Verad

Mining copper was not what Verad had expected. Months of attempting to sell goods to the many adventurers that dabbled in amateur prospecting on the side had given him the image of the independent prospector, cheerily hacking away at the nearest rock with the promise of yielding ore through means only they could divine. They were hardy and cheerful and wouldn't buy his miniature picks (souvenirs for the children, he told them), which spoke well of their judgment if not of their ability to appreciate the dubious. There were a positive thing. This expectation was, with great care and attentiveness, smothered to death when he met the crew with which he was to work. A mixture of a dozen or so men - it was always men, he thought, wasn't it? - of mixed stock, mostly Highlanders, some Midlanders, and the odd Miqo'te. They matched the tunnels that surrounded them as they trudged towards the day's work, small and cramped and almost bereft of light, and the weight of their tools dragged them forward as much as they were carried. Only the supervisor, a particularly stout Hyur, seemed to be in working shape, and the difference was marked in all possible ways, whether that be in posture, voice, build, or the shape of his tools. Even his uniform seemed to be in better shape, with none of the obvious tears and holes that riddled the others. Verad followed behind the pack, and for a time he went without notice. The group traveled in silence, and there were none of the chatter or bawdy jokes he would have supposed would exist in the company of coarse working men. The silence was so sharp that he suspected he had joined the wrong group. It was possible; even without onlookers, he knew he stood out, both in how much further he had to stoop to avoid bumping his head on the lower sections of the shaft's roof, and in his generally cheerful demeanor. He had almost thought to hum a tune, but, as if reading his thoughts, a glare from the crew leader gagged him as well as a cloth. Only when there was work was there speech. They arrived at a wall of rock that, to Verad's eyes, seemed like any other wall of rock a vague, brown, jagged shape in the dark. This triggered something in the leader, though, who barked out orders to the crew in terms Verad did not understand. To Verad, he forced a wedge and a short-handled hammer into each hand. "We'll start simple," he said, pointing at one section of rock. "Chisel out a small opening there, at least a fulm deep. That will make room for firesand placement. Do you understand?" With an eager nod and a salute that nearly brought the flat of the mallet against his forehead, Verad made his way to the indicated point and started chipping away. Were it not for the circumstances in which he believed many of the other workers had arrived, he could not understand their resignation. Surely the work wasn't as hard as all that. Thirty Minutes Later: Verad was dragged bodily into the infirmary by a pair of workers, moaning and clutching at every single part of his body, including and especially the beard. He hadn't even been aware that there were muscles in the beard, but he supposed that was inevitable when possessed of one as virile as his. No doctor greeted him; instead, he was bodily thrown into one of a handful of old cots. "Sleep it off if you need," said one before they left. "But every hour is added to your debt. And try not to wake the big guy, huh?" He was left to lay flat on his back, terrified to move lest he pull another muscle in the new and fascinating network of pain that currently spread across the whole of his body. In a way, it was an education, showing him a thousand points of suffering. Had he only some notes, he would be recording his own reactions in order to refine the art of Cactu-Puncture. But of all the items he had seen gathering dust in the commissary, parchment and ink were not among them. A rustling in the far corner of the room drew his attention, but he could not lift his head to see. He was only aware of something heavy hitting the floor, and the solid thump of a great mass travelling in his direction, step by step. "Ah, you must be the doctor," he said, exhaling in relief. "Surely you must have something for this pain. Your rocks must be very hard indeed to leave one such as I in this state!" There was no response, though the sound drew closer. "Or perhaps a massage?" Thump, thump. "Only a slight maming, please?" he asked, his low voice managing to raise into a squeak from the pain. A body loomed over him, entering his field of vision. Roegadyn, from the size, and exceptionally large, though gravely wounded, with a bandage, spotted in dried blood, concealing the top of his head and obscuring one eye. He used the good one to examine Verad, and started back in recognition. "Bellveil?" His tone was a mixture of surprise and dismay. Verad grinned, or, at least, bared his teeth through the pain of every part of his neck and jaw having given up on life. "Gliding Bone! At last, we meet."

