Verad

There was a certain nostalgia to a good firm kick in the ribs, whether it be a slight one from an urchin or a heavy one from an irate customer. Why Verad felt this, he could not precisely say. He could say that this particular urchin's kick was anything but slight, and the pained grunt he offered would have, if offered before the roll had been offered, given him a great deal more dramatic credibility. He made a mental note to hire one of them, or one very much like them, should such an opportunity arise. For now, he was biting back choice words, cruel things like "scurrilous" and "ne'er-do-well," as he felt that old familiar pain radiate through his side before collapsing back from seating to prone again. The bun stayed in his hand, of course. He wouldn't let go of it so easily, and then only if the hand happened to be severed. And then, well, he had worse things to worry about than buns didn't he? No sooner had he gone prone again than he found a hand helping him up. He took it, being one for hand-outs and hands-up in equal measure given the appropriate circumstances. "'Ank 'oo," he muttered in-between shoving the rest of the roll into his mouth. Knowing his luck, a bird would swoop down and snatch the remaining portion if he didn't.

I'm never sure what the purpose of worrying about the possibility of non-RPers stigmatizing roleplayers for engaging in ERP is meant to do. Helping to minimize trolling and harassment - yes, certainly, but somebody who is willing to troll and harass based on that is willing to do it whether ERP is the reason or not. So what's the point? Outreach? Are we trying to expand our numbers? Do people who worry about this simply not like feeling embarrassed about their hobby?

Ul'dah's biggest nuisance reporting! ... I'll show myself out.

The mere statement of her offer had been enough for him to, without a second's thought, lift one arm up in the air with his hand and palm outstretched to accept whatever offering was provided. It was a marvel of contortionism, arm straight out and nearly perpendicular to his face-down body. Hunger could do for Verad what would otherwise result in a dislocated shoulder. "That would be very nice, thank you," he said, his voice muffled by the street. When the food was not immediately placed into his hand, he rolled onto his back, squinting at the few stray bits of sunlight that filtered in through the oppressive nature of Ul'dah's high walls and the slightly more natural but no less oppressive efforts of the clouds indicating the coming rains. A roll entered into his visual range, casting a shadow. He furrowed his brow to block out the few bits of light as he took it, rising up into a seating position before picking out a piece of bread with one hand and popping into his mouth. The sensation of food of quality driving away the horrific taste of a few days' shrewmeat was as much a balm to his soul as any religious experience. "I am much obliged to you," he said with the kind of gravitas one might expect of anyone other than a man eating a roll in the middle of the street. "It has been a few lean and unpleasant days, madam. I do hope - " Here he paused to eat again. "Twelve, this is divine - I do hope that this is a more frequent activity of yours, and that if it is, I ought learn your schedule."

It wasn't as if Verad needed a free meal or ten. Certainly, when he'd first arrived in the city, there had been lean times indeed, and he recalled at least one instance in which he'd abandoned his principles and allowed a customer to buy him dinner at the Coffer & Coffin as payment. For a man who had counted on food every other day, that had been a delicious roast marmot indeed. Such concerns, of course, were no longer his own, and his regular quarters at the Harbingers' estate ensured that a great deal of real, unadulterated food came with it. Were it not for his svelte Elezen metabolism he would no doubt look a bit round around the middle from overindulgence. So it wasn't as if he really needed what he happened to espy the young woman offering from his position around the bend of Pearl Lane, offering free samples of his new line of Seduction Comments to limited success. Then again, his observational activities on another front had found him eating so much shrewmeat that he was going to die if he didn't cleanse his palate. His mouth felt and tasted like the inside of a rotten lemon. In light of that, baked goods would suit a not-fully-but-rapidly-approaching-empty stomach quite nicely. But it was not enough that he merely ask for baked goods, for even in leaner days he had appeared far too handsome and magnificent for many to even consider him on the verge of starvation. No, Verad knew better; he had to sell the matter. So it was that around the bend from Lilithium, a particular Duskwight shambled into view, in a manner that was clearly and elaborately feigned, hand clutching around his midsection and other arm reaching out imploringly into the space ahead of him as if blindly groping for some mirage of a grand feast. He couldn't make himself look gaunt, or haggard, because even a miracle couldn't make some things happen, but he was definitely able to adopt one of his higher-grade forlorn expressions, with beard half-drooped, mouth part-way open, and eyebrows squinted together. "Oh, woe!" he began, because he was sure this was how such things started, and kept speaking in the midst of his stumbling, shuffling stride. "Woe and calamity indeed! My dubious goods for bread, for my stomach is a-weary, a-weary, and I would that I were dead!" So saying, he fell down on the ground in front of her, suffering the indignity of laying face-down and prone in the middle of Pearl Lane. The smell of the street wasn't too bad if one stopped breathing.

