DeServe [Semi-Closed] - Printable Version +- Hydaelyn Role-Players (https://ffxiv-roleplayers.com/mybb18) +-- Forum: Role-Play (https://ffxiv-roleplayers.com/mybb18/forumdisplay.php?fid=27) +--- Forum: Town Square (IC) (https://ffxiv-roleplayers.com/mybb18/forumdisplay.php?fid=21) +--- Thread: DeServe [Semi-Closed] (/showthread.php?tid=9725)

DeServe [Semi-Closed] - Banquo Viaquo - 01-19-2015 [sub][ask in-game about participation. OOC is welcome.][/sub] Several years ago, there was... The moon shining down through dry, arid air. Silverware clattering in inexpert hands. Plush, lounging armchairs, Roegadyn-sized, seated at a grand and ornately-carved wooden table. The combined scents of cooking grease and spices. "DON'T eat with yer hands, boy!" The patriarch, loud and brash, leisurely leaning back in his cushioned seat. Hand covered in rings. Scarred with old injuries. "That ain't how it's done round here. Yeh gotta use the stabbers." "Da-" "And it ain't Da! You say Da round here, everyone's gonna give yeh trouble. Yeh say Father, like a proper fancy desert sort." "..." A young man, sullen and withdrawn. Clothes perfectly fitted, but uncomfortable in them. Black hair streaked with a rebellious flare of green. Angry eye contact. "Father. I want to go back home. To Limsa." "Now yeh know we can't be doin' that. Not this late." The bearded man drinks from a silver cup, expression not changing. "Ain't anythin' fer us back there now, and yeh know that." "I don't care!" It's almost petulant, and the young man clearly knows it, but he can't stop himself. "Why are we here!? I HATE Ul'dah! It's dry, it's disgusting, all anyone cares about is money, and I don't know ANYONE!" He sticks a fork viciously into aldgoat steak. "We could live wherever we want. If you had all that money, then why are we even here?" "Din." The mother's voice, rough and patient. Bare-armed, but in a formal vest. She rests in a short-backed chair, an elbow resting on one corner and her arm dangling down - muscled, and solid. She stares, matching his resentful glare. "Pirates ain't gonna do much with our kinda money but steal it or spend it. Ul'dah's where yeh go if yeh want money tae make a difference. If yeh want people t'respect yeh." "Are you joking?" The son rolls his eyes, throwing up a hand in dismissal. "Even I can tell this place is rotten, Ma - Mother. If anyone's actually respected around here, it's because they already ate up and shat out some other poor -" "Dynitar!" She bolts forward, slamming her fist into the table. Her fighting knuckles are still at her belt, but the impact is loud even with her bare hand. The dishes rattle, and her son stops, startled. "Yer father and I ain't pirates anymore. We've seen enough of folks takin' what they want from those who ain't takin' it back. And folks're gonna need all the help they c'n get after that damned moon." She leans back in her chair again, keeping her gaze leveled at him and her brow arched. "We're here s'we can use that money t'make things better. Limsan, Ul'dahn, anyone who needs a hand tae make a new start. We're here tae make sure they get it." The young man looks down at his plate, expression dark and mutinous. The father glances to her, apparently ensuring he wouldn't get caught in the crossfire, then swallows his steak. "Yeh oughta lis'n tae yer mother, boy. Folks like us, like me an' yer mother, them high and mighty Ul'dahn nobles ain't gonna pay much attention tae us. Specially seein' as we're set in our ways." He softens his voice, or tries to. "But someday, yer gonna be doin' all the stuff we're doin'. Yer gonna be the one nobody saw comin', the big man of Ul'dah that smaller folks can look tae when they get knocked down. Ain't that sound good?" His son doesn't respond. The father sighs. "Well, if it dae or it don't, it's somethin' yer gonna have tae be ready for." A couple more moments of silence, in which the aldgoat steak suffers the brunt of the tension. "Bein' as it is, yer mother an' I have hired someone tae look after yeh and make sure yeh learn what's what in Ul'dah." "Look after me." He snaps up again, fuming. "What am I, a child? I don't need some sitter -" "Din." The boy shrinks again, at his mother's piercing stare. "He ain't a babysitter. This is... 'nother thing them Ul'dahn folk have if yeh wanna be taken serious. He's just gonna help yeh. Stay with yeh, answer any questions yeh got that we can't answer. Just... a companion, right. A proper genn'lman." "A servant." The distaste in his voice is clear, but before he can be rebuked, a knock sounds at the distant door. The father brightens, whether forced or naturally. "An' that oughta be him now! Go on, boyo, go let the poor stiff in. Needs tae get settled. Say 'ello, get tae do that whole first impression business I've been tellin' yeh bout." The young man stands up from his chair immediately, glaring at both his parents before turning on his heel, boots clomping through the halls of the fresh and bare manor. He reaches the door, throws it open, and mutters in the general direction of the outdoors, tone curt and providing none of the welcome that his words do. "Can I help you?" A young man, Hyuran, wearing a polite but anxious smile. Around the same age as the young Roegadyn before him. His clothes are immaculate, all black and white, as crisp as if they had never been touched. A small bag under his arm, with all his wordly possessions inside. A short, fluid bow, with only the barest hint of self-consciousness. "Pardon me, young sir. Would I be correct in assuming this to be the domicile of House Aerstorn?" RE: DeServe [Semi-Closed] - Banquo Viaquo - 05-12-2015 And now… The Aerstorns were dead, and Gideon North yet remained. First had been the parents, ambushed at sea by opportunistic pirates and soldiers of fortune. They, and their wealth, now lay at the bottom of the Rhotano. Then the son, Dynitar--poisoned through deception, in which North’s dismissal lasted just long enough for his “replacement” to slip some degenerative agent into the young master’s meal, and vanish from the scene. When North reappeared on the scene, the last of the Aerstorn line was hunched dead at his desk, face wracked in a rictus of pain and anguish. North had fled to Gridania, consumed by paranoia and despair, unable to direct his grief and rage towards some kind of culprit. The conjurer’s guild, and indeed the soft-spoken denizens of the forest, had provided a quiet solace for the deposed valet. He was asked few questions, and little was demanded of him other than his adherence to tradition, and North clung to the local rules and social order like a drowning man to a buoy. For almost three years, he remained there, recovering and trying to rebuild himself--politely attending the Gridanians when he could, putting up the pretense of studying the elementals further though his conjury remained amateur at best, and spending the evenings in quiet conversation with Ursandel, an old local who had been schooled in the same arts as North, if by different teachers. Little by little, the sting of his losses faded, and North grew to study the art of his healing somewhat more seriously. Though he could hardly be said to be emotional at the most dire of times, he began to feel like his old self once more. Despite everything he had been through, however… despite everything that he had lost over the course of those short years… and despite the danger involved... something pulled him back to Ul’dah. After those three years, the valet returned. North knew that he could no longer attend his young master. Dynitar Aerstorn and his parents was dead, and North was a servant without a master. However, there remained a part of him fixated on the idea that the young master’s desires had outlived his mortal body. Somehow, certainly, if North could still uphold the young master’s wishes--if he could serve the Aerstorns’ interests now that Dynitar himself no longer could not--then surely that would be the pinnacle of anything he could do. He would be a true servant to them, loyal beyond the simple ties of employment, or even life itself. It was with this in mind that he returned to the city of wealth and sand, intent on seeking one thing above all else, for the sake of both he and his young master: the truth. Unfortunately, it was not the truth that awaited him in Ul’dah, but a brewing storm, and the dark machinations that fueled the city soon rising to a violent crescendo. In delving into its inner workings, North found himself caught between the cogs; ground with immense pressure between two powers bent