A Few Weeks Ago: Trouble started for Verad, as it often did, in a cruel and unjust manner. Were he a more pessimistic person, he would have railed against the Twelve for choosing to torment him so. However, he at least recognized that the woes he suffered were not of his own making. So it was that when here turned from a brief, entirely voluntary vacation in Limsa Lominsa that had nothing at all to do with the possibility of his implication in accidentally smuggling a small forest's worth of juvenile cactuars into Ul'dah, he did not take it as a strike against him when he found that his Pearl Lane office had been vandalized, burglarized, and ransacked in a most vulgar manner. He came home to find a great quantity of blood on the carpet, his strongbox cracked and emptied of its contents, and his sign, the pride of his office, defaced in order to display a lewd slogan. If nothing else, he had to marvel at the creativity of the writer in changing "Dubious Distributions" to its current state; were he not quite cross at the culprit, he would seriously consider employing him for later advertisements. Now, some less-than-charitable individuals might have argued that Verad brought the possibility of robbery upon himself by making his office a small piece of rug situated in the middle of Pearl Lane's thoroughfare, and that by leaving his strongbox in plain view when he was not present, it was a miracle on the part of the Twelve that he had not been burglarized even sooner than he was. Verad could only scoff at such people, for the rug was some of Pearl Lane's most highly-desired outdoor real-estate, and available at a very reasonable rate considering its location, which was very close to the Quicksand. Further, would it not be unseemly for a dubious merchant to have anything other than a dubious office? Where else could he keep his papers and meet with larger clients but the rug, and not leave the impression that this was a man who was exactly as trustworthy as he appeared to be, without the dishonesty of meeting inside a building and at a desk, of all things! No, Verad prided himself upon his former office, whether that invited risk or no, and to the last point he had taken measures, first in making his materials appear to be far from worth the time and effort to steal them, and second in hiring security to patrol the area on times and days when the rug was being used by others, for he only rented it three out of the seven days of the week. It was, in fact, the very presence of this security which convinced Verad - in addition to more insignificant clues like the substantial quantity of blood that now stained the rug - that something was amiss beyond a mere robbery, for Ser Corinthus, the newly hired security, insisted that nothing had occurred on the days on which he patrolled. With no reason to doubt the man's honesty, and every reason to doubt the enthusiasm of the Brass Blades in resolving the matter once it was reported, Verad declared that he would put every one of his considerable resources to the problem of finding the culprits and returning his stolen belongings. It was most fortunate that he had only recently acquired the aid of one of Eorzea's free companies - or perhaps it was a charitable organization with a militant arm, Verad was never quite sure. But after making a sufficiently impassioned entreaty, several of their members offered to assist him in solving the crime. The task of finding witnesses to the robbery was simple enough, as it could only have occurred on the days Verad was not using the space, and was not present in the city as a result of his vacation. With the aid of Miss Airka Lakshmi's skill at dice - carefully monitored and supervised by Verad, of course - they were able to determine that the attack happened on the one day that Gliding Bone, a Roegadyn basket-weaver and, in Verad's estimation, a fellow of outstanding character, rented the space to sell his wares to the less fortunate. Their witnesses claimed to have seen the attack, and that one of the assailants was a member of the Ala Mihgan refugee community, notable for his bright-red, braided hair and relatively slim build for a member of a predominantly Highlander community. With this lead in mind, Verad had set about prodding, in his gentle, understanding fashion, for leads in the Ala Mihgan refugee community to see where such a man might take his leisure. Having narrowed down his location to the Laughing Peiste, a small tavern in Pearl Lane, he was quick to insinuate himself into the community, as well as take a few extra members of the company along for security's sake. Once one looked past the small riot that had occurred, the trip had gone quite well. Verad had been sure that there was some trick to be found in the wood grain of one of the tavern's tables, some sort of secret message, and so absorbed had he been in deciphering it that, regrettably, he had been unable to assist when one of his fellows in the company attracted the ire of one of the patrons. In retrospect, he supposed, bringing a number of Miqo'te and Midlanders into an Ala Mihgan bar was perhaps not the best way to avoid attracting attention, but not everyone could be as effective at blending