OP, I'm sorry you've had some bad experiences. Your bad experiences are not indicative of a growing anything, the death of anything, or the need to place PSAs to the effect. This is not a community concern.

Cactuars. Benign enough, but considering cactuars are a major component of one of Verad's most "popular" services, he winds up in a frustrating love-hate relationship with stupid wriggling green things that mutilate him with 1,000 Needles at random for no clear reason.

An excuse to wear my six cravats. At last.

Verad has a hell of a time telling Lalafell genders apart. He tries to avoid cold pitching to Lalas because of this unless context clues have given him a clear sense of which pronoun to use, because nothing will shut down a sale faster than using the wrong one. He is extremely partial to femRoes, to such an extent that it can and will cloud his better judgment, which is why he recently accepted some voidsent blood and other, more unpleasant, thaumaturgical bits and bobs as possible sale-able items.

My name would be known and feared as history's greatest monster. I would also play more tabletop games.

And then further to reach, "How awesome and interesting is my character?"

There is no reason any one thing "fits" a character, and I have yet to be convinced that desiring attention is somehow intrinsically negative.

There is no "right fashion." There is no "done well." The terms are so subjective as to be functionally meaningless, and easily replaced with "in a style that I prefer," which would at least be more accurate.

Clichés are okay and I want as many of them as possible. I find my RP more rewarding and in greater quantity when I work with a cliché - and conniving, two-bit merchant with an eccentric business sense definitely counts - than when I split my mind in half trying to come up with something really unusual. Even when I pull it off, the RP is limited because only a bare handful of people are actually willing to engage. I care not for the clichés that others feel are overdone. Instead, I want to know when you've done something you knew to be common as hell and people loved it.

No minstrel would ever sing the praises of the street food of Ul'dah, and as far as Verad was concerned that was a crushing blow to their merits as entertainers. They might sing of the sumptuous feasts of the Sultanate or the simple and rustic fare of the Shroud, but he had yet to meet one that could fully articulate, beyond a dirty limerick, the pleasures of a good (to use the term loosely) shrew-on-a-stick. The stringy-yet-mushy texture of shrewmeat roasted over a small brazier and spiced with a mixture of paprika and powdered dragon-peppers to hide the sour aftertaste was an experience Verad was likely not to forget anytime soon, and not merely because Ul'dahn food regulation was inconsistent at the best of times and food adulteration was common. Verad was sure he'd seen cactuar, ant, and in at least one instance hunks of painted granite all passed off as shrewmeat. Extra-meaty, that last one had been called. He'd nearly broken a tooth. Even so, Verad made a point of buying a half-dozen pieces of roasted and skewered "shrew," refilling a waterskin nested among his pouches for the price of an extra gil as a necessary precaution given how wildly the heat of the spices could vary. His current meal was of but a moderate piquancy, and so he could still feel lingering traces of the sour on his tongue after suffering the act of chewing and swallowing, leaving him with the feeling he had just sucked on a meat-lemon before a swallow from the skin could cleanse the palate. As food went, it was abominable. But it had its advantages. The smell burned the nose, so the before was unpleasant. The aftertaste? Atrocious. But in the moment of eating, the act of chewing and swallowing, Verad was sure that there was nothing finer. However awful what may have come before, and what may come after, it was to be enjoyed, however dubious. As in food, so too in life. Aside from the philosophical benefits of such questionable comestibles, there were more practical ones - namely the presence of shrew-vendors and other such purveyors of dubious foods throughout the city, giving a person a reason to linger in any spot they were near while they ate. And if one particular vendor happened to be near one particular warehouse belonging to one particular Taeros? Well, thought Verad, squatting down on a stray piece of stone architecture to enjoy his meal, so much the better. He was able to manage a mere glance at the building before a woman, an Elezen from the Wildwood by the clasps she wore, passed by. Verad stopped her, and made his sales pitch. Five minutes passed. She left. He sat down again, rubbed the welt on the side of his cheek from where she slapped him, and returned to examining the building. This he repeated with all customers to cross the shipping quarters of the Exchanges, and between dubious foods and dubious goods, he had every reason to be there. So he thought. Between bites of shrew and the occasional customer, he was able to piece together at least a little. There was more security, as befit a place closer to the Exchange and, Verad supposed, more relevant to Taeros' interest. The half-dozen or so guards he could see at the front of the building appeared off-duty, as had those in the Lane, but every so often a Blade would pass by to stop and joke with someone on-duty. The knowledge brought a frown across weathered lips, which he passed off as working a particularly chewy piece out from between his teeth. More guards, and more interest from the Blades in an official capacity, then. Without knowing a paper trail, he was at a loss as to why. Something valuable? Heightened security after the last robbery (surely not; he flattered himself, and knew it)? Or a simple proximity to higher property values? He couldn't say. To the architecture then, he thought. The loading bay, if there was one, did not face the main street - making the presence of so much security for a mere pair of double-doors all the more puzzling. Perhaps the offices were more extensive out front. As for the bay itself, likely on a back road he wouldn't be able to see - shrew-vendors were not so often found in the bylanes where commercial traffic could be found. And that would have similar security to spare. So, a larger contingent, with the attention of Blades. A bigger facility. Verad picked at his teeth with the remains of the skewer as he considered the problem. This wasn't something he could crack alone, or with Miss Tabrisviel. There was risk, and there was foolishness, and he knew the latter when he saw it. He was probably going to need more firepower for this one.