on maintaining control. On one side, the Monetarist Jameson Taeros, with the power of sheer wealth, prestige, and employed force. On the other, the ex-pirate Nero Lazarov and his allies united by his vision of an Ul’dah free from the oppressive force of its controllers. Placed in the midst of this conflict, North came to know, trust, and alternately plot against several of the major players positioned against each other... Roen Deneith, the wayward paladin with a bond to Lazarov. Tormented by doubts and emotion, she had been the one to first speak to North about placing him among the higher powers of Ul’dah, that he might feed information back to her (or find more information regarding her quarry). Despite her virtue and strength, she had faltered many times over the course of the long journey, struggling to find a purpose in following the whims and schemes of her seemingly uncaring love. Lazarov himself had never asked anything of North; indeed, it had always been Roen asking, apologizing, pleading, thanking. In her darkest moment, entrapped within Taeros’s underground prison, North had been the one to secure her freedom by deceiving the guards. He had grown to feel a curiously paternal bond with her, sharing insight and wisdom with her whenever her path grew dim. Nero Lazarov, the pirate-turned-terrorist who opposed the Monetarist hold over Ul’dah. It was his scheme that ultimately placed North into noble employment, but as events unfolded, it became clear that he himself had been the murderer of the Aerstorn elders--decimating their ship in that nautical raid years and years ago. Aghast, North severed all ties with his cause… but, torn between his revenge and new loyalty, could not bring himself to act against the man Roen loved. Lazarov went on to wreak untold destruction in the streets of Ul’dah, driven by whatever ideals had replaced his mercenary attitude in days past. Though North yet despised him, the justification had changed--with all that he’d committed, it gradually became clear that he was simply no longer the man that had ended Dynitar’s parents, but a haunted, violent ghost of a man, with more ideals than sanity. Jameson Taeros, the distinguished Monetarist into whose service North had been placed. The man had began just as North expected him--ruthless, detached, and accepting nothing but the finest luxuries his wealth and influence would afford him. However, North’s time in his service had provided a feeling he had long missed; a curious sensation of being in his element, of fitting precisely where he belonged. Taeros was by no means a good man, but his treatment of North had been less that of the uncaring master rising above the masses, and more… simply master and servant, in the relationship of mutual-but-different respect that North had heard long ago to be the true, fulfilling archetype. No longer certain of his position against the man, North had in the end clutched to his newfound professional loyalty, serving the man as faithfully as he could without disrupting his other allegiances. His final disappearance in the bizarre battle beneath the high streets of the Goblet left North empty, and once more without a master. Brynnalia Callae, Taeros’s information expert and inscrutable advisor, always ready with a sly smile, and the glint in her eye that straddled the line between cheerful wit and a shark advancing on its prey. She and North had shared an unsteady tension and a push-and-pull dynamic throughout the course of their work together. At one point, such tensions resulted in a startling, impulsive kiss, born more of calculated psychological maneuvers than any true feeling--on another night, culminating in a violent armed standoff at a Starlight gathering… but as they grew to understand each other, there was a strange kinship, respect, and even genuine endearment in their unexpected similarities. Even after her threats, her caution, and her ever-present air of deception and false emotion… something yet resounded, and they shared a bizarre closeness. Coatleque Crofte, the paladin whose affections trumped her professional obligation. Once merely an investigator and element of law enforcement investigating the crossfire between Taeros and Lazarov, an inebriated night and an uncompromising intent to find the truth led her into a relationship with Taeros himself. What began as a cautious gambit to reach further into the darkness developed into genuine emotion, and Taeros’s disappearance hit her perhaps the hardest of them all. Verad Bellveil, the dubious merchant whose insight and whimsy helped North see through Roen’s well-intentioned equivocation. It was only thanks to him that the armed Starlight confrontation orchestrated by Brynnalia was settled with minimal amount of blood loss--the eccentric Duskwight had spent the entire evening alternating between off-color jokes, betting all his clothes off, engaging in heated political debate, and obfuscating his own business practices before he called on an armed squadron of Miqo’te. The man was seemingly more well-connected than he let on, and though North had rarely seen him after that evening, he remained at the back of North’s mind as an unanswered question--or potentially the answer to a question of North’s own. Edda Eglantine, the reserved woman of noble bearing and background. A chance encounter with North in the streets of Ul’dah was their only meeting, but now, chance seems to conspire to throw them together--as an unaccompanied woman of high social class, it seems she had been considered as a candidate for North’s new assignment, replacing Taeros after the man’s disappearance. Still hesitant, North had not sought her out again after that meeting--still sorting out his mental turmoil after the disappearance of yet another master. Fearing the ripples of the recent chaos coming to affect her as well, the valet kept his distance, remaining alone with his thoughts. Finally, there was Brandt Wintfrydsyn--the mysterious Roegadyn merchant and speculator working on behalf of one Lord Banquo; a foreign noble who had apparently taken a very keen interest in employing North for his own services. Enigmatic, well-dressed, and constantly drinking what seemed to be aetherically-enhanced potions, the Roegadyn had suggested that North represented a tremendous asset not only in terms of his skills as a valet, but in his newfound knowledge regarding the inner workings and secrets of the Ul’dahn upper class. Though he claimed the best of intentions, something in his demeanor and suggestion seemed to hint at something darker to all those he negotiated with. However, with Taeros out of the picture, it would seem that there is no longer anything to keep Brandt from taking the valet to serve his own master... RE: DeServe [Semi-Closed] - Banquo Viaquo - 05-21-2015 "He’s been gone an awfully long time.” The well-dressed Roegadyn’s voice was calm, though the furrow of his brow indicated more frustration than his words let on. He sipped on what appeared to be a murky green potion occupying a delicate wineglass, idly staring over the vista from one of the Bismarck’s railing seats, talking into a linkpearl as his eyes scanned blankly over the bluffs. “You’ve been keeping an eye out?” “I’m tellin’ you, Mr. B--” The voice on the other side was patient, placating, but unapologetic. “The last sighting anyone’s got of him was when he stopped through the bazaar about four suns ago, buying a bottle of wine.” “Wine.” The Roegadyn raised an eyebrow. “Out of character, Fields. Our friend Mr. North doesn’t really strike me as a drinking man.” “That’s what I thought too, boss, that’s what I thought too, but Salt’s never got it wrong before.” Fields sighed, a brief moment of hissing static over the pearl’s connection. “He says it looked real expensive, too. The good stuff. One of those fancy Ishgardian ones. You suppose it’s for someone else?” “Most likely.” Lost in thought, the Roegadyn merchant dug his thumb against the rim of the glass for a moment, leaving a dark imprint on his grey skin. “Though I wouldn’t say it’s particularly like him to be going visiting any parties, either. I certainly hope he isn’t considering anything particularly drastic.” He drained the last of his potion in the brief pause, setting the little glass back down on his table. “Maybe we need to get someone trawling Thanalan. Properly, too, not just occupying one of the outposts.” “Well, Mr. B, you know I’d be delighted to go out on your little manhunt here, just delighted. But thanks to you, I got a business to run.” The Roegadyn had to roll