is--"

"Why?" Arturieaux had put the quill down and ceased his work, turning his attention to Nero. The Duskwight's elegant white robe shifted as he too folded his arms, mirroring Nero's defensive posture. At this point, Arturieaux had evidently decided that he would not accomplish any meaningful work so long as he was forced to serve as the Hyur's emotional adviser. "You claim to trust and value her, and yet those ideas are different from love. She most assuredly has some manner of affection for you if she is willing to forsake herself from her home, but you yourself are not willing to make such a sacrifice for her sake."

"What I--"

"Would you throw away your plan for her?"

"No." The response was immediate, and accompanied by some sense of immediate regret.

"Then you do not love her. You are merely using her, and I've yet to decide which is more despicable: the idea that you are using her without being aware of it, or the idea that you are fully aware and simply do not want to admit it."

A long silence expanded in the room, with Arturieaux staring at Nero and Nero staring at the floor, his thoughts in turmoil. After several minutes of this stillness, the Duskwight loosed an exasperated sigh and turned back to the schematic on his desk.

"Do me the favour of vacating this premise, and take your emotional baggage with you."

Nero glanced at the Duskwight's back before wordlessly leaving the office.

RE: The Coming Storm 【Semi-Closed】 - Roen - 01-05-2015

Dreams were supposed to be visions of what could be, where one could get lost in their slumber to a world of unimagined possibilities. But this night, as it had been for many nights, Roen’s own sleep was restless, her dreams full of turmoil.

Many faces, those she loved and held dear, now looked upon her with outrage.

"Here ye are tellin' me yer workin' with a murderer,” Gharen said, his expression twisted with disbelief.

Roen could not lie to him. She had always told her brother the truth. So when he had asked about Yoyorano, she told him. She told him about the bloodbath of an entire noble bloodline that Nero had orchestrated. She tried to explain that it was after Nero had learned that Daegsatz had been executed without a trial--when he was driven with cold blind rage. That he had set aside his promise to allow justice to work, instead setting in motion his deadly plans. But Gharen did not want to understand. And a part of her could not blame him.

"An' tha's okay!?" he growled at her. "What part o' women an' children was fine with ye if'n ye knew this!?"

She remembered those words made something snapped within her. "It is not fine!” Her voice rose to match his, shaking with indignation. “It has NEVER been fine with me! I wake with visions of dead bodies, faceless women and children, laying in a broken manse! They haunt my dreams! It is not fine! NONE of this is FINE!" She had hoped that her brother would give her guidance in this mire of guilt and doubt she was sinking in, rather than face his fury. It was too much to hope for.

His anger never abated. He did not want to believe that she saw any good in Nero or that there were any to begin with. She tried to make him see that Gharen too had forgiven others--Hornet and Delial after the foul deeds that both of them had committed. But he did not want to see. Where as he had the benefit of crossing their paths after they had begun their road to redemption, Nero had yet to prove himself in her brother’s eyes. Despite the fact that the pirate’s actions were all driven by a desire to end suffering for so many, Gharen did not want to believe that there was a possibility of atonement. Even for someone she loved.

When Roen tried to argue for the sake of saving Ul’dah, her brother uttered the words that she did not want to hear. The same words that everyone else had told her: Ul’dah was fine. That it would change itself in time. Her insistence that people had suffered enough, even going as far as to accuse him that he too had turned a blind eye to it, it only sparked his ire. When he grabbed her by the collar of her shirt and hissed in her face through gritted teeth, she felt her heart plummeting through her chest. She knew then that there would be no understanding between them. Not in this.

“Don' ye talk te me about livin' in squalor, especially when ye've never walked a mile in my shoes,” he seethed.

“I do not want to oppose you, Gharen,” she pleaded desperately, one last time. “Please do not make me choose. Give me more time. I know I can do this right. Else all this will be for naught.”

Gharen’s muscles were taut with barely controlled temper, and his expression remained dark. "Well, it's goin' te be fer nothin' I guess. Cause I'm goin' te be workin on puttin' him away. This ends now.”