It wasn’t raining in Limsa Lominsa that night; a shame, as that would have mixed neatly with Verad’s tears, concealing them. The cactuar had sailed off into the great ocean of the bay beneath with nary a complaint on its tiny, disturbingly blank face, making the ultimate sacrifice to avoid prosecution and persecution for the two of them after the smuggling fiasco that had dozens of its kin skittering around the streets of Ul’dah. “Why . . . did you . . . do that?!” The woman had been there since partway through his parting words to the cactuar, watching from the side, robed, muted, silent. It was the first thing she’d said. He’d thought to make a pitch, to take his mind off of the horror he’d just committed. He failed, breaking down sobbing before her as if she were a confessor of the Twelve. And despite, as he would later learn, the great strain upon her, the trauma of events that made the cause of his collapse pale in comparison, she still had the time, the decency, the purity, to step forward and speak. “Are you . . . alright . . ?” “V-Rad?” Val Nunh gave Verad a puzzled, concerned look, and not without reason. The Duskwight had been at the Quicksand in body but not in spirit, staring at a point on the wall without the calculating, affably hungry expression he had when he was performing his rounds, scanning the crowd for anybody who seemed agreeable to his wares. The beginnings of a black eye on the right side of his face, puffy and not yet the darker bruise of dead blood (but who could tell with a Duskwight?), did not help the impression that something might have been amiss. Snapping out of whatever reverie he’d been in, Verad smiled as if nothing was amiss. “Hm? Ah, my apologies, how can I help you, Ser Val?” Val kept talking - more work on poetry for Faye, something about having a hard time finding words that rhyme with “ass” - and Verad kept responding. It was a trick he’d learned, and there were some days he could sell his wares without being there at all. He was still learning how to do it while napping. Eyes and mind alike, however, were elsewhere, peering around the tavern with occasional rapid flicks to the left and right. There were two sets of hair he was trying to find. One he wanted to see, and one he did not. It was fortunate for him that the former was far more noticeable, and within a few minutes of assisting Val’s experiments in poetic aesthetic with regards to couch-bending by rote, that was the one he saw, a mass of bright pink, shoulder-length locks on a tiny Miqo’te body. She stopped by one of the notice boards for the Adventurer’s Guild, peering over the documents. Verad swallowed, and found his throat dry. Val was saying something about paying Verad for his time, a matter with which he would have otherwise been thrilled. “Ah, by the way, Ser Val,” he said, doing his best to keep his voice neutral. “Could I borrow one of your knives?” Always an agreeable sort, especially with regards to Verad, he handed over one of his better daggers with little complaint and even less in the way of questions, and Verad responded with a grateful nod and an assurance that it would be returned. Bidding his farewells, he made his way through the crowd, keeping a light step and a low profile - there was still the other person out there, and the less he was seen, the better. He managed to get close enough to tap the girl on the shoulder, and she turned towards him. A face nearly as pink as her hair thanks to the blush on her cheeks, features as well-defined as a masterpiece of a doll, and eyes of such bright gold that there was no way Verad would convince anyone they were the result of his imitation fool’s gold line. And yet, for all of that, a nervous look on her face, one pleased to see him but nevertheless anxious to speak or be spoken to. “Oh . . .Mister Verad . . .” His smile was as broad as hers was slight. “Good evening, Miss Yune. Shall we be off? I’ll explain on the way.” --- Like so many things in his life, Verad’s friendship with Yune Tabrisviel had begun through dumb luck and a lark. Certain unfortunate and regrettable accidents in archery training had left him with an arrow through his own ear - as the Certain Pending Conditions had not been met, and she, a new member of the Harbingers- and the young conjuror had been quick to heal him. He had been inclined to thank her, and so a dinner invitation was made, with all of Verad’s usual wit and charm. Granted, some people may have thought telling her they were fated to be together by the will of Oschon was more a romantic than a platonic gesture, and granted, doing so caused some problems with her jealous would-be suitor. But despite all the troubles, he was glad for his methods, for her reaction had been telling: she had cried. Not for grief or being aggrieved, but for the notion that two people fated to be together should have been kept apart. So he’d looked after her, and spoken to her, and kept track of her - and of course had that dinner, where they resolved that Oschon had brought them together as friends - seen her cry, seen the serious look on her face when she thought of people being harmed, seen the outbursts and the panic when she felt overwhelmed. There were too many, he felt, who saw such openness and earnest behavior as weakness within the Harbingers, as childish. Verad knew better. He had seen such behavior before, seen it muted and broken on the streets of Limsa, seen it revitalized in the face of great adversity, and even now, knew it had an iron will behind it, no matter the test. He was well-versed in this behavior, and he knew it well, knew that Yune had a strength others would disregard, cast away as worthless because it wasn’t shaped well or to their liking. And he had a great fondness for such people and things. It was why Yune was with him now, as he made his way towards Pearl Lane, trying very hard not to think about the weight of the knife on his belt. It wasn’t much; well-made and light, no more than a few ponze if that, yet it felt as if his right side dragged behind the rest. "Before I start,” he said, glancing over his shoulder to ensure a lack of eavesdroppers. There was little cause for worry; it was late, and much of the street traffic of Ul’dah had tapered out for the evening. His larger concern was the presence of Blades, honest or otherwise, but there was no sign of brass on the street. “I'm going to be very honest with you. This is dangerous. I could be hurt. Both