his eyes at the Miqo’te’s exaggerated deference; Fields’ debt to him had not dulled his irreverent snark. “I’m a busy cat, Mr. B, a busy cat. Imports! Exports! Transports! Teleports! And who’s to say that Callae girl won’t be stomping back down the Steps, seizin’ me by the throat and demandin’ Mr. North’s whereabouts? That’d put me in a tight spot, Mr. B, a real tight spot.” “Speaking of which.” The Roegadyn sits up a little straighter. “Fields, Dolf, Plum, whoever’s still listening--don’t forget, it’s Brandt Wintfrydsyn when you’re dealing with her. ‘Banquo’ is the reclusive, eccentric Highlander lord. Understood?” “Yeah, we’ve been OVER it, Mr. B, we’ve been over it. Relax. I told her Banquo’s a paranoid old loon who doesn’t like anyone learnin’ too much about him.” His smirk was almost audible. “Where’s the lie in that, my friend?” There was a pause in which Fields grunted, a slight thump of wood underscoring sounds of exertion--judging by the slight hubbub in the background, he was handling his shipping at Scorpion Crossing even as they spoke. “Honestly, Mr. B, if you want my advice... what with old Taeros going quiet, I’m not too sure the whole pseudo-name stuff is a great idea anymore.” “Precautions have to be taken, Fields. There’s too much at stake for us to go into this holding our cards the wrong way around.” Banquo shook his head, uncomfortable. Almost time for another potion. “I’ve told you how important this deal is to me. I can’t afford to let anything compromise it.” “Alright, Mr. B, alright. Forget I said anything.” A clomp of wood against wood, as Fields set something heavy down. “As for old Dolfy, I don’t think you gotta worry about him saying the wrong thing, specially not to her. After that time she snuck up on him in the Bazaar, I figure she’s liable to shoot the poor fella down before he even has a chance to grump at her. He’s been stayin’ out of trouble like you wanted, and he ain’t gonna let himself get caught again.” “Lodolf?” The Roegadyn waited, voice taking on a carefully probing tone. “Are we good?” A brief silence on the line. Fields went quiet. Banquo tapped his finger on the wineglass rim once, then twice... then the Highlander’s voice rumbled from the pearl, grudging and indistinct. “We’re good, boss.” “Glad to hear it.” Lodolf clearly wasn’t happy, but that was hardly new. Banquo uncorked a new bottle, plucked from within the countless ones in his coat, and refilled his own glass. The green elixir gleamed somewhat unpleasantly in the coastal sunlight, the entire bottle only barely filling the wineglass. Somewhere in the Bismarck’s kitchens, a dishwasher winced. “It would represent a significant loss of investment for us if you were apprehended, and after that disaster in Drybone, I’d rather keep you well away from all this business with Mr. North. And the law, for that matter.” The Highlander almost cut him off, snapping. “Yeah, I get it, boss.” Lodolf’s own debt to the Roegadyn went unspoken, but hung forebodingly on the edges of both their words. “Alright then.” A longer pause, in which he drank deeply from the dense green--setting it back down with a sigh of relief only after a full five seconds of throwing the entire contents back. “Well, that’s enough about North, I think. Doubtless he’ll turn up, and if he doesn’t, we’ll see what we can do about it. Anyone found any good prospects lately?” “Ah, now there I can help you, Mr. B, there I can help you.” Fields seemed to brighten up at the idea. “Let’s see. Old Roarich’s been giving the stink-eye to a fine-looking little weaver girl. Seems she’s been turning in some commissions on the side, but she’s been dying ‘em different from how it’s usually done. Somethin’ about coloring ‘em before she even stitches it together.” “Ooh.” Banquo stroked his chin, smiling thoughtfully. “Well, ‘color’ me intrigued.” Ignoring the groan of pun-induced anguish from Fields and Lodolf’s disapproving growl, he continued. “Perhaps I’d better ensure her business is appreciated, then. It wouldn’t do to have potential like that stamped out… and I daresay I could use a new pair of gloves anyway. We’ll see if she’s worth investing in. Anything else?” “Let’s see… new fishmonger roaming Ul’dah, old Highlander fella, don’t know much about his background… elezen jeweler dismissed from Esthaime’s…” Fields hummed, audibly flipping through sheafs of notes. “And there’s always the Grindstone.” Banquo wrinkled his nose, gently swirling the wineglass. “Grindstone.” “Oh, Mr. B, you need to get out more. The Grindstone? The tournament? The unauthorized, independent-run tournament that’s been goin’ under Ul’dah’s nose?” Fields sighed in mock despair. “Stay on the ball, Mr. B, or I’ll be running this operation before you know it. Anyhow, you might check them out. I dunno if they could use the money, but you’re bound to find a couple good prospects there, eh? Folks who’d rather skip all the rules and Monetarist eyes, and just get straight to the fighting? Sure enough, Mr. B, sure enough, that kinda place is bound to have what you’re lookin’ for. Talk to old Warren Cast-Iron. He’s running the show. I’ll get you some details.” “I’ll look into it.” Banquo shook his head in quiet exasperation. Fields’ observations and connections were helpful... but simple, direct communication was not one of his strong suits. “I’LL look into it. And you’ll give me a bonus for m’trouble.” Fields’ shit-eating grin was audible. “How about you, Dolfy? Anything turn up?” There was a heavy sniff from the Highlander’s end. “Mnh. Golden Bazaar’s quiet. Not many newcomers needin’ jobs. All goin’ to that carpenter guy. One reject, though. Roe mercenary. Sounds like the Blades took ‘im in for threatenin’ an officer when they found him with sword drawn on the road. Can’t get any work, now that people know he’s been arrested before.” Banquo nodded, eyes narrowing. “The man still there?” “Yeah, boss.” He exhaled. “Keep him around if you can. I’ll see if I can find a place for him.” He rose, leaving a little heap of glinting gil on the table as the nearby waitress sagged in relief. After ordering a bottle of wine and not even taking a sip, it was the least he could do. He strode out of the Bismarck, tapping his ear with two fingers. “Stay alert, ladies and gentlemen. I’m counting on you.” “You got it, Mr. B, you got it.” “Yeah, boss.” “And if you know anyone who might be able to help track down our errant valet, I am certainly all ears.” Banquo stared ahead, eyes settling on the Drowning Wench. “From the sounds of things, we can hardly afford to sit around waiting for bad news.” “Well, Mr. B…” Fields hesitated. “I might have one idea. Don’t think you’re gonna like it, though.” RE: DeServe [Semi-Closed] - Banquo Viaquo - 05-21-2015 [This marks the concurrence of DeServe and What You Are In The Dark.] The distinction between loyalty and faith is a fine one indeed. As North reflected on this, he also realized--rather too late--that Final Prayer made a poor refuge for one dedicated entirely to the former, with none of the latter. And yet he had somehow been led here, walking aimlessly through Eastern Thanalan, passing Drybone with nary a shudder or a glance. The last time he traveled that road resulted in the inexplicable attempt on his life--an incident that, even after all that had happened, went unanswered and unclear. No culprit, no motive, no trace. He had known from the very beginning that Taeros was little more than a momentary convenience; a shark onto which the remora latches. The man's crimes, both moral and literal, were as numerous as his adversary's. North had even been actively working against him--that had been his sole purpose in entering his employment in the first place. He had clearly been marked as a target from the start, and thus--Gideon set the wine bottle onto the dusty ground--he was not to be mourned. But he had been a master, hadn't he? He had ensured North knew his place. Above all, they both played their roles as best they could, and that, the butler had expected. But, over time--and yes, especially there at the end--it seemed as though he had truly valued not only North's life, not merely his well-being, but his happiness. He had apparently endeavored to keep North from those who sought to take him from Taeros's service, with all the suspicion due of one of his station. He had not treated North as more than a servant, but... that, he had given a strange dignity. A nobility. An understanding, North finally settled upon, that was almost painful in its long-missed familiarity. When Master Taeros had, at the end, called