in as he. Violence was prevented by the late-but-timely arrival of Miss Lakshmi, and between her prowess as an arcanist and Verad's ability to provide a distraction while being stunned by arcanist magic, the group was able to escape before any serious harm was inflicted. Nor had their efforts been entirely fruitless, for one of their number was able to contact Godrich, the red-braided man identified as one of the assailants. Through him, Verad and, by natural extension, the others, were made aware of their next big lead: The Coblyn's Fancy Mining Company. But it was in investigating this lead that the case would take a far darker turn... Now: Wahlbert sighed in relief as the Duskwight - Verad, he supposed, he'd certainly said his damned name often enough - stopped talking. It didn't sound as if he'd finished talking, with the trailing-off of his voice leading into the kind of pause in which an interested audience might prompt him to continue. But it certainly sounded as if he'd stopped, and Wahlbert was happy to take the lesser form of cessation. "All very nice," he said, pushing forward the small piece of parchment Verad had completely ignored. "But I was not being literal when I asked what brought you here. Could I get your name - all of it - and your contract tenure, please?" "Well, as you'll see - " Verad began, before stopping, giving the man a second look. "I'm sorry?" "Ah, so you can use the first person. Name. First and sur-. Contract length. Please." If he pushed the paper any more firmly towards the man, it would scrape the desk. Wahlbert was fond of his desk, a holdover from the earlier days of the company, and one of the last few goods of some value remaining in the commissary. He would have much preferred to leave it unscraped. But this Elezen sorely tested. "Y-yes, of course." He seemed to flush, leaning forward to scribble his name and tenure on the parchment. "Apologies for that. But as you can see, it is a problem of some import - " "Your arms, please." Wahlbert rose from his chair and gestured upwards. "Need to get your measurements for the uniform." The Elezen was silenced by the act of lifting his arms out, and Wahlbert made a note to keep interrupting him to throw him off-balance. Probably the only way things would get done. "Do we get new uniforms?" Verad asked as Wahlbert did not so much measure his arms as pat them down roughly to get a vague feel for the length. "I have to admit, some of those I saw on the way into the building seemed quite shabby." "You can get replacements and repairs, but those are added to your debt." He gave a vague pat to the man's torso, then stepped back to eyeball his legs. There was no chance of him patting down a debt-laborer, knowing what some of them were up to in their spare time before coming here. "Not many trousers in Elezen-size, though - too narrow for Highlander legs. They'll end a bit high." Verad seemed disappointed. "You don't have anything new, really?" Wahlbert looked over his shoulder, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He took in the dust on the shelves behind him, some from where empty spaces hadn't been filled, some where full spaces hadn't been moved. It was thick enough to hang in the air without being disturbed; on the days he had a cold, some of the more resigned workers would joke that it was a small sandstorm, of sorts. "No," he said. "Nothing new." With a vague sense of Verad's measurements, he limped back towards the more recently-used shelves to fetch one of the remaining uniforms. "Well, at any rate," Verad continued, despite Wahlbert's best efforts to shut him out as he poked through shelves for a pair of boots, fitting or no, "My chief concern here is finding Gliding Bone. The Roegadyn? I've reason to believe he was brought here as part of a debt-trade when my office was robbed." "Might've been," Wahlbert said with a grunt, kneeling down to pick through old aldgoat leather and worn laces. "We've had a few Hellsguard through here, the past few weeks. Name might be in the commissary purchases." [align=left] "Then you must have seen him! If he has found his way here, anyway. I was hoping to get in touch. I'm quite sure his family is worried, you see."[/align] "I just handle the commissary." Wahlbert returned to dump a pair of the older boots on the ground beside Verad, the rest of his uniform tucked under his shoulder. "You'll need to talk to the main office to get a personnel request - Lamaki should help you out." "Lalafell? Green hair, looked a bit queasy? We've met." "Maybe. He does most of the greetings. Here." Wahlbert pressed the uniform into Verad's open hands. "Get to the sleeping quarters and get changed. Like as not your first shift will be in a few hours. Might get lucky and run into him then." "I shall certainly hope so!" Verad grinned. Wahlbert resisted the urge to punch. It was a very punch-worthy grin, as much for its mere presence as its sheer cheekiness. "If I may ask, though, have you worked here long?" "Longer than you, certainly." Wahlbert returned to his seat, stifling a wince, before picking up Verad's paperwork. He glanced up after a moment to see the dismissal had not led to the man dismissing himself. He remained