of us could be hurt. But it's for the right cause, of that I can assure you. If you don't want to take the risk, I won't think less of you if you step away now." He had told himself he would do this. He would be as honest with her as he could; she was unrelated to the specific facts of the matter, but she needed to know the risks. She had an intent look on her face as she listened to him, her expression flashing with concern, brow furrowing with concern and apprehension, open as a book missing pages. "D-Dangerous...? What are you thinking to do that could get you hurt...?" The thought of harm made him pat the knife on his belt again, afraid the sheath might have fallen away. It was a temporary action, and one he tried to ignore "Let me explain in greater detail. There are some problems in Ul'dah, certainly, and one of them is a man by the name of Jameson Taeros. He's powerful, and likely involved in some dangerous business. He's driven a friend of mine out of the city on suspicion of treason. He might be doing things like smuggling Garlean weapons into Ul'dah." He could see something dark in her eyes at the mention of Garlean weaponry. It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed such moments, some kind of threat behind wide brown irises. "And...you want to do something that's against the bad man's interests, huh..." "I want to help my friend,” he amended. “She's a good person, and she shouldn't be driven out like this. To do that I need evidence." Out of one of his many pouches and purses, he produced a small piece of parchment, the scribbles on it too neat to be called as such. "This is a list of some holdings that lead back to this man. I mean to check them." "And...you were going to do this...alone?" “To the best of my ability. The Harbingers have their own problems. I won't allow them to be involved in this matter if I can help it.” He pursed his lips, considering the havoc that had been wrought at the Coblyn’s Fancy. Effective and necessary, certainly, but Ziu’za punching holes in buildings was probably not the best plan here. “I suspect they'd complicate matters or, in some instances, make a mess of things." Unwilling to dwell on the subject, he offered Yune a resigned smile. "But I realize that's not the best of ideas. Supposing I'm hurt? Supposing I'm captured? I need somebody I can trust." She fell silent for a moment, looking away from him and at nothing in particular, as she often did when considering something of great weight. "I'm not...going to let you do something dangerous alone..." How many times had he heard this, and from how many people? A thousand of their own troubles, far worse than his own, and the people in his life would nevertheless stop everything to ensure the old Duskwight never received so much as a scratch for their sakes. The smile became far less resigned. "I know. I know they treat you like a child at the estate. But you are stronger, and smarter, than they know, and it's why I'm asking you, before anyone else." Her eyes lit up in front of him, that dark look replaced with a glittering brilliance and broadly smiling lips. , at that seemingly unfamiliar confidence another person would have in her, and she smiles brightly. "I won't let you down! I might not know how to fight, but... I can do something." Verad knew he had her then, and the joy on her face helped ease the sting of having guided her to the conclusion. --- They planned. Verad knew the area well enough from months on Pearl Lane. The first site on the list was a smaller warehouse, probably one of Taeros’ lesser operations. That was fine with Verad; while he wanted the smoking gunblade of the missing weaponry, he was aware of the risks, and getting his feet wet would be an excellent way to test his resolve and Yune’s alike. Subterfuge, however, was going to be necessary. The two stood out badly enough as it was - Verad’s appearance was striking(ly handsome, as far as he was concerned), with its heavy but well-groomed beard and broad smile, and Yune’s hair might as well have been a flare of aether in the middle of the browns and greys of the Ul’dahn streets at night. Disguises were in order. Thus he had sent Yune to the market to buy robes, rope, and rags, and an appropriate mask for his face, while he scouted out the location itself. It was, as expected, something of a minor loading bay, bigger than his own storage facilities, albeit not by much, and situated off of one of the wider alleys and byways surrounding Pearl Lane. A front door for human entry, a loading bay door very close by for the disposal of cargo. All well and good. Guards, of course - two of them, Midlanders, idling by the front door and chatting with the kind of amused boredom common to the late-night worker. There was nothing like a professional uniform, but the curved swords and round shields suggested enough. Again, Verad found himself reaching down to his belt to grip the hilt of his knife - a gesture which, after a moment’s thought, he found too phallic for his own tastes, and so quickly ceased. Still, the tension was there. If they could not talk, or think, their way past, then he would have to draw the blade. A simple matter, he was sure. He had drawn it several times already! Ah, he reminded himself, but that was at the Grindstone, where people play fair. No corps of healers waiting to jump in and stop a fight here. No willingness to yield. It would be just Yune and he in the dark with nothing between the two and peril but her skills and his blade. Dubious goods? They hardly even rated. The patter of feet around the corner drew his attention, and he darted his head back out of sight. Yune’s shock of hair offered some relief, as did the bundle she carried in her arms. “Ah, good,” he begain, “You made i -” His words died in his throat as she removed the bundle of clothing to reveal the helmet. While he’d given no particular instructions save that it needed to completely conceal his face, as a half-mask would leave either his hair or his beard visible, he had anticipated that she would bring something with a bit of dash to it. An all-concealing turban. A scarf and a cap that left is piercing eyes visible. Something to make the people of Ul’dah swoon. What she had was a warrior’s helmet. It was heavy and metal and in the style of a barbut. There was a spike on the top, and it looked quite rusty. The space for eyes to peer out were mere slits, and it would not match with his ever-stylish