out Gideon's name, bleeding blue and black, the valet had hesitated out of shock. The healing aether never came, and Taeros had fallen. But had the valet been obeying his instincts... or fighting them? Whatever the motivation, he had not acted quickly enough, and now another master was gone. He stared blankly into the etched stone before him, absently fumbling the golden maple pin out from within his jacket and rolling it between his fingers. Perhaps this was simply the natural way of things. One may only serve until they fail, and thus lose that right to serve. Two masters served, and two masters gone. No. Something resounded in his head. One master served. And one master betrayed. His fist closed over the badge, and his head swam with sudden, overwhelming dizziness--thoughts churning with violent emotion and cold, detached appraisal. Preserving one loyalty does not pardon the betrayal of another. His face remained implacable as always, but a sudden bile rose up within him at the thought. Almost hastily, he took a long gulp from the bottle at his side, pushed more by impulse than true desire, and sagged as he returned it to its place on the ground. He sat silently among the gently humming fireflies, the open bottle at his side and his eyes on the ground. His eyes flickered to his silver grimoire, carelessly set on the dusty ground alongside him, then returned to the etched stone before him--staring blankly into it, hoping for some flicker of clarity, or even merely some relief. However (that same, cold part of him reminded), that was a luxury intended only for men of faith. His shoulders rose and sank in a brief sigh, and he pocketed the badge. Lingering too long on such questions would be provably unhelpful, and--more to the point--beyond his station. He closed his eyes, listening to the hum of the fireflies... then paused, paying closer attention to the sound as they drifted somewhat further away. "...?" The Miqo'te nearby took a few more steps, gradually more audible the closer he came. The ground was dry enough not to betray his footsteps, but he still walked with some measure of caution. Approaching, the young stranger spoke, noticing the valet's curiosity--his eyes obscured by a practical leather facemask. "Mister North...." "Ah." Of course; a place for reflection like this would no doubt serve others, who would also value their solitude. He instinctively began gathering his things up, politely nodding behind him. "A thousand pardons, sir..." "Please, no need for such apologies..." The rebuttal was pleasant, almost apologetic itself. Gideon watched the man dip into an apparent bow... then break almost seamlessly into a predatory lunge, vicious clawed gauntlets gleaming in the light of the fireflies. The valet scrambled back in shock, the bottle spilling from his arms and staining the ground wine-red as he raised the book as a makeshift shield, desperately trying to block the sudden strike. "Wh-What--" The clawed stranger's strike hooked against the side of the book, and he immediately twisted his arm back, deftly trying to rip the tome from North's hands. Something flashed in North's eyes, and he tilted the book just the slightest, letting the attacker simply rip open the front cover. One half of the book was all but shredded by the vicious claw, but the pages swiftly fell open to a random angular diagram. Concentrating his aether, he hissed darkly, letting the instant reaction of Bio course through his arms, into the book, and towards his assailant. "...Assassin." The accusation, predictably, had no effect on the Miqo'te--however, he clearly recognized the sudden flow of aetheric energy. He quickly dropped to the ground, both hands stopping himself directly before impact. Twirling nimbly on the ground, his foot blurred through the air, arcing towards Gideon's jaw. Twisting desperately, the valet attempted to deflect the blow, but North was no martial artist--the strike connected, sending him sprawling flat on his back in the dirt, coughing in pain and breathless rage. "Ghnnh... is it you...?" His face bore a strange, wide-eyed smile as his head snapped up to face the assassin. The momentum of the kick let the acrobatic Miqo'te twirl back up onto his feet--with not a word at North's senseless question; only replying with another lunge forward, claws out and angled towards the Hyur's neck. With barely any time to react, North twisted to the side, gasping--the razor claws tearing through his jacket and shoulder instead. Blood stained the pristine black of his formal jacket, and he breathed in soundless pain; fumbling with his free hand for the fallen bottle and swinging it towards the assassin's face in retaliation. With his free hand, the assassin lashed out to strike the wine bottle mid-swing, shattering the glass, sending shards and wine splaying across both North and the dry soil. "Ghh!" He recoiled, the shards of glass and wine provoking a brief, reflexive cringe. "Three YEARS, and--!" Seeing the Miqo'te bringing the claw down once more, he threw his head to the right, in a desperate attempt to protect himself--the claws raked across the left side of his face, slicing easily through his eye and cheek. He roared, in pain and anguish. The assassin hissed quietly, clearly somewhat irritated at the valet's persistent survival. He paused for just a brief moment, then twisted the claw embedded in the Hyur's shoulder, ripping the flesh--more blood, soaking the black. Almost instantly, he brought the other claw back down, shearing through the air to the man's chest, but North wrenched himself to the side in a desperate spasm, further twisting the claws in his shoulder. The man's other claws pierced him, but grazed off his ribcage, avoiding fatal damage once more. He arched on the ground, a ragged whimper of pain escaping him--incongruously feeble for the depth of the wound. "HALT!" Through the haze of pain and adrenaline, North heard the voice of Roen, of all people, cut through the fray. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a redhead figure in the uniform of the Blades charge towards the chaos, and the masked man's gaze rose to her for just a moment... before ripping both claws from North's body with a sickening sound of severance. He darted up from the crumpled valet, dashing towards the Blade as if in attack... then, at the last moment, he leapt and flipped over the Blade in an adroit flip, landing on his feet just behind her. Without another moment's hesitation, he bolted down the hill, out towards the plains. Roen seemed to hesitate, her gaze darting from the fleeing assassin to the valet, bleeding out on the ground. "Gyaaghk--" North arched again, panting in pain, and fumbled for the remains of his book. A mangled roar of fury rose within him as his fingers closed in a claw over the page, crumpling the paper--his other hand blindly firing out Ruinous bolts, green tinges of Bio, sickly green Virus--anything requiring no more than a second's thought. Roen ducked the aetheric onslaught, hastily rushing to the side, but not a single spell connected--the masked man sprinted away, not looking back. "YOU FINISH... YOUR JOB!" North roared out, choking on more than just his words. "DON'T YOU... RUN... N-Nnghh..." As the assassin vanished from view, the bloodied servant devolved into wordless howling and gasping. Roen's eyes followed the last crackling Ruin as it blurred down the path alongside her... but she rushed toward the fallen man instead, the assassin no longer in sight. She fell to her knees next to him. "Mister North!" Pulling off her turban to survey his wounds, she tried desperately to number the injuries. A gash in his shoulder... jaw badly bruised... both cloth and flesh shredded... one side of his face all but sheared through... "Gideon!" The valet did not respond, hands remaining where they were--clawing at paper and casting out in furious aetheric stabs at the air, though the spells no longer came. She grabbed onto one wrist, as if to bring him to the present from wherever his mind was at. "Gideon!" She leaned forward, wide eyes going from his face to the growing crimson stain upon his shoulder. Then inevitably, it returned back to his... wounded eye and face. She grimaced. Gideon writhed feebly, hand twisting in her grip. "M-Master, they're... here. Run, please... please..." Seeing his distress, she pressed him down a bit more forcefully, her tone firm despite the alarm upon her expression. "Gideon. Stop. Let me heal you... You are..." She swallowed. "You are injured badly..." North twisted his head from side to side, the frantic tears mingling with the fresh blood. "Master, you cannot stay!" Hurriedly, she fumbled her gauntlet off, to lay her hand upon his... shoulder? Face? Eye? There was so much blood. She swallowed to steady herself. "Gideon. Please. Calm. I am going to stop the bleeding first..." She put a steady pressure upon his shoulder, glancing warily over her shoulder to where the assailant had disappeared. Facing Gideon, she frowned. "He ran. I am not letting you bleed to death." "Master, they could return... at any moment! Think of... your parents! I promised them I would... I would look after..." North hissed out in pain, staring blindly up at the sky, the tears not stopping.  