there, eyebrows wide and inquisitive, a very old puppy. "Five years in this spot," he added. "Just a bit after the Era started. Longer than that, though. Back when the company was new." "Then you're not a worker? I got the impression from the look on the guards that my term was . . . extensive." "No, no. You won't find most of the workers here longer than a year or so." Wahlbert frowned. "Why, how much do you owe?" [align=left]Verad told him. He snorted. "And it was only ten years? You were lucky." He shook his head, shut his eyes. "No, been here a while now." [/align] He said nothing afterwards, and the Duskwight seemed to infer the conversation was over, as he heard the door shut after the man left. Wahlbert stretched out his arms before leaning down, gasping as foot and knee protested the movement, and patted around for the flask in its small catch, another advantage of having one of the old desks. As he uncorked it, he caught sight of the old emblem of the company logo on its side, that of a small, cheery-looking coblyn, mouth open as it tossed a piece of ore into its mouth with one tendril, using another to pick up the leavings of a stubby-looking miner a few paces ahead of the beast, hacking away through rock with an oversized pick. As logos went, it was a poor choice, over-elaborate and too cutesy for a mining company. [align=left] Wahlbert grimaced, and swallowed before taking a long drink.[/align]

Professed Stats: STR 18 (18/00 if we're using 2nd Edition and earlier) DEX 18 CON 18 INT 18 WIS 18 CHA 18 Actual Stats: STR 10 DEX 12 CON 12 INT 13 WIS 8 CHA 16 (Somehow)

We have twelve very lovely gods. It wouldn't take much for somebody to take an interpretation of that faith in a direction sufficiently perverse enough for it to deviate far enough from traditional worship and into cult territory. Rhalgr seems like an obvious choice, but any one of them could work if worshiped by a sufficiently charismatic and broken person.

A Day Or Two Later: They came for him later in the evening, as he'd suspected. It took longer for them to arrive than Verad had supposed, despite going out of his way to make it easy for them. Lurking around Pearl Lane for as long as he did, he was sure that even if they did not take him, somebody would, whether that be some of the dirtier Blades or a few disgruntled refugees. But he was lucky, and the right people waylaid him before anyone else had the chance, waiting until his back was conspicuously turned to the main street before striking him a hard blow against the back of the head. They were well-practiced, and unconsciousness came mercifully quickly; he only had the vaguest impression that he was being secured and placed out of sight as darkness overtook his vision. He awoke to find himself in a muddy, blurry kind of darkness, the presence of heavy burlap over his eyes, bindings around his his hands and feet, and a gag in his mouth suggesting that they would very much appreciate it if he did not say anything that might attract the rare honest Blade, and if he could do that then things would be much simpler for all parties so involved. Nothing if not an obliging guest, Verad complied, and, save for all the bumps, the trip was much smoother for it. After a time, they pulled the sack away from Verad's face and splashed lukewarm, tepid water in his eyes. Why they did that, he had no idea. To wake him up, he supposed, but between the stinging pain in the back of his head from where he'd been struck and the jostling and rattling of the wagon over every last bump in Thanalan (he assumed it was a wagon, and a poorly-maintained one, given the prevalence of splinters strong enough to laugh at burlap and plunge right through his clothing), there'd been no chance of him being unconscious outside of his initial abduction. Surely, he thought, they could at least have the decency to check before subjecting a person to immersion, but that was routine for you: bringing about sloppy work as much as in kidnapping as it could in retail. Regardless, he found himself wet where he hadn't been, his beard dampened and giving him a look more like a particularly virile rodent than his usual winning features. He had very little time to protest however, being able to do little more before a harsh voice grated against his ear. "He's awake! Unload him." Verad scarcely had time to consider his cover story before he felt hands pulling out his gag, unbinding him, gripping his shoulders and, with what he considered very little delicacy given his reputation and prominence within the city, thrown from what felt like a very high place to collapse into the dirt. "Come on, on your feet. Didn't hit you that hard." This took a bit of doing; Verad found his legs a little weak from sitting in an awkward position for Twelve-knew-how-long, and he could feel dirt caking into his now-wet beard, turning it into a patch of bristled mud. He was torn between wiping this off and rising up, and did poorly at both. Only once he was upright did he finally get the chance to examine his surroundings. They were desert. This much he suspected, but he also found himself in front of a substantial barricade, behind which stood a number of buildings in various states of