clothing in the slightest. It was old and well-worn in the sense that lots of people had worn it many times; the scent of rust and tarnish lingered on both the interior and exterior alike, and the thought of shoving his face into that, marinating in the odor for the duration of the exercise, made his stomach practice its acrobatics. Protest, too, joined his words in death at the anxious look on Yune’s face as she whispered. “Y-you said . . . they’ll know your face and . . . I couldn’t find anything else . . . “ He snorted. “I love it,” he said, with perhaps too much enthusiasm. “They’ll write stories about it, and not about me.” He tried to keep his disappointment about that fact out of his voice as he took the barbut and tucked it under one arm, the spike poking him in the armpit before he could adjust its position in his grip. “But not yet. Look down that way.” He poked his head around the corner again. “You see there? Those two are likely Blades. Earning some extra pay on the side, I’d wager.” Her voice was hushed and apprehensive. "So . . . bad men, then . . .We have to get through them . . . ?" "Through or around. We have to see what's in the warehouse, and remember - there may be more inside." "Do you know this area? Are there any other ways in, like...windows? Roof access...?" Veard gave the matter some thought, scratching his beard, getting the movement out of his system before he tried tapping on his helmet out of habit once it was on his head. "There might be a way around . . . " He craned his neck to the side. "Over there. Look, you see how the brickwork is falling apart?" He gestured towards some loose masonry on the side of the building. "I don't know if we can reach in through the roof, but we should be able to climb." It was not a sturdy building by any stretch of the imagination. Ul’dah may have been architectural masterpiece in many regards, but the poorer areas needed more maintenance. The brick seemed ready to crumble into dust if the pair gave it too cross a look. Examining it, Yune frowned in concern. "It doesn't . . . look sturdy. We might draw attention if it breaks while trying to climb." Her eyes scan the area once again, looking for more people who appear similar to the guards. "I could just . . . try to put them to sleep, but . . . I don't know how long they'll stay sleeping . . ." Sleep. She had mentioned this as a talent in her aetherial repertoire, and with no easy way of convincing his way past the men, it had seemed the best option. He grinned. "Fortunately for you, my dear Miss Yune," he said, patting his belt. "A gentleman burglar plans ahead. You brought the rope?" Her hands full, Yune bobbed her head towards the coil of rope dragging along her waist. "Very good. Try to knock them out. Even if we get inside, we'll have to go back out that way, so we might as well try it." Setting down her procured equipment, Yune gave a small, hopeful nod before stepping around the corner in a slight enough step that she could seem inconspicuous. Bright as she was, she had but a moment, and Verad waited on a knife-edget to see if a knife edge was necessary. From around the corner, he saw her draw a calming breath, a gust of wind circling around her and rustling the wrinkles in her toadskin jacket. In the moment that the guards seemed to notice they were not quite alone in the alleyway, heads turning towards Yune in the first moment before a double-take would allow them to really notice her, she completed the spell, extending her hand as if releasing something into the wind. A shroud fell over the guards before disintegrating as if into mist. The two managed to take one step forward between them - a step and a half, if Verad were keeping accurate count, but estimates were acceptable - before the spell took hold, and the two men slumped downwards, first ot the knees, then to the ground. Verad offered Yune one of his highest-wattage grins before stuffing the barbut over his head and rushing around the corner and towards the door. There was a crash as he slammed into the wall directly opposite. Verad staggered backwards, clutching the side of his helmet. Pratfalls, he thought to himself. Of course. What else could happen with such garb over his head? Secrecy did have its attendant sacrifices, and one of those was a limited field of vision and the stench of rust so bloody it left him dizzy. Yune didn’t seem to notice the impact, preoccupied with pulling a hooded cloak over her hair and tucking her tail under her clothing. Once they reached the men, after a few more misteps and stumbles which Verad suffered with all due gravitas, they knelt down in front of him. Taking the rope from Yune, Verad intended to tie them up, until a loud snore interrupted the process. Frowning behind the barbut, Verad tapped the side of one man’s face. No response. “My word,” he said, giving the other a shake. “Are they supposed to be this far gone?” Yune bit her lip. "Uhm . . . I've never . . . really tried to wake anything up before that I put to sleep . . . I hope they're alright . . ." Picking one up guard with an audible grunt, Verad dragged him into a seating position, propping him up against the small set of steps leading up to the stairs. "Could you make it look like they're just napping, and not unconscious on the ground?" Giving a quick nod, Yune sought to position the other guard’s arms in a more natural position, eyebrows bunching together before turning her gaze about the road. She started, seeming to recognize something, before darting to the other side of the road and returning with an empty bottle of something without a label but, from the lingering and acrid odor, possessed of exceptional strength. She placed the bottle in the man’s grasp. “Oh, well done!” Verad patted her on the side of the cloak, a gesture which made him lose his grip on the guard he was propping up. His body fell over with a slump, sending empty cans and rocks scattering across the road in a loud clatter. He froze, waiting for some sign of noise on the other side of the loading bay, or the door bursting open from which a thousand outraged guards might pour out. Nothing. He was glad the barbut concealed his wince. “Well,” he said, searching the collapsed guard’s belt for a key. “At least they look drunk now.” His patting found something hard and metal that didn’t cut him, and a quick tug brought up a small keyring. Pleased, he tried to grin at Yune. Her response was blank, and he was