Her brother’s voice rang harshly through her memory like a hammer striking an anvil, before his face faded in her mind’s eye. Roen found herself staring at the calm collected countenance of Gideon North instead. Only, his usually placid facade was cold as he looked upon her, shaded with a tinge of sadness.

“Do you believe, Miss, that even if we had the materials, I should bring the young master back into the world alongside the man who shattered him? Who exchanged his parents for coin?”

Mister Bellveil had betrayed her confidence and had told Gideon that she was hiding the truth about those who had been responsible for his master’s death. Roen had not wanted to reveal it just yet, she wanted to give Mister North another path of closure first. But when the valet was made aware, she had no choice but to tell him the truth. He did not deserved to be lied to.

Gideon received the news that it was Nero who sunk his master’s ship off the coast of Limsa Lominsa with a chill to his demeanor. He bid her farewell and bid happiness in her future with the pirate, but there was only resentment behind his words. Roen could not let him go, she kept stepping in front of him as he tried to leave.

"How do you expect me to answer that..?" Roen stared at him with her eyes wide. "That he should be punished for his crimes? A part of me knows this. For I would argue the same for all the other murderers. I would argue it for those who ordered and paid for that ship to be sunk." The paladin paused, bowing her head in sadness. "But another part of me… believes there is a remorseful side to him."

“Belief, Miss.” Gideon said distastefully.

“Aye. Faith in someone." She peered back up at him. "Sometimes that is all that we are left with."

The valet met her gaze cooly. “I made clear my position on faith at the Ball.” He held it for a moment longer, before his shoulder sagged, his expression falling. ‘I…I do not wish to argue any more with Miss.”

When she saw his frame falter with exhaustion, she too sighed. “My apologies,” she whispered. "Do as you will, Mister North."

“I…” Gideon began, searching her eyes. “I don't know what I'm supposed to do, Roen. Work for the man who killed my family? Or work for the man who bade me to murder my friends?” A pause fell between them before he spoke again. “It feels like I've come to an...an end.”

"At...an end..?"

“I've no more way to move forward. I can't hurt him, because you love him, and I can't serve him, because I hate him.”

Gideon seemed so lost. A man without a purpose. She found herself speechless, there were no words to comfort him.

The butler’s forlorn expression washed away, leaving the familiar visage of a Duskwight merchant. His expression was one of stern reproach.

“I don't know if your pirate is a good man or a bad one. But a good man can make a plan that causes terrible suffering all the same, can they not?"

Roen was desperate to defend Nero, to make Mister Bellveil understand why she stood by him. "Why are you absolutely certain that he will bring just not your death but suffering to all?"

"Because that is what you implied!" Verad pointed at her with an accusatory finger. "When you spoke of the necessity of sacrifices!”

Those were Nero’s words. Sacrifices. Necessary destruction. Words that justified the bloodshed and the violence that he had orchestrated. All for just the glimpse of a chance that Ul’dah could be saved. She had repeated them to Verad Bellveil many moons ago in desperate hope that the merchant who had always soothed her doubts would do so again. But this time, he was throwing it back at her to question her plans.

"I confided in you my fears!” Roen could not help but feel wounded. Betrayed. “My absolute worst nightmares come to life!"

"Confidant I may have been - mayhaps I will be so blessed that I will remain so in the future - but why do you only confide terrors in me? Why do you only confide fears and agonies?”

"Because you found me when I was in the darkest of places, Mister Bellveil,” she whispered sadly. “You were supposed to be my point in aether. That one person I could trust and turn to. Instead you took it upon yourself to lead me toward a path you saw fit." She slowly shook her head. "I did not ask for that."

"There are a few types of love, Miss Deneith. I won't bore you with the other ones. But one of them involves helping a person become the best they possibly can be. Even at the cost of the relationship, whatever that may be."

Roen stared at him, long and hard.

"If that has happened - if you are a better person for this - then I can only apologize for doing it in such a manner. If that has failed, then I can only offer apologies even more humbly."