After a moment, fully registering his words, Roen exhaled. She did not budge, holding him still as best she could as she summoned the aether onto his shoulder wound. Throughout, she remained silent, closing her eyes as the aether flooded his injuries. "Stop... stop, please..." Though he shook, jolting one way and then another, his movements gradually slowed--his hand falling to the ground, and the paper tearing with a slow rip as his other hand closed into a fist. Seeing the flesh closing, Roen breathed out in relief. "Gideon... you did everything you could..." she murmured. "I knew he would come back, Master... but he knew I'd be looking for poison this time, so he... he chose another means..." North muttered indistinctly, still panting with effort and pain. Roen's expression saddened as she met Gideon's unseeing eye. "Do not blame yourself..." she said softly, moving to treat the wounds on his chest. The severity of the damage made her falter for one brief moment before the aether rose within her once more. "They always come, master... wherever I go... they're always there, you can't escape them. No servants, only masters. Never servants, only masters." North whispered in horror, staring blindly skyward. "Him, her, her, him, her, him, her..." He shuddered, shaking uncontrollably. "I have to, I have..." Her shoulders slumped, the treatment having drained her somewhat. She laid a hand upon the man's jawline, turning his face towards her. "Gideon," she said softly. "Please. Come back." The valet swallowed, hard, and went completely still. Her gaze darted from his jaw to the long gash ripped across his eye, face twisting in worry. "...Miss Deneith." North opened his eyes, speaking with sudden, unshakable calm and composure, despite his wounds and the situation. Roen Deneith finally released a long sigh, her shoulders slumping and relief washing over her face. "....Mister North." She curled a faint smile, although it was still tinged with worry. "Please hold still, let me at least... close these wounds. Your jaw and... your eye..." "Very good, Miss. Please do as you see fit." The valet stared politely forward, his injured eye slightly rolling. Surveying the damage, Roen winced. His jaw appeared to have suffered the least of the damage, but his eye... "We should get you to the infirmary." North appeared unconcerned, speaking while gazing blankly ahead. "Pardon me, Miss, but would you possess any insight into the identity and purpose of that man?" Roen Deneith glanced past him to where the assailant had disappeared. "He wore a mask. I did not recognize him." He watched the fireflies, seemingly entranced. "Of course. Of course that would be the case. Thank you, Miss." "We should get you to the infirmary, Mister North. You have been injured badly." Roen swallowed. "I mended what I could but..." "The infirmary? My goodness, I AM in Drybone again, aren't I? You'd think I would have learned!" North burst out laughing, his good eye somewhat wider than usual. Roen blinked, a bit incredulous. "Ah. But you have survived. Yet again." "Yes, Miss, indeed! It is just my luck!" He laughed merrily, closing his eye with a broad smile... then grunted in quiet pain, hauling himself to his own feet. She blinked again, looking to her hand, then back to Gideon. "I take it you did not recognize the attacker." "No indeed, Miss. I'm afraid not. A bit of a waste, isn't it?" She watched him cautiously, then picked up her gauntlets, redonning them as she rose as well. She gave him an odd look at the words. "What do you mean..?" "I yet live, and I have not the means to find my assailant, nor keep it from happening again! I daresay nobody has gotten what they wished for tonight!" He shrugged good-naturedly, chuckling with uncharacteristic mirth. Roen frowned instantly. "You are wrong. You live. At least that was my wish when I came upon the scene." Pausing, she stepped forward, lowering her voice. "This was the second time you were attacked. Perhaps we can find a pattern. A rhyme or reason..." "I suppose if one wishes for constants to remain the same, Miss, then one can be thusly satisfied. But this... why, nothing really changed, did it? Nothing changes." North stared at the fireflies for a moment. At his words, Roen blinked again, her movements slower. Her gaze quietly fell to the ground. A moment of silence passed... before North turned to her, smiling politely. "...Miss, I believe it would be unwise to remain here for much longer." Roen pressed her lips into a thin line, then nodded in agreement. "Aye. Let us at least get you to a more skilled healer than I." "If it is needed, Miss. I daresay I feel... fine." He chuckled faintly, striding forward. She regarded him again, her eyes narrowing. "I would feel better if you were checked. And your eye, Mister North..." "Please, Miss. What do I have to worry about with one eye less? Certainly, if tonight is any evidence, I should have been making better use of them in the first place!" He laughed heartily again, making his way down the path without looking back at her. She watched him oddly, following silently behind him. North sat on the bed, smiling blankly as he stared forward. They had even placed him in the same room as the last incident. Perhaps they were coming to recognize him. Roen glanced around, standing by the bedside--clearly remembering similar circumstances. Seeing the healers bustling to and fro, she sighed, relaxing somewhat. She took an uncertain step forward, towards the wounded valet. "Please, let them help you in however way they can, Mister North." "Of course! Familiar comforts indeed, Miss, familiar enough." North nodded vaguely. She parted her lips as if to say something, then stopped. Instead, she lightly placed her hand upon his shoulder, her voice softening. "I am glad you are alright." She studied his face. "And even if nothing changes, does not mean we should stop trying," she murmured. "Miss need not worry. I know precisely what I must do." He nodded, smiling--still staring into the middle distance. "Nothing foolish... I hope?" Roen stared at him, unsure. "Do I seem a fool, Miss Deneith?" North stared back at her. For a brief moment, his eyelid twitched. She slowly shook her head. "Nay. Anything but." Her voice lowered. "Then I shall leave you in peace." North smiled, the expression apparently fixed in place. "Now. I believe it is time I rested!" She shook her head again, just slightly. "Do get your rest, Mister North." "I shall endeavor to." At last, she stepped back, but paused once more. "I will check on you soon." She smiled almost meekly at him, as if in reassurance. North stared, smiling, at the wooden screen. "Thank you, Miss. Goodbye." Roen paused at the doorway, giving the man another strange look, then made her way out of the infirmary, steps slow on the worn stone. For a long while after, while the chirurgeons and healers attended to him, North remained staring blankly forward. He could not fail them--fail those who had stood alongside him--as he had failed his Masters. Though faith remained beyond his reach, now moreso than ever before, he would always have loyalty. If his surest way of protecting them was to disappear, then so be it. RE: DeServe [Semi-Closed] - Roen - 06-04-2015 [The events in this post happen after this but before this.] I owe him. I owe him much. Goldwind raced up the steps to the entrance to the Church of Saint Adama Landama, a long trail of dust left in his wake. The paladin scanned the graveyard as she slid off her bird, the vermilion Brass Blade chain-mail armor rustling with her hurried steps. Roen had rushed back to Thanalan from Gridania as soon as she had received Mister North’s letter. She had thought him safe, if she was far away from him and with his infamous employer disposed of, she thought the valet out of harms way. But he did not believe the same. “As of the incident some days past, it