puzzled as to why, until he remembered the helmet. Shrugging off embarrassment for the moment’s foolishness, he crept up the steps towards the warehouse’s main door, one foot at a time padding softly on stone until he reached the door itself. This was, he realized, a turning point. A momentous occasion. Here he would cross a line. He could walk away now, convince Yune they had done their jobs, and return the knife without a second thought. The guards would be a little puzzled, and that would be that. To place that key in the lock was to move from dubious goods to dubious deeds. Would he stop now? Could he stop now? Hadn’t so many people around him made it clear that he ought? Made him promise and plead and beg not to get hurt? She had helped, freed his boot of the needles that remained after he had kicked the cactuar, and healed his foot of injuries brought about by the same. They had spoken further, and rarely, Verad realized, had he met so muted a person who had once obviously been so bright. She told him of her time with the Sworn, and of how she was no longer a part of them. “I left because . . . people who I trusted . . . I could not look upon them any longer.” “You were betrayed,” he said, reaching the obvious conclusion. She did not meet his eyes. Verad set his teeth firmly enough he thought he could hear them crack, and stabbed the first key he had grabbed into the lock. It bounced off. That was a problem. Puzzled, he brought the keyring up into his field of vision, jingling them slightly. Surely they weren’t all house-keys? The question went unanswered as the loading bay door beside him was rolled upwards in a swift movement, spilling lantern-light onto the street. Yune, preoccupying herself with rearranging the guards so that they looked as if they were in just the right moment of peacefully intoxicated slumber, squinted up into the light, and at the shadow of the Roegadyn peering down at her. He was heavy-set and heavily armed, the scimitar at his belt seeming much more a greatsword than the blades on the Midlanders at the door. Behind him, a Highlander stood with crossed arms and similar equipment. The facial details didn’t matter so much when Verad couldn’t see them and he was more worried about the weapons. And there Verad was, with an idiotic helmet on his head and his hands fumbling with a key for the door, Yune artfully placing one man’s hands behind his head so it looked like he was relaxed. With the light behind him, the Roeg’s face was shadowed, but the amused, superior tone in his voice was clear. “Can I help you two?” Verad hoped that Yune would react quickly, but she was just as surprised as he, peering up at the man and craning her neck far, far back to do so. “Um . . . I’m . . . we’re . . . “ she said, swallowing hard. This was the moment, then, he thought, his hand straying towards his belt. No going back. Only forward. He would need the knife. His hands clenched around . . . a pouch, and he cursed. It was on the opposite side of his belt. Of course. Lacking anything else, he dug his hand into the pouch and flung its contents at the Roegadyn. “Get past them, quickly!” Something round sailed through the air, glittering in the lanternlight. It occurred to Verad that he had recently attempted replenishing his stock of imitation fool’s gold, but the rocks he had purchased turned out to be much too dense, too heavy to be an appropriate approximation of an approximation. That said, he noted, they cracked against a Roegadyn’s skull quite nicely, and with such effectiveness that he swayed on his feet before collapsing backwards as Yune darted into the warehouse behind him. His hands let go of the loading bay doors, which rattled down to the ground and slammed shut. Verad was very poor at vulgarities, but in some moments he was sorely tempted. In a few moments he was rattling through keys, each failing to fit, too large or too small or not the right shape, and it seemed the ring grew a new key with every second. On the other side of the door, he heard Yune scream. “Get away from me!” Then a great burst of noise, as if the room had exploded. The last key was jabbed into the lock with shaking fingers, and it fit. He turned left and right until the door gave way. Leaving the keys hanging, he burst into the warehouse, drawing his knife and holding it out with blade extended. The interior of the warehouse was, as he’d thought, small enough, but it looked as if a tornado had given birth in the interior. Crates, some of them of a distinctly sturdy shape and size, that were once neatly scattered were strewn about the room in a haphazard fashion. A small set of interior walls indicated an inner office, the door open, a pair of stools knocked astray. The Highlander lay sprawled against one such crate, unconscious. Yune stood amidst the disarray, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, her eyes wide and unfocused, her arms outstretched. Silence. Then he put the knife away. It felt inadequate. That, too, felt too phallic a thought, and so he discarded it. “Are you hurt?” he asked as he made his way towards her. Awareness started to flicker in her eyes at the sound of his voice, and it was a moment yet before she lowered her hands. "I-I'm . . . He tried to . . . Is he a-alright . . .?" Verad performed a perfunctory check. “Out cold, I think,” he said, “The same as the Roegadyn.” His eyes were already elsewhere, the helmet’s field of vision craning towards the crates. Yune followed his movements, straightening out her posture. “W-what are we looking for again . . . ?” Her voice was distracted, dreamy like a fever hallcuination. "I'll look for now. Breathe very slowly, Yune. Just - deep breaths, please." He tried prying open one of the crates with the edge of his knife, before considering what Val would think about a broken knife. Instead, he sought for a prybar or something blunt. "Well, if I'm fortunate, Garlean weaponry. If I'm not," he nothing blunt, but he took note of the scimitar on the Highlander’s belt. Drawing it free, he tried to wedge the blade inbetween the crate’s lid and side to force it open "If I'm not,” he repeated, “Then at least something incriminating." She appeared to take his advice, staying still and inhaling her way back to calm. Verad grunted once as he pushed down hard on the hilt of the blade, the nails holding the crate’s lid crackling out of the wood, flinging splinters towards his face. Rusty or no, he was glad for