"I know the line I am walking, Mister Bellveil. I am painfully becoming more aware of it, every sun. And I want to do the right thing. I…I have to do the right thing. Else all that I am doing is for naught."

The Duskwight looked to her with a frown. His tone held a hint of patience, but also rebuke. "Why do you think you have time to choose for yourself? What vanity do you hold that you must decide the right path when hesitation causes more harm?"

His words made her falter. Again, she had no answer. Was her attempt in trying to save Nero only costing more lives?

The Duskwight’s face was suddenly swallowed up by the darkness, as screams rang from the depthless void behind him. The black curtain then lifted to reveal a broken manse, bloodstains on the walls, and dead bodies littering the floor. Men, women, and children alike, eyes opened along with their mouths in a silent scream, crimson stains beneath their bodies.

With a gasp, Roen’s eyes shot open and she found herself in her bed. The ending was the same, the visions of the violence visited upon the Yoyorano family, the scene would often return to her dreams whenever she was troubled. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, trying to shake off the shivers that had nothing to do with the cool ocean breeze. Even now, the angry words from her dreams haunted her thoughts.

Gharen would stand against Nero. She had no choice but to oppose him, her own brother.

Gideon hated the man she loved. There was nothing she could do to fix that. She knew he would never look upon her the same way again.

And Mister Bellveil...

She had walked away from him for his own sake. It was something that she should have done when he was attacked by the Brass Blades. His love for her and his loyalty to her were undeniable. But it was obvious that confiding her deepest fears in him was taking its toll. He felt compelled to help her in however way possible. In the end, she believed that it would only hurt them both.

Roen wrapped herself in her blankets as she curled in upon herself. Sitting alone in a starless night, surrounded by naught but sounds of crickets and distant ocean waves, the loneliness suddenly seemed all the more palpable.

RE: The Coming Storm 【Semi-Closed】 - Roen - 01-06-2015

Brynnalia Callae crossed her arms tighter, overlooking the railing in the Goblet, frowning with annoyance as another snowflake landed on her eyelashes.

Snowfall in the desert. Gods and their whims...

What was the point to a snowflake in the desert anyway? Small tiny elaborate thing, all of its intricacies never to be noticed by the casual eye, and only to melt into nothing the instant it handed on the warm stones. It all seemed pointless, to be so beautiful and unique, but only for the lifespan of its drifting descent from the skies.

Brynn remembered reveling in such things as a child. Traveling about the lands with her nomadic mother, one of her favorite places had been the high mountain regions in the winter. Only Coerthas reminded her of those old landscapes now, with its pristine white slopes and the chilly embrace that would seep through the thickest wool coats. She had found the soft snowy mounds forgiving and the beautiful shapes of each snowflake fascinating.

Sometimes, the bard found it hard to recall such memories, and when she did, it always brought about a moment of wistful melancholy.

But such days were gone, and her life now in Ul'dah would lend no leisurely moment for reflective musings.

She had told Gideon North differently though. She told him that all moments of happiness should be pursued relentlessly. That his life of meek contentment was no way to live, and that there was no point to draw a breath if one did not mean to fill the day with some amount of pleasure.

Such were her hedonistic views for as long as she could remember. Before she became employed with Taeros, or even before she became involved with the Ala Mhigan Resistance, her days were filled with pursuit of wine, men, and beautiful things, and not always in that order. It was always easier not to have a purpose, drifting about without care.

But now, the only thing that occupied her days were thoughts on how to stay ahead of everyone else in this rat-infested backstabbing city that was Ul'dah. Brynn glanced back at the Mandercrown estate behind her, and reflected on the night’s events.

She had used Verad Bellveil’s standing invitation to Shaelen for a card game, to draw the Highlander smuggler out of hiding. Brynn had to know if her old friend from her days in the Resistance had used their past acquaintance to plant Gideon North as an employee under Jameson Taeros. The bard thought nothing of the favor she did for Shaelen at first, the smuggler had brought the valet to her stating that he was an old friend in need of a job. Since Brynn had just become employed with one of the wealthier noble in Ul’dah, she was in a generous mood and offered to find him a job as well.