has become abundantly clear to me that my presence in Ul’dah will, and only ever did, bring ruin upon those I held close and dear. It took an attempt on my life for this to become evident, but having recognized this, I can no longer allow it. I refuse to become a liability for Miss, fatal or otherwise. Tonight I will reclaim what Ul’dah has taken from me, and take my leave.” Roen recalled the strange distant look that had come over the valet when she left him in the infirmary, but inflicted with exhaustion and disquiet of her own, she had fled to the Shroud. As she was readying preparations to travel to La Noscea in search of Nero, the butler’s letter had arrived. Despite all that weighed upon her thoughts, the paladin could not ignore its contents. “It has been a privilege to aid you. When you think back on our time together, I pray you remember not the allegiances, but the people that comprised them. I will do the same.” Gideon North was saying goodbye. Perhaps forever. Roen could not let it be. She could hardly believe that he somehow had blamed himself for the peril he found himself in, let alone believe he posed a threat to her, when he had been nothing but a pillar of strength and wisdom. She could not simply let the letter be his last farewell. And knowing what his plans were for his previous young master, Dynitar Aerstorn, Roen knew precisely where to find the butler. She spotted him easily amongst the tombstones, digging at the ground with a massive spade, his dark red suit stained with lichyard mulch. From the height of the dirt pile next to him, the paladin could tell he had been at this for awhile. His movements stopped when the spade thunked dully against a wooden surface beneath his feet. “Mister North,” Roen called out, pulling off her turban and mask. "Miss Deneith,” he answered, but did not turn to face her. “I should have known better than to dally overlong driving off the attendant." "So... you are truly leaving?" "I have little other option, Miss. I am now a target. Our connection must be severed." He returned to digging, still not looking at her. The paladin approached him slowly, looking about the lonely graveyard. "You were in employment of a man who has now gone missing. Are you certain you were the target?" Gideon sighed. "Miss, losing one master is a misfortune. Losing two is a pattern. And being the target of a direct assault? As my master was the target of a calculated effort to eradicate his family?" "Neither was a failure on your part. Nor do the fault of their misfortunes fall upon you!" He spared her a glance. "If you tell me that this is a coincidence, Miss, you demean me, my masters, and their memory." Roen shook her head, her expression sorrowful but still determined. "Not a coincidence. But also not your fault." "Fault has no part in it. The fish has no fault in being caught. But Miss cannot deny that I am now a target, and that those most closely connected with me are, little by little, eradicated." He exhaled sharply as he returned to his task. "This is the safe way, Miss. Leave." She watched him clear away the remaining dirt covering the coffin, then her gaze strayed to the objects near the dirt pile next to him: a collection of bone shards, strange humours, and some other odds and ends. She knitted her brows. “I do not wish you talk you out of anything you wish to do. Or what you think is best for you or your young master. But..." She paused, her voice softening. "I do not wish to say goodbye." The next glance he gave her sharp. "Did Miss not hear me? This is necessity. Wishes have no part in it. Leave." Roen straightened. "I did. Loud and clear." She stepped towards him. "I will not go. I promised to aid you." She swallowed and gestured to the coffin. "...In this." There was a slight constriction to her throat as she reminded him of the task she had agreed to long time ago. It was when she had revealed to the valet that Nero had been the one that killed his former masters. She was desperate to commit to some kind of recompense for the man, to comfort him in his time of distress. Even if it involved the very unnatural process of trying to bring back the dead, under whatever circumstances. That made Gideon blink. "...You still intend to, then...?" She frowned but nodded. "I said I would." He stared at her for a moment longer, before beckoning her. "Help me pull this out." He lowered himself to the side of the grave, grunting as he gripped one corner of the coffin. Roen hid a grimace as she lowered herself as well, taking hold of the other end even as she eyed the broad coffin, one that was of a Roegadyn’s body size. When the two heaved it up and out of the dirt hole it was in, she found it somewhat lighter than expected. She stared at the dirt covered coffin as the valet looked over it anxiously. She wanted to silently ask for its forgiveness for the disturbance of its rest. Gideon then ran to the dirt pile and his collection of items next to them, sorting through it with frantic energy. “Can you open it?” he called out to her. “I may be able to wedge my sword in between the seams to loosen the nail…” She knelt beside the coffin, fingering the edges. But even those words came slow and hesitant. "Please, Miss." Gideon turned and stood by the coffin, massaging his fingers. He stood watch as she worked the scimitar into the corner, wiggling it deeper then using the hilt as a pivot to loosen the nails. “We will right this wrong, we will fix this flaw,” he whispered, a wide-eyed electric intensity to his gaze. "Mister North..." Roen paused after the third corner was loosened. “Is the research complete? On what has to be done? What will happen?” "Enough, Miss, enough that I have something to go on, but we have no time!” The valet answered impatiently, waving her concern off. “I have no time! I have to use the means available to me.” "Why the hurry? Should this not be done right?" "It will be done right. I will do it right." He knelt by the coffin, as if staring at it would open it faster. "I cannot stay any longer. We must go. The young master has been here long enough." Roen approached the fourth and final corner of the coffin. "Mister North. It is best to do these things precisely. I know not the exact science of such things but..." She exhaled with a grim expression. "So much is at risk. Do not let an assault by a masked man, or assumptions that may not be entirely true, rush you into things that you will regret later!" Gideon shook his head, frowning. "Should I not have let you persuade me to enter Taeros's employ, Miss? That I might 'regret' it later? This is far more important than anything I have ever done, anything I have ever been!" Roen stiffened, staring at him. "That is precisely why you cannot hurry through this." The butler did not want to listen. "It is why I cannot afford to wait, Miss. I cannot miss this chance. My only chance." He glanced nervously toward the church. "They could be here any moment. I cannot stay here. And I cannot allow him to stay here. I should not even have allowed you to stay here." He paused, staring back at her. "Did you really intend on helping me at all?" His words were cold, accusatory, and with a tinge of desperation. Roen blinked, her jaw set. She knelt down and worked her blade into the fourth corner to loosen the last of the nails. As soon as the nails popped off, the valet lunged down and scrabbled at the lid, his face twisted with wide-eyed expectation. Old wood clattered to the ground as he all but tore off the lid. But the contents within froze both of them. The coffin was full of nothing but a half-fulm of sand. "I-I..." Gideon fell back stunned from the coffin, his mouth hanging open. His eyes darted this way and that, from the head of the coffin to the foot of it, as if to disbelieve what he was seeing. Then he swallowed and lunged forward again, scrambling on all fours as if to try and get to the side of the coffin. He leaned over the side and furiously pushed aside the sand within as if digging deeper would bring a new discovery. "No. No no no no no no, no, no..." Roen stood still, watching as the valet frantically raked through the dirt with hooked fingers. “...Where is he?” He gasped. “WHERE IS HE!?” The valet nearly collapsed from the force of the yell; he immediately turned to the church, in apparent fear, then hurried behind the grave--hiding. He buried his face in his hands. The paladin knelt by his side, her voice firm. “Mister North! He is not here.” “I… I…” Gideon seemed lost. His eyes glistened as he looked about. Finally when he exhaled his held