the helmet then. Tossing the sword on the ground with a clatter, he put his hands around the crate’s edge and took a careful peek. As Yune calmed down, Verad’s amused, weary chuckling drew her attention. She crept towards the crate and joined him, though her brow furrowed in confusion. Rugs. High quality, tightly-rolled, neatly stacked, and displaying signs of Ishgardian weaving techniques. At least a dozen or more, piled high to the lid of the crate. Turning away, he placed hands on the edges of his barbut, but thought better of it. The smell and the shock together gave him the urge to gag, but one of the guards might regain consciousness at any time. “Of all the things to find now, of all times,” he muttered. "Hmm . . ." Yune seemed unaware of his existential plight, her eyes fixed on the designs visible in and around the fringes she could see. "The symbols on it look . . . weird. . . " Habit took over and he tried to scratch his beard as he composed his thoughts, receiving only a faceful of helmet and a scattering of particles of rust on the floor. Turning back to the crate, he picked one rolled carpet out of the mass with a heavy grunt, his back unused to this kind of lifting and very used to age. “Let’s have a look. Perhaps there’s somnus coiled up inside, or - “ He didn’t so much spread the rug out as drop it at a roll and let momentum take care of the rest, the bundled carpet unfurling to its full length. It was, by the time-honored and tested standards of Ishgardian rugweaving, an exquisite work, an abstracted rendition of the glory of Halone, rich and saturated with such colors that the best works were rumored to have somehow turned gems into threads. What caught both of their interests, however, was what lay tightly bundled in the center of the carpet. Yune seemed to recognize them clearly. Verad’s memory was fuzzier, as rusted as his helmet: a chapter in his memoirs described his unexpected run-in with the Ishgardian inquisition, years ago. What they showed him then was what he saw before them now. “The Holy See is not going to like this at all.” --- They considered their options as they cleaned up the evidence and tied up the guards. There was no way of transporting everything, Yune pointed out, and there were too many crates for them to move quickly even if they could. Verad considered alerting authorities he trusted while he retrieved his missing piece of “fool’s gold,” but that was also unlikely. Roen’s authority was only moral; Ser Crofte was a good woman, but dutiful, and the pair might wind up in the gaol. He didn’t know Ser Aporo well enough. He had no means of contacting Ser Melkire and the Flames. In the end, he decided to let Ul’dah itself take care of the problem for them, and so, once the guards were trussed up, both sleeping and unconscious alike, the pair cracked open the lids of all of the crates, dumped a few items on the ground with the intent to lure, and forced and locked the loading bay door into an open position. Then, they left, Verad discarding the helmet and wiping away the rust stains on his white beard in passing. Even in the later hours of the night, Pearl Lane was not without its prowlers, people scrounging and looking for opportunities. What luck, then, for some of them, a bell or two later, to come upon a de-guarded and open warehouse, bursting with open crates full of Ishgardian luxury items? For, it was not merely rugs that the crates had held, beautiful though they were, but vases, instruments, clothing - nothing so immediately valuable as jewels and holy artifacts, but items of wealth and taste from within the city itself. Nor were they the only imports of import, for tucked within a vase here and there, unrolled out of a carpet, sewn into the lining of some clothing, Dravanian relics trickled out, discovered here and there by curious parties in the hopes of finding something a little more than luxury and the gil to be made from selling it. What Taeros was doing with such things, Verad could only guess; but there were many markets in Eorzea, and Taeros seemed to be somebody who would do business with all of them. And so, over the evening, the goods were looted, sold, and spread, a dubious distribution on a scale he could not hope to achieve alone. And when people asked where these items came from, it would always come back to the same story - a warehouse around Pearl Lane, the door forced open, the guards found unconscious, the materials just waiting. Who would do that? And who owned all of this material in the first place, anyway? Verad had no illusions about the efficacy of the action. It was a cut in Taeros’ enterprise, taking away good coin, and it was an embarrassment when questions got back around to his business, and how goods were acquired not from the Ishgardian Houses but the See itself. But it was not evidence. It would not bring him down. There were other names on the list, however, and other locations. And there were other benefits as well, a fact made plain when Verad and Yune returned to the Quicksand to give Val his knife back, quietly pleased that though he had drawn it, it had never drawn blood. Val didn’t ask questions; whether he suspected anything was amiss or not, Verad didn’t know. As he bade Yune a good night, he paused, and brought himself close enough to her ear that only she could hear him. Even given the noise of the Quicksand, he didn’t want to take any chances. “Remember, you did this. Everything that happened tonight? That was you.” All true, Verad thought. Taking down the guards quietly, defending herself, finding something amiss about the goods - all Yune. Verad had merely blundered around in a silly helmet. “You didn’t need my help, or anyone else’s.” The look on her face dazzled as she stepped away from him, more unused to feeling such praise, knowing it was meant, and it was true, than she was to hearing it. She bobbed her head towards him in thanks, bidding him goodnight before returning to her room, pink hair bouncing from a barely perceptible spring in her step. The next time someone at the estate called her weak or a child, he hoped, she would remember this. Once in his room, he took out the list again, studying the names and addresses. He had discarded the helmet, but there would be other rusty accoutrements to wear, of that he was certain. If that meant helping others shine - if it meant those like Yune growing strong, those like Roen succeeding - then he’d bear the tarnish.