Since then questions had risen. Gharen Wolfsong, another old acquaintance from her days with the Resistance, approached asking both her and Gideon specifically, about turning on their employer. He had mentioned that both her and Gideon’s names were given to him as possible weak links within Taeros’ chain of command.

This she did not like.

At first she thought it was Crofte. The Sultansworn had gotten herself into what she can only imagine as a temporary dalliance with her employer, but still had the strange compunction to try and stay honorable in all things. She even had the gall to insinuate that Brynn was likely better off finding a new line of employment. A part of her wondered if the Sworn herself was working in secret against Taeros, except there were also hints, looks that Brynn would pick up or certain things that Crofte would inadvertently say, that made her suspect that the Sworn was actually developing genuine feelings for the Monetarist noble.

Crofte also had admitted to Brynn that she did direct Wolfsong to the bard, but not North. So then whom? After the Moraby Drydock warehouse raid, Brynnalia discovered that Shaelen had been involved with the owner of the warehouse, Sebastian Redgrave--a name that was suspected as one of Lazarov’s alias. Brynn then began to wonder if there were ulterior motives for bringing North to her to be employed under Taeros.

So she orchestrated the card game to lure both Shaelen and North under the same roof, then brought in a couple of mercenaries that held hard grudges against the Highlander smuggler to pressure her for the truth. Brynn should have known better though. The woman was full of anger and pride, and threatening her only made her dig her heels in deeper. Even with her ear being half blown off by her own gunblade, Shael refused to say anything about Gideon.

But it was the valet himself that told her the truth. Gone were his mild manners, his subservient demeanor. After everyone had departed, he stepped right up to her face, no longer observing any courtesy.

“I hate Nero Lazarov, Brynnalia.” His voice was a low hiss. “I despise him. I hate him far more than Jameson Taeros does. My desire to see him dead outweighs my desire for myself to live. His destruction will be the day I am no longer necessary as a living being. He is responsible for taking everything from me. Because of him, I am a ghost. It is true that I may have ulterior motives in serving Taeros. But don't you fucking dare imagine...that they are anyone's but my own.”

Brynn had been stunned to silence at his admission. But now she no longer doubted that the valet was working for the pirate. So the goal of the night was achieved after all. She ensured that the butler she had brought to her employer was no spy for Lazarov. So what if she duped Crofte into coming without weapons to have a Sworn presence there? Or lured Shaelen into what seemed like a harmless card game only to ambush her? And the flirtations and the teasings exchanged with Gideon that led him to accept her invitation as well, it was all an act right? It was not as if she was starting to relax or trust the man. So why the bad taste in her mouth now that her plans had come to fruition and she had secured the safety of her own employment?

The bard snorted to herself, dismissing the doubts as a she did the annoying snowflakes. It was then that a moogle flew up to her and handed her a letter. Recognizing the penmanship, she opened it eagerly.

Miss Callae,

I’ve come across proof of the Redgrave/Lazarov link. I require those trade routes to find out what Lazarov is using them for.

-Gharen Wolfsong


Brynnalia curled a slow but wide grin. Not only did she confirm one of Lazarov’s aliases, but she also had managed to turn someone who would have undoubtedly caused trouble for her employer into an ally instead. She knew telling Wolfsong about the possible link between Redgrave and the Yoyorano massacre would turn him against the pirate. She even argued that putting him away would be the best thing for his sister’s well-being and safety.

The bard knew she was using Wolfsong’s compassion as well as his concern for his sister to twist his motivations to suit her own, but in the end, it would be the best thing. For Wolfsong to oppose Taeros and the Monetarists, it would not bode well for him. And this way, he had a chance to save his sister from uncertain misfortune as well. All in all, she knew she should be proud of herself at this turn of events.

Brynn lifted her chin and sauntered toward the gates of the Goblet. She found herself suddenly eager to find a beautiful man and a bottle of fine wine to celebrate her recent successes. She no longer even noticed the snow that were turning to a pitiful droplets on the stones.

RE: The Coming Storm 【Semi-Closed】 - Nero - 01-17-2015

"Clauremont is dead," the Brass Blade had said. Of course, it wasn't an actual Brass Blade but that damnable smuggler who had delivered the news. This wasn't much of a surprise, and everyone knew: the possibility that Clauremont could actually be broken out of the gaol was very close to none. Even if he managed to get outside of the cell, it was unlikely that the Blades had fed him much, if at all. Catching him again would have been like fighting a coeurl with no limbs or teeth. And yet, that knowledge did little to alleviate Scythe's sour mood.

The large Highlander idly sharpened his falchion, and the subbasement bustled with the eerie paradox of noisy silence. Men of various races and statures worked tirelessly, gathering the rifles, powder, and shot together into crates. Swords and spears clattered as they were shoved into crates or onto racks. No man spoke as he hauled his cargo, each focus intently on their task.

The news had been a surprisingly hard hit. Clauremont was Scythe's lieutenant and now he had died in the gaol. The Hammerbeaks had successfully been destroyed, but now the attention of the Brass Blades was on them for making a ruckus. Morale was low for now, but there was no doubt that the flames of anger would be sparked any second now. The smuggler's last visit involved another irritating set of specific, restricting instructions. Scythe's grip on the whetstone tightened somewhat, the memory of it incensing him somewhat. Even so, the smuggler at least understood what he and his men wanted.

So long as he and the other gang leaders paid off the Brass Blades, they cared not for what happened in Pearl Lane. They were content to ignore everyone who'd been thrown into that squalor. The nobles, fat on their ill-gotten gains would, upon hearing the news, laugh and laugh. But that would change soon. The tunnels were almost prepared. The weapons had been sent and paid for.  And though the men were spindly and undernourished, within them burned an inferno.

A storm was coming, one of blood and steel and fire and smoke, and Ul'dah would be right in the middle of it.

RE: The Coming Storm 【Semi-Closed】 - Roen - 01-18-2015

The dark wine swirled just below the rim of the glass, the gloved hand that held it by the neck tilting the glass with practiced ease, though there was a certain restless vigor underlying the habit that was unlike him.

Jameson Taeros stared at the various pieces on the chessboard in front of him as he reclined deeper into the large leather seat. A few pawns had already been moved off the board and cast aside. Crowe, Dyer, and Aapano had all been too vocal in their opposition of him, else panicked and wavered in their loyalties. So irresistible gifts were made--expensive wine usually worked well--to take them out of the game permanently. The void of wealth and power left behind was filled quickly enough, and most of the time it was to his advantage. Such were the ever-turning cogs of Ul’dah; when a wheel broke, it was replaced and the gears just continued to grind.

The noble mused with a measure of contempt that he himself was not exempt from this unforgiving game. He harbored no foolish arrogance to believe otherwise. But he had ingrained himself in the web of power long enough and deeply enough that he had learned to perceive early any pull or resistance in that entanglement. Just like the scales of Nald’thal, the balance could be tipped at any time; those who were good at the game knew how to maintain that precarious equilibrium while adding weight to his own side.

Jameson picked up one of the discarded pieces off the board, a Dragoon, and brought it before his apathetic gaze. It was a formidable piece whilst in play, though never subtle. He had lost it sometime ago.

Natalie, you could have been so much more, the noble reminisced as he took a long sip of the wine. Natalie’s zeal in protecting all interests of Ul’dah drove the single-minded Miqo’te to reckless actions and forsaking all other loyalties. She even forgave him for his Imperial connections when he had allowed her a glimpse into his past. He still did not want to admit that there was a sense of loss that still lingered inside him since her passing. But it was dismissed as soon as it was recognized, and the chess piece was dropped along with the rest of the pawns.

The noble eyed the Wyverns on the board still. Deadly yet somewhat unpredictable. Grimsong had been hesitant to act against Lazarov. She had been tasked to end the life of one Sebastian Redgrave over a moon ago, and yet nothing. Even at the Starlight Ball where the pirate had boldly shown his face and seemingly only with Roen as his obvious ally, Delial had not made a move against him. Nor had Zuka, one of the Lalafell enforcers that Lolorito had sent to assist him in these matters. Taeros wondered if the two were reliable pieces at all. Or if he was to merely use them as distractions against the pirate.

Lazarov. Why did you show up at the Ball? Jameson crooked an elbow against the armrest and rested his head against a curled hand. The Dragon piece the other side of the board seemed to stare back at him in silent defiance. For someone as pragmatic and meticulous as Lazarov to just show his face at such a public function…it had to have been a trap, and one that Jameson could not yet see in its entirety. So a passing smile was all that was exchanged with the man who had been causing so much trouble for his employer and his ilk. If it was a trap, Jameson was not going to spring it under such scrutiny, and he was fully aware of many eyes following his every move that night. It was best to let the pirate go, and strike at him another day.

But…if his Wyverns were no longer considered reliable, what pieces did he have left? He plucked the Temple Knight off the board, holding it between his fingertips like a fine jewel. My own knight. My Sultansworn.

Coatleque Crofte. She had once been a whore in a brothel, yet now she now served the Sultana and was arguably the best-known Sultansworn under Jenlyns. She was very much like himself in that she had clawed her way out of the pit of poverty--the worst sort of mortal obscurity--to rise in power.

He smiled. Coatleque could not have known that they were kindred spirits when she had thrown herself at him, offering herself as payment for a favor. It was simply a business arrangement at the start, and he could not deny the value of an alliance with a prominent Sultansworn. Even when Natalie was still alive, both of them had thought that recruiting Ser Crofte to their cause would only bolster their strength. But now…

Jameson did not quite know what they were. Coatleque had professed her love for him. It was after she had betrayed him and stolen from him. The fact that it was her, of all people...

He felt his anger rise up inside him before he even realized that she had affected him in such a way. The Sworn herself was wracked with guilt, and perhaps would have said anything to appease his anger, but she said she loved him nonetheless. He extinguished his rage quickly enough, but not before that calm facade that he had worked so hard to maintain faltered for a moment. He still doubted her integrity, even as he released his grip around her throat. The tears in her eyes convinced him that she spoke true, but he wondered if it would eclipse her sense of honor should the two ever came into conflict.

Would she accept him for all that he was?

The noble had assumed that Coatleque already suspected him of certain Garlean connections. She had inquired more than once, and ever so carefully, about his other employers. But when he had asked her frankly of her own loyalties, she had made it plainly known that above all things, Sultana’s safety would come first. It was obvious that any foreign connections would be seen as a threat. So Jameson had kept things vague if not dodged the topic altogether. Perhaps that is why she still acts devoted to me. To uncover more secrets.

The Temple Knight was set back down onto the board, directly in front of the oppositions’ Wyvern. Jameson’s took up his wine glass again, swirling it absently as he studied the opposing side. Melkire and his allies within the Immortal Flames. Limsan pirates on the seas that worked with Redgrave. Royalists and even other Monetarist nobles who sought to undermine him. Jameson was still trying to find the origin of the ripple being created by an unknown source--one that was also encouraging a shift in loyalties amongst the Monetarists. Someone was letting slip the tiniest of pebbles into the proverbial political waters; the noble heard the whispers when they thought he was not listening, and knew of the secreted meetings they held when he was away. While he was busy making agreements and gaining allies, his enemies were doing the same. Only now he suspected that someone was helping them.

Was it Deneith’s work? She had already done his reputation harm with the biased Lantern article, and then there were the warehouse raids. While he could not prove she was involved, he had his suspicions. Zuka was supposed to get to the bottom of things, but the Lalafell had been woefully unproductive.

His gaze settled on the Temple Knight on the opposite side of the board. And how far you’ve come. It would be easy to bring her in. Despite her never staying in one place and staying out of Ul’dah, Zuka’s men had slowly been able to track her movements. It would not be long before they could capture her. Natalie and Delial had both suggested torture to gain information from her. She would likely know much of Lazarov’s secrets and would be of great asset in bringing down the pirate. And if suspicions proved true, could they even use her to lure the smuggler out?

These were all obvious options, but neither the noble nor Zuka entertained them for too long. Zuka seemed more interested in using the paladin to track down his own target of interest. It was likely the reason that Jameson thought his efforts had been so far fruitless. And as for himself…

You have no idea what I want, do you Roen?

A touch of moisture drew his attention to his hand, where a stray drop of the wine had just managed to scale the rim of the glass and stained his pristine white velvet glove. Jameson frowned. He brought the glass to his lips and drained it of the remaining alcohol before rising. Methodically he pulled the gloves off, flexing his calloused hand as it greeted the cool night air. It still bore the scar that he had recently acquired during his trip to Gridania. The one where he had to cut some old ties…

More pieces needed to be moved. And there were measures being taken by players that were not even on the board, the ones that the noble had mistakenly failed to pay attention to. The frown upon his dark brows only deepened. This was not like him at all. He had let his distractions get the better of him.

Jameson set the gloves by the table where his butler was sure to find them, before turning and leaving the room. He had been idle too long.

RE: The Coming Storm 【Semi-Closed】 - Banquo Viaquo - 01-18-2015

"Did you set me up?"

[Image: MeCDwIZ.png]

It would have been a stretch to say it sounded innocent. A poker game at the Mandercrown Manse, with Miss Crofte, Master Bellveil, Miss Shaelen Stormchild, and North himself - at the specific request of the evening's orchestrator and hostess... the ever-smiling Brynnalia Callae. Certainly, North had anticipated that she had other intentions for the game, but not that it would devolve into an armed standoff in the manse's sitting room. Thugs and vigilantes staring each other down, Miss Shaelen shot and wounded, and Mistress Callae furiously demanding to know North's true allegiance... to know whether Miss Stormchild had, in bringing North to Master Taeros's service, raised the blade over Mistress Callae's neck.

"Did you set me up?"

North had to wrinkle his nose at THAT particular memory; less so for the unpleasance of the moment, and more for the slapstick of it, in hindsight. It was something directly out of the young master's 1-gil thrillers (despite his admonishments, the young master Aerstorn had always been rather indiscriminate in his literature tastes. North treated them as he did fish left out in the sun). It was the sort of thing one imagined a burly thug in a suit saying; furiously gesturing with a cigar while their adversary was slowly lowered into a shark tank. But nevertheless, Brynnalia Callae had been the one to say it; demanding an answer from Miss Stormchild, desperately and viciously as her carefully-planned trap fell to pieces.

"Did you set me up"... Ah, but specifically - he recalled, stirring the pot with a smug sort of flourish - had he ever been set up specifically as an agent of Lazarov? Impossible. He hadn't even known the man's name until nearly a full season into his employment; both Miss Deneith and Master Taeros had danced around it like a peiste trap in a ballroom.

Miss Stormchild had been... anxious, after the chaos had settled and the aftermath cleaned up. She warned North that saying the wrong thing might result in harm for a great many people. However, he was armed only with the truth - no extravagant gambits required against one who had played the wrong defense. Mistress Callae had certainly been in control of the situation when the poker game devolved into a standoff - indeed, she had orchestrated it from the start - but regardless of the reason, she had failed to ask the correct question to eliminate him.

[Image: VulAPEm.png]

Indeed, their encounter outside the manor afterwards, if anything, had given him a long-missed advantage over her. Assuming that he worked on behalf of Lazarov had initially been only a logistics concern, but as the aftermath of the clash had faded away, he had focused on it more and more until it had festered into an infernal rage. If he was going to clumsily express his own emotions, amplified or not, it would at least have to be in a way that proved useful... and it certainly had.

The venom in his words and the fire in his eyes as he spat his hatred of Lazarov had been genuine; omissive, but quite genuine. For the first time since the young master's death, he had stopped planning ahead, speaking only what came immediately to heart and masking neither his words nor his intentions. Mistress Callae seemed shaken by his words, and unless his eyes had mistaken him, she had darted a quick glance to the chasm directly beside them... either wary of his intentions, or questioning her own. The night had thankfully ended with both of them walking away in the snow, rather than still at the bottom of a canyon. But he had scared her off.

He stared vindictively into the pot, accusing gaze leveled at the marinara.

It was vexing to see that Mistress Callae's boundaries lay beyond his initial estimation. It was impossible to know how much, if any, of her previous talks with him had been genuine... and thus, it had been troubling when she waltzed up Ul'dah's plush red stairs to corner North and ask for... what? She had refused to clarify. Forgiveness? Acceptance? The whole thing had been a bit of a surprise, but even her expression had barely matched up with her words. It was impossible to divine which of them betrayed what.

He had sent her away in the end, but... something had made him hand over a Starlight gift for her, intended for a better occasion before the ill-fated Poker Night. That, more than anything, had shaken her, and she had left immediately after. It had been a moment of whim... or perhaps just formality and obligation, to deliver a gift intended at a better time. North had to wonder precisely what effect it had had.

Nevertheless, the truth was out, such as it was. Gideon North was not, and would never be, the man of Nero Lazarov. Satisfied, he adroitly shifted between pots, three different ones on the verge of boil.

...So why, then, had nothing changed?

North was still in charge of Taeros's shipments... and indeed, there had still been some minor switches. Certainly nothing overly drastic, or notable enough for the families to bring to Taeros's attention; besides, most of the articles and gifts had been small enough for it to be a simple error in delivery. Master Taeros certainly knew his own power, but even he wouldn't dare to try punishing a Delivery Moogle. And yet, he had seen the subtle ripples.

Lord Rezhenne had been something of an experiment - an Elezen, and Gridanian expatriate, North estimated that he already faced some prejudices and exclusion as he tried to fit his family into Ul'dahn life. Besides, most of Master Taeros's gifts and exchanges to him were obligations of his position moreso than his schema. At the operetta all those weeks ago, Gideon had only been forced to scan a single expression, and he was rewarded with a slight glassiness to the angular smile.

In shortchanging the Elezen, North was soon able to oversupply the Quillburns; academic Highlanders whose candid opinions had earned them few friends among the Monetarists. Taeros would not find himself short on praise, but coming from those with such stringent personal standards (and grudging enemies), who knows what effect it could have? A spoon in each hand, he stirred multiple pots at a time - keeping an eye on both, careful to ensure everything was prepared according to the exact recipe.

Finally, there was House Mumuqaru. Ul'dahn through and through, they had suffered quite a financial loss in the past couple moons, by falling out of favor with the mining concerns... and so North had included one, two, three grimy chunks of iron ore in the supplied gifts. A calculated insult, or a mistake in shipment? Certainly, nobody would know. Regardless of the true reason, however, he knew that damage would be done. The relationship would be soured, even if it had been a genuine, honest accident. Nobles did not like to be reminded of their mistakes.

But he was not doing it for Lazarov. He held onto that above all else. He would say he was doing it for Miss Deneith, but... her faith had always been less in the plan, and moreso in the fact that her lover had been devising it. Thick gloves slipped on, he carried his work to cooler placements, face bathed in steam.

Perhaps he had been more truthful than he thought to Mistress Callae regarding his own intentions. Using the nobles' allegiances and petty grudges against them, even if it would not reveal his young master's murderer, felt grimly satisfying. There was something poetically just about it. A pawn moves in subtle, barely noticeable motions compared to other players on the board.

Only three questions remained, as the pinch of spices fluttered down from his fingers. One: at what point would his efforts no longer be required? Two: Would both Miss Deneith and Mistress Callae remain safe to and beyond that point?

He hesitated, hand stopping just short of the near-scalding pot handle.

Three: Who was the woman in black on Scholar's Walk?