breath, his frame slumped forward. "He is... not here." Roen put a gentle hand upon his shoulder. "But he must be somewhere." The valet slowly turned his gaze back to her. "Miss Deneith..." He paused, swallowing. "...Roen, what should I do?" She let out a patient exhale. "If he is not in the coffin that was intended for him, under a tombstone that bears his name... then there was a purpose as to why someone would go through such lengths to make others think that he was." Her hand lowered to his, gripping it tight. "We will find out what that purpose is." Gideon nodded, his breathing starting to calm. "Perhaps this will lead you closer to the truth of things. And... maybe the true whereabouts of your young master's remains." She bowed her head slightly, as if peer up at him as she continued to hold his attention. "There must be records. Who arranged for the burial, the production of the tombstone. Someone must know something.” "...I... I see." The valet closed his eyes. "So, I... I am to return, after all?" He let out a hollow laugh. Roen curled a reassuring smile, the best one she could muster. "You are to do... whatever you wish to do, Gideon. But this is not the end of your journey yet." She leaned back as she released his hand, placing her own upon her lap. Gideon stared off into the distance. "...I'm…” he began, then shook his head. "I'm going to have to fill in this entire... godsdamned grave again,” he said flatly. But soon as those words left his lips he blinked, glancing back at her guiltily. "And to say such things to Miss, after all that she has been through..." He cleared his throat. Roen exhaled, suddenly reminded of her weariness. She glanced away just for a moment, looking to the church as if to collect herself. When she turned back to Gideon again, it was still with that faint curl to her lips, and the fondness to her gaze remained for him all the same. "If it was not for you, I would still be in that cell,” she said softly. "And if not for Miss, I would still be hiding in Gridania." "Then we are a fortunate pair for meeting each other, aye?" the paladin murmured as she rose, dusting herself off. She extended her hand out to the valet, who took it and stood as well. "Yes, Miss Deneith. And what harm could befall such a lucky duo?" He spoke with a tired warmth. Her lip twitched for a moment, as if to threaten a grin. “Indeed.” Roen regarded him for a moment longer before turning toward the church. "I will go seek out a shovel. I am certain we can fill this before anyone notices." She began to pull the turban and the mask over her eyes again, to resume her Brass Blades disguise. "Now then,” the valet muttered as he walked alongside her. “Fill in grave, book a room, wash my face, do damage control." "Aye. The face. It could use a wash." She curled a wry expression as the two headed to the church, leaving the empty coffin behind them. RE: DeServe [Semi-Closed] - Roen - 11-24-2015 [[This post follows these events here]] Many months ago... Brynn. I have become a target for an unknown assassin, their patron unknown. Some days ago, I was ambushed in Thanalan and nearly killed once more. It has become clear that as long as I remain in Ul’dah… I, and those I keep close, will be under constant threat. Whoever is behind this, whatever the reason may be, I cannot allow my failings to bring harm upon you. If my only means of protecting you is keep you safe from the demons I have brought upon myself, then I must accept my duty. Please allow me a final redundancy. Take care of yourself. Thank you for everything. -G.N. Brynnalia had to read the letter twice. To say that she found the contents of the missive unexpected was a gross understatement. Of all the men she had known in the past, she could count Gideon North to be one of the most unflappable person she’d known. That was why she often enjoyed teasing him so, her flirtations always daring him to answer her in kind. So for him to suddenly announce his departure in such a way, Brynn had to believe that the valet had deemed the situation grim and saw no other recourse than to run. To drop everything and flee. As if nothing else mattered. ….Or mayhap because it did matter. Foolish man of a butler. Obviously she couldn’t let that stand. Brynnalia never did understand the whole attraction of martyrdom. Too many people seemed so willing to take all the troubles upon themselves and expect others to be just fine with it. Didn’t Gideon not hear one word of the message she was trying to entice him with all this time? To be selfish, to seek pleasures and happiness for oneself, to dare to reach for the forbidden treasures… had he not considered any of it? Her first stop was Drybone. She had received word that he had been treated at the infirmary there after he was attacked for the second time. The man attracts trouble like honey attracts bears. Brynn would never know it just by looking at him. Quiet, reserved, and polite to a fault, none would think him burdened with a troubled past. But he had told her of his murdered former masters and his burning hatred for those responsible. And now with Taeros also having met an uncertain end, the valet was once again without employment. And for a second time in almost as many moons, an attempt was made on Gideon’s life as well. Someone was either looking to specifically end North’s life or lives of those connected closely to her former employer. Considering the deaths of the other three Monetarist nobles, Brynn was guessing the latter. Either way, Brynnalia was not going to let that mystery go unsolved and let North disappear into the wind. The valet was easy enough to track. Even though he had left Drybone without a word of his destination, she found a guard at Highbridge that described a man passing through, dressed in a suit beneath a plain cloak. What he was best remembered for however, was how well he had cleaned the guard’s armor, and the lunch he had shared--a very tasty pair of finger sandwiches. Brynnalia followed the road east, to find sisters near Thal’s Respite who recalled a polite and well-spoken man that cleaned their cabin for a night of lodging and cooked a delicious meal for them before moving on. They recalled a unique spice of mun-tuy that he had added to the dish. At least that gave the bard an idea of where his destination might be. It was indeed at the Mun-Tuy Cellars in South Shroud where she found him bent over crushing beans, tamping and grinding them with a mortar. Wilhelm, his faithful dodo fledgling companion, pattered about aimlessly, pecking at random bags of beans. Gideon did not seem to notice her when she approached. “Wilhelm,” the bard called out to the bird, clucking her tongue. The fledgling waddled toward her, and as she gave its head a scratch, she marveled at how the bird had grown since she had given North that egg as an apology gift after the Starlight card game. “Geoffery, start the churner.” Gideon quietly instructed the other hyur in the room, sending him away. “I think we’ll need a bit of a warm-up.” He then slowly rose as the young man left the room. “I could trace yer trail o’ meals and cleaned armor all the way from Drybone.” Brynn ascended the stairs to the platform where he stood. “And what do you intend to do now?” The valet kept his head bowed, his cowl hanging low over his eyes. “Do I have tae have a plan?” She canted her head, trying to regard the man beneath the hood. “I just wanted tae talk tae ye.” “Even that may be dangerous, Mistress.” He kept his gaze low, his eyes focused on her chin rather than her eyes. Still, Brynnalia took a measure of his face. “Halone’s frozen ass… did ye get yerself looked at?” She stepped closer to him, drawing the hood away from his face as she began to spy the bruises. His face bore more scars when the cover was lifted, and his left eye had a healing wound across it; his iris was slightly opaque. “Ye never mentioned how bad ye were hurt…” she murmured. "The infirmary's staff were well-equipped for their job, and I saw to myself with what arcana I could muster when I left their care. Acceptable damages. I have been dealing with them.” His tone remained placid. Brynn let out a sigh, softening her voice as to hide the misgivings in them. “And what do ye plan tae do now?” “I intend to remain at a safe distance, and make myself useful to those who give me sanctuary.” His eyes flitted to the fledgling who was now pecking at his feet. “Wilhelm. Bed.” The valet clicked his tongue and the fledgling waddled into the other room. The bard half watched the bird’s exit with a patient exhale. “Ye did