disrepair. Behind it, a number of what appeared to be workers loitered in the outdoors, giving him no particular notice outside of the occasional bored glances. The guards bore immediate attention, standing between he and the barricade, hands at their belts and, by coincidence, near the hilts of their swords, bemused looks upon their faces as if about to hear their favorite joke. Between them, a slightly ill-looking Lalafell flipped through a set of freshly-inked papers. Not Jeresu, by Verad's estimation. He had trouble telling the Dunesfolk apart, but Jeresu's hair wasn't so green, nor were his cheeks. "Verad Bellveil?" he asked, plucking one parchment free of the mass. Verad nodded, but, midway through doing so, seemed to hesitate. He had, after all, just been abducted from the streets of Ul'dah. A greater deal of confusion seemed appropriate, and so what had started as a pleased smile at the sound of his own name shifted into rapid blinking and a confused look, coupled with multiple panicked-seeming glances to his left and right, as if seeking escape. If the guards or the Lalafell noticed the shift, they didn't comment. "Just to confirm," he went on, proffering the document up for Verad's perusal. "This is your signature, correct?" Puzzled, or near to it, he dropped down to his knees to examine the paper. Sure enough, there was his signature, exaggerated flourish at the V, extra loops at the final L and all. It was exactly as he'd left it on the informational slip he'd provided to Jeresu the night or nights before. "That's . . . yes, that's mine," he said, feigning confusion. "How did - " "Because you signed it, sir," replied the Lalafell, peering up at Verad with the annoyed look of someone explaining the obvious. "Your contract with the company, in order to work off your debts. You'll find your trader's authorization here - " he pointed to a small scribble Verad could only assume belonged to Jeresu, "And here. Ten year contract, very favorable terms, according to your trader. Should be worked off in half that time if you're diligent." He couldn't stop his face from falling at the mere thought of ten years, and he heard the guards chuckle, approaching their desired punchline. "But - I mean," Verad stammered, looking around the desert and rubbing the back of his head. "The blow - " "Traders may, if they are concerned that their debtors are a flight risk, employ force within reasonable limits to ensure the safe delivery of their laborers to third parties." The Lalafell's voice had the bored tone of recitation. "If you feel the force was unreasonable, you can speak with management regarding a complaint later. For now we need to get you sorted, set you up with your uniform, establish your company account, assign sleeping quarters and work shifts, and perform the necessary medical examinations. Are you ready?" Verad glanced between he and the guards, whose grins only seemed to widen. What shift in his stance, he wondered, would make them think him a "flight risk?" A bending of the knees? Perhaps a squaring of the jaw? And what force would they think reasonable to employ? He hung his head. "I am." "Very good, then. Just step through the barricade and they'll get you sorted. And welcome to the Coblyn's Fancy Mining Company." The Lalafell waved a hand vaguely behind him before swinging on his heel to march to the west. Verad followed his path for a moment to see other buildings in the distance; company offices, no doubt, and at a far remove from the worker camp. Offering a resigned sigh, he stepped forward. He was stopped by a hand at his chest, the guard in front of him giving him a curious look. "I've seen you somewhere," he said, frowning, and for an instant Verad felt his heart hammer against his ribs. "Sir, I - I assure you that it must be - " "No, no, I have. You're Bellveil, aren't you? Merchant? Always wandering around selling 'dubious goods'?" He snorted. "How'd that business work out for you, then?" "Ah, so you have heard of me!" His grin was bright and grateful. "Then let me assure you that this is only a temporary setback. Once my debts are paid, I shall be back in my office - " "Heard it was just a rug," said the other guard. "Wasn't it just a rug." The grin turned to grimace very quickly. "Yes," he sighed, stepping past them and into the camp. "It always comes back to the damned rug."

I have a lot of these to give out, and they can be awful belated. In general, kudos to this community at large for helping me out of a very lengthy creative slump. The game caught my interest, but it's the overall positive and vibrant community here that has gotten me interested in roleplay again. Thanks to all of you! In particular, Aya, for being a fun and entertaining fixture at the Quicksand while I subject people to Verad's pitch, and for nailing the character's voice better than I could; Roen for being supportive of my posts and her willingness to play along with Verad's idiocy; Zhavi, for taking a chance and contacting me to get involved in my first IC forum thread; Val and Faye for similarly being willing to take a chance and try out my roll system, and Osric for being Verad's to-date only repeat customer. Kudos, I say! A kudos upon you all!