There's an allure to saying your opponents have been killed rather than subdued; it provides a very definitive, concrete sense of personal prowess to the character in the minds of some players. In a game like WoW, where the factions are at best opposed and at worst outright hostile, I can see it being plausible. In FF14 specifically, I see it as being a subduing thing. The city-states, even outside of an alliance, are generally friendly enough that severe bloodshed seems unlikely, at least for the moment.

The answer is "very."

Hm... I can possibly draw you in Verad. We should brainstorm something. Are you going to be on tonight though in Ul'dah? There may be a meeting he may be interested in. Verad has dinner plans in Limsa itself tonight(so if anything's happening around the Bismarck, he may be there), but can be present if the meeting is a late one. Keep me posted.

I'm interested in doing something, but apart from Verad's personal connection to Roen I can't reasonably see how he would break from routine to go to Limsa on this point. Suggestions are welcome.

It is fine, dear Rivienne. So many are overcome when they realize how they truly felt, deep down.

Eorzea's Greatest Lover (pending certain conditions?) is so modest about his own accomplishments! Oh, no, not at all. Archery is one thing. But Verad's love is unconditional.

You may mock, sir, you may mock! And yet the number of times exasperation has turned into fascination . . . I can count on one hand, continue mocking.

I am intrigued but have a problem: I only play BRD on a strictly OOC level, and the rest of it just provides Verad's own bombast. Let's say PLD for funsies.

Nope. *shoves to Verad x Tarot* This has no way to go wrong...I...hope... God, see what you guys have done! I lost my confidence! Two weeks later, the Exchange was burning. No survivors.