hear of the other nobles. Our employer’s acquaintances? They too were killed. Someone was cuttin’ off Taeros’ ties with wealth and repute... and mayhaps the attack upon ye was a part o’ that.” “A possibility, Miss.” The valet still did not meet her gaze. “There suddenly be a lot o’ violence goin’ on Ul’dah and it be sweepin’ everyone up along with it.” She crossed her arms. “Ye not goin’ tae take the responsibility fer all o’ that now are ye?” "As long as I cannot confirm the source of my assault, Miss, the possibility remains that I am a liability to my southern associates." He paused as he finally looked at her, expression flat and wry. “This includes you. I would sooner see your face remain unmarred." Brynn snorted. “Well, I not be some helpless damsel in distress who gets no say in the matter.” “I am sure, but…” “And ye runnin’ away only leaves me with a mystery I can’t solve. I’ve come across some people and facts and I need tae puzzle these pieces together.” “I see,” Gideon pondered quietly. “Is that what Miss has come in pursuit of?” Brynn shrugged. “Mayhaps I just wanted tae see ye breathin’ and all,” she admitted quietly. She could not help but curl a wry grin when she was promptly met with a calm stare, where the man before her inhaled and exhaled exaggeratedly. “Good.” The bard regarded him for a moment before she continued. “The Aerstorn grave. Was that ye?” When he only answered with a downward glance and silence, she sighed. “Mm. I thought so.” “I had... intended to find the young master, and remove him from Ul'dah along with myself." Gideon’s expression was one of disgust. Brynnalia frowned. Gideon had given voice to his plan before, one where he had hoped to return his dead young master somehow, back to life. She had given not much thought to it then; in truth, she did not think it was possible. But he had such glimmer of hope in his eyes then that she let it be, lest she crush what optimism he held for such an implausible future. She was hesitant to dash his hopes even still but… “Where are ye even keeping him?” She looked around suspiciously. “The young master was absent, Miss.” The bard cocked a brow. “He wasn’t in his own casket?” “It would appear not, Miss.” Brynn knitted her brows in thought. “Well, stranger things have happened in Ul’dah. Stranger than grave robbing, anyroad.” “I am sure miss is doubly familiar with them,” the valet said flatly. “So ye think someone else robbed him from his casket then?” “I cannot think of any other possibility, Miss.” “Hmph,” Brynn hummed to herself. She had researched Gideon’s former masters when he had been hired by Taeros. It was her job to vett those that came under the employee of the Monetarist noble. Especially after she had discovered the curious link between North, Stormchild, and Lazarov, she had to make certain that the valet’s past posed no threat to Taeros. She discovered that the elder Aerstorns were killed at sea by pirates and the young master that Gideon was personally responsible for was poisoned to death. But now the body of the young Sea Wolf noble was missing. She could not shake the memory of Banquo, an enigmatic speculator and a Roegadyn with a hidden past that had emerged from nowhere and expressed a keen interest in the valet. The odd thing about the Roegadyn was that he was constantly imbibing potions, to stave off some effects of poison he had suffered early in his life. This much Banquo admitted to her when she prodded him for details, so that he would get her to trust his motives where Gideon was concerned. Brynn still did not trust him, but he seemed truthful about his physical maladies at least. Now if the connections being made in her mind were even remotely possible… “What are you pursuing?” Gideon was now watching her oddly. “Ah, just a theory.” She flashed him her easy smile. “I’ll have tae look more intae it.” She paused, regarding him. “But the name Banquo does not ring any bells fer ye? Not that I think that be his real name. Ye can call yerself anythin’ if’n ye got enough gil. Were there any Sea Wolf nobles yer former masters worked with that may be so keen on ye?” “None, Miss.” Gideon shook his head. “The only Sea Wolves I believe my previous masters funded would be Guldraetsyn, Wheistymmthota, and Zoerbhirsyn.” Bloody Sea Wolf names... Brynn crossed her eyes as she tried to commit them to memory. “Did any of them have sons that were about yer young master’s age?” "Few of them had children present at the dealings, Miss... and those that did, were quite grown.” The valet closed his eyes, thinking intently. “The only one that comes to mind with children of viable age, would be Ms. Blind Sparrow. But she was a Hellsquard, as Miss may surmise.” Brynn pursed her lips as she studied him, but said nothing. No sense in giving voice to wild theories as yet, at least not until she had some threads of proof. “Well, while Taeros is… indisposed, I got meself a contract with this Banquo.” To this Gideon opened his eyes, giving her a pointed look. "Ye know fer what he be payin' me? Tae insure yer safety." She held up one finger. "And tae find out who ye were dealin' with." She held up a second finger. "It's like he be payin' me tae do what I was thinkin' o' doin' anyroad." “Very… convenient, Miss.” He did not sound reassured. “I thought so.” The bard shrugged. “But I not be foolish enough tae turn down easy gil.” She flashed him another easy grin. “‘Sides, that would only arouse suspicion.” “I suppose. Miss must be sure to ensure her own safety.” Gideon paused as a distant thunder rumbled outside the cellars. “This Banquo is someone else.” Brynn narrowed her eyes, her words sharp despite the nonchalant expression that still lingered. “And he is very interested in ye. If he be the one that be gettin’ ye in danger…” “...then Miss must take care not to allow this danger to reach herself.” He finished for her, his words firm and his gaze intent. The bard rolled her shoulders in a relaxed shrug. “He finds me useful, at least fer now. I am not worried, not yet anyroad.” Her grin turned a shade cooler. “Keepin’ them close and keepin’ meself useful and valuable usually lets me know when I’m safe or... when I should make meself scarce. If it not be ye only they be targetin’ then I best know what be comin’ eh?” “I suppose, Miss. It would be remiss of me to doubt your instincts of self-preservation.” She flashed him a confident grin. “Ye gone too long already that ye've forgotten that?" Gideon shook his head. "I may still endeavor to place you in the best circumstances to get what you want." Brynnalia slid closer to him, her eyes roaming over those bruises and scars that now marred his face. “And if it is just ye they be after and this Banquo be behind it…” Her tone took a serious turn. “Well, mayhap we can do somethin’ about that too.” His eyes followed hers steadily. “No unnecessary risks, Miss. Please.” The bard’s lips turned crooked even though they still held onto her usual mirth. “Don’ underestimate me, North. I got my reasons.” When he cocked his head at her with an unspoken question, she rolled her eyes. “I miss… yer food.” She placed her hands on her hips, feigning a frown. “Ye be goin’ about feedin’ everyone else on the countryside.” She shook her head. “Not right.” “You are welcome to stay for dinner,” Gideon replied with a half-smile. “Mm. After all that ridin’, that is the least ye can do.” Her smile turned toothy. “Besides, I don’t fancy meself gettin’ wet on the road just yet.” “Of course.” He exhaled quietly through his nose before he added quietly, “...thank you, Brynn.” “Fer what?” “For utterly disregarding everything I had to say.” He was staring at her flatly, but she could tell he was quieting a smile. “...I’m glad to see you.” The bard answered with a beaming smile. “Well, mayhap next time I track ye down across the states, I bring ye a handsome eyepatch.” "It is not entirely nonfunctional, Miss. I can still perceive you, albeit as a somewhat distant blur." “Ah, is that so.” She leaned in toward his left cheek to whisper in his ear. “Then ye just be lookin’ dangerous, I suppose.” In that moment, Gideon too tilted his head slightly, his jawline brushing hers just for a moment before she pulled away. "Always looking on the bright side," he murmured. “Now. Shall I see you to your seat?" Brynn clapped him on the shoulder, one hand tapping her belly. "Aye. I am starvin'!" "I hope Miss can handle some spice,” the butler said over his shoulder as he led her down the wooden stairs to the other room. The bard snorted loudly. "Let's see what ye judge as spicy then!"