Tonight: Jeresu Resu fumbled his key in the lock of his door as he was closing up shop for the evening. While he was normally a practiced door-locker - an expert, some had speculated, to the extent that a few particularly boring individuals had joked that he ought to make a career of that instead of his current profession - his mind had been preoccupied with matters of far greater import, and worry had translated to trembling fingers. The key hit the street outside with the clatter of brass on tile, and he knelt down to pick it up, poking around on hands and knees in the dim glow of Ul'dahn streetlights until he felt it in the grip of his hands. The moment's delay and the turning of his back meant both that his door was still unlocked, and that he did not notice the stranger's approach. Only the soft, sonorous sound of a question, posed from directly behind him, drew his attention, and that with an abrupt start: "Ser Resu?" The Lalafell stumbled forward, halting just before his nose collided with the door. With a quick hiss of relief, Jeresu took a step back and turned to peer up at the man - Elezen, older gentleman by the look of him, with a heavy white beard contasting against the dark skin of a Duskwight. 'That's - that's me," he replied, glancing from side to side down the street. Even this late, it was a busy enough thoroughfare, with a few stragglers from the day's business returning home with unsold wares, nodding in passing to those on their way to the night markets. He didn't get a sense of a threat, of some assassin unseen among the crowd, waiting to strike following the Elezen's distraction, and so gained a greater sense of his composure. "If it's about a payment, I'm happy to assist during my business hours, but as you can see - " "Ah, yes, I can see!" The Elezen laughed, too brightly by far for what seemed like a very poor joke by Jeresu's standards, and took a step back, placing space between them. Without the benefit of surprise, he seemed harmless, spreading his hands wide and giving a lengthy bow. "And were it about such, I would come another day, I assure you. But I have a much more important matter to discuss, and - " He paused, adopting a shocked look and shaking his head. "Ah, but where are my manners? Verad Bellveil, at your service, and quite literally so. I wish to sell myself to you." Jeresu's eyes narrowed. A borrower and a lender he may well have been, but this was unusual. "If you mean debt-trading and labor, that's not exactly something I deal in." Or at least he amended, it wasn't something he advertised. Openly displaying that he was in the business of buying debts and selling debtors into labor, legal or not, was a quick way to attract unwelcome attention. "Where did you hear that?" Verad waved a hand in a dismissive circle. "I keep - kept - an office in Pearl Lane, and one does hear things. But I'm not wrong, am I? You are in such a trade? I can go elsewhere." A quick shake of his head force Jeresu to brush a few tufts of black hair from his face. "No, you're not wrong, not as such, but - forgive me, maybe I don't understand. You wish to sell yourself? You are, I assume, the debtor?" It only took a small nod from Verad to confirm, and Jeresu chuckled in response. "You're going about this all wrong, then. Tell your creditor to get in touch with me, and we'll work something out, if they're so inclined." "Ah, that won't do," said Verad with a quick tut. "They have relinquished responsibility, and shall not collect. I understand it's a bit odd, but for all intents and purposes I am both creditor and debtor alike." A rustling sound followed, and then a sheaf of papers was produced. Verad knelt down to hand them over. "Here, you can see for yourself." Jeresu took them, eyebrows creased in curiosity, and read the first page, lips moving in a silent habit. Its contents intrigued him, and the second page fascinated. The third made his lips cease entirely. "That much? That much gil, and they're not pursuing you for it. Really." The Elezen nodded, and offered a smile. "Would they negotiate? How much of a sum would they require to - " "I'm sure any amount you offered them would be accepted without complaint," said Verad. "I would, of course, suggest a reasonable sum. I have no desire to swindle them. Ah - " He gestured towards the still open door. "Perhaps we could speak about it inside? Of course, if it's out of your means, I can go elsewhere. A Miss Edge said she could arrange for some good terms." A great deal of sputtering commenced. "Burning Edge?! That coliseum washout? She couldn't manage this kind of sum in a hundred years." Jeresu sighed, and reached up to push open his office door. "Come inside, and let's talk." Verad smiled. "I would be much indebted to you." [align=center]---[/align] After a half-bell's discussion, Jeresu was beginning to regret the possibility of the man being obliged to him in any way. His conversational style was maddening, drifting from topic to topic, none of which were related to the papers. He would comment on the quality of the wood grain in the bookshelves or remark on the portrait of Jeresu and his sister together in one moment, and spend another providing a long, aimlessly rambling story about his days as an auroch-herder in La Noscea. If he had met the man on a street, he'd have broken a gil in half and told him to chase after the other. Yet the papers were legitimate. He could find no evidence that the man's debts were anything but valid, and to see all those zeroes together, changed from nothing to a number by the mere presence of a solitary numeral, suggested the potential for great profits indeed. And so Jeresu endured, suffering Verad's inanities until he felt it time to get to the nuts and bolts of business. Only then did the irritation truly begin. "Liquidating your current stock is fine," said Jeresu, leaning forward on his desk, rubbing his hand roughly enough against his cheek that he was sure it would chafe. "I can have an appraiser sent out to your warehouse to assess the value thereof in the morning. And it certainly would reduce the overall amount of time you would be working. But, Ser Bellveil - " "Verad, please! I insist upon it from friends." "I understand, Ser Bellveil, but if you wish to have your debts traded, you have to work. That's the point. You labor. You would become a debt-laborer, and I can set you up with some very good terms for it. In deference to your age - " "Age?! Thirty-eight is hardly anything, you know." "Of course, of course, I'm sorry," said Jeresu, soothing, astounded that the Elezen could make his beard fluff up like that. "All I'm saying is that younger workers would have more time to pay back the debt, and so the labor wouldn't be as severe. If you wanted to be out of bondage quickly, you'd have to perform some very intensive labor." "Oh, don't I know it." Verad waggled thick white eyebrows in a conspiratorial manner. When this failed to elicit an immediate response, he waggled them again. "After all, it's quite hard work, is it not so?" Jeresu's face remained stubbornly blank. Verad leaned over from the other side of the desk to nudge him with an elbow. "Eh?" "Eh? Eh what?" "At any rate, I would prefer to avoid being contracted out to other Lalafell. I bear your kind no ill will, of course, but, well, that kind of behavior just doesn't seem appropriate with such a great difference in height, does it?" "Ser Bellveil, what, exactly, do you suppose I would be contracting you for?" "Why, hard labor, of course! I daresay there are a lot of women in Ul'dah who would pay very well for a few hard labors." Verad's grin threatened to split off his head. At this point, Jeresu had been willing to let the matter go as the product of an old man's nonsense. Annoyance, and the quantity of nothings preceded by a something, led him to make a decision. "Ser Bellveil," he went on, opening a drawer in his desk and rifling through for a piece of paper, "You've completely misunderstood the nature of the business. We're not an escort service for the downtrodden." He slapped the paper in front of him, nudging the inkwell by his side towards his opposite number. "But if you'll put in your information and sign here, I can pass your name along to a few other traders, and see if they can't find something you'd find a little more favorable." When Verad seemed to hedge, glancing back towards the front door, Jeresu was quick to go on. "No Lalafell, I can assure you of that." Comforted, Verad jotted down the information requested on the sheet - name, nameday, citizenship, and a few other odds and ends - signed, and collected his papers. "I quite look forward to hearing from them! Oschon guide you." He was quicker to leave than he was to enter, giving the office door a polite slam. Jeresu slumped forward on his desk, and took a few long, calming breaths. Something about the Elezen, most likely the everything, set his teeth on edge. He took little pleasure, in most circumstances, in his job, but there was a certain thrill in him as he tapped against his linkpearl. "Sister? I know it's late, but can we meet? I think I have a big one."

Dice-with-a-good-system-> High-roll-wins-> Emotes -> Duel, in that order of preference. The tricky part with finding a good dice system is one that accurately reflects character abilities and the setting while still being nevertheless simple and abstract enough to proceed quickly without bogging down the posts. It's something I've been tinkering with for a while. Failing that, I'll take high-roll-wins simply because I prefer the unpredictability of it. Lacking that, I just don't find combat to be very interesting. The conflict that led up to the combat, certainly, but the details of the fight, less-so.

5OUP_Z3iZPs

Oh... it is on now! In my defense, Natalie is a jerk. And now, for my own safety, I hope RNG is kind on the next one.

Oh, is it supposed to be cold in Coerthas? Can't say I noticed: Bonus Footage: Ishgardians do not accept the validity of Verad's legitimately acquired photography permit.

At first, Kage thought she was joking, but when Natalie held out the dress and the heels, he knew she was serious. "Wh- it - I - " He stuttered, taking a step back as if the clothing might leap out and strangle him. Natalie followed suit, and Kage soon had very little space to flee. "It's - it's going to look so obvious though! They know who I am! I'm not even the right build!" "I know!" She smiled, a hint of teeth cutting through at one side to resemble a pair of fangs. "It's the Hildibrand method, and it's perfect. You'll look obvious; you'll look so obvious, that nobody will notice the real spy getting the information we need. All eyes on you!" Kage blushed, considering the prospect of several hundred pairs of eyes on him, give or take an odd number when one considered the inevitable guests with eyepatches, clad in high fashion and trying to pretend he hadn't just been a member of their ranks. It was admittedly a very tasteful gown, one in his color, but a gown nonetheless. "Wh-what about," he started to protest, before his face lit up, seeing an out. "What about Ser Crofte - " "Ser Crofte couldn't make this work like you could, Ser Deneith wouldn't stand out like you could, and the rest of the Sworn aren't worth mentioning. It has to be you." Her smile seemed to falter, hesitantly, in a manner that suggested she was about to give him the hard sell - "Please?" And, yep, there it was. Kage sighed. "Are the shoes in my size, at least?" ---- Natalie was right about one thing - all eyes were definitely on Kage at the official semi-annual Brass Blades' Officers' Ball. They kept an eye on him specifically to keep at least a ten-yalm radius away from the former Sworn; even if his past status as a member of the Blades, however briefly, and all the trouble that had entailed hadn't been barrier enough, his ungainly step in the heels and the obvious blush on his face as he collected the folds of his dark blue gown together to avoid tripping with each ilm of movement ensured that people stayed out of his way in the hopes that disaster wasn't contagious. It was with great relief that, after having been introduced, Kage was able to cross towards a table and take a seat. There was a wide, blank space around him amidst the throng of officers and their escorts - some literally so, others likely spouses - and he could see the small movements of the Dunesfolk spy Natalie had hired to listen in on conversations and rifle the odd documents. He had to admit, the plan was working, especially as long as there was a stir. Just as Kage felt he was about to relax, as if he could get through the evening without further embarrassment, he heard the thud of somebody heavily slumping into the chair beside him. "Puh-pardon . . . " slurred the man nearby, enough wine in his breath that he could very well have been harboring a small vineyard, "Puh-pardon me, madam, but wouldja care for s'm dubious goods?" Kage looked up to see an elderly Duskwight, clad in a shabby approximation of Brass Blade officer's garb and sporting a heavy white beard, seated next to him, having breached the buffer zone of empty space provided by the rest of the crowd. His head wobbled uncertainly, and the flush in the man's cheeks suggested that he'd been drinking for some time. Kage had a vague sense of who the man was - some sort of eccentric peddler who'd been wandering Ul'dah of the past few months - but what he was doing at an officers' ball he couldn't say. "Oh! Uh-" He cleared his throat, trying to remember if Nat had asked him to pretend to change his voice; nobody had yet spoken to him beyond basic pleasantries. Given the Duskwight's inebriation, he decided not to bother. "I think you have me at a disadvantage, Ser - " "Bellveil! Verrrahd Bellveil, Ul'dah's pre-..." He waved a hand dismissively. "Ah, 's a long title. How ya doin'? Nice party, right? Yanno they just give thes' invitationsh out?" "Th-they do?" He frowned, glancing around the room. None of the officers would meet his eyes. Why was this a semi-annual ball, anyway? Wasn't one a year enough? "Uhh-huh." Verrrahd bobbed his head up and down in over-emphatic emphasis. "'S a good thing I had a - " He swallowed. "Had a spare outfit. Got it on sale, yanno. Blades's good business." He nudged Kage in the shoulder abruptly. "But t'see 'em leavein' a young lady alone - now that - that wasn't right, you know." Ah, Kage thought, this was going to be one of those misunderstandings. He braced himself for the rest of the evening when a crash caught his attention. The Duskwight seemed to give it no notice, rambling on about something to do with the quality of the drinks being too high. Ignoring him, Kage squinted into the crowd, and saw the spy had stumbled into the legs of one of the waiters, knocking aside a tray of drinks. The crowd's attention had shifted to the commotion, and amid them, Kage could see questioning looks. A few guards started to weave through bodies, towards the source of the noise. If invitations were freely given, he realized, and people were allowed to dress as Blades, as Verrrahd had, then who else might be dressed the same? How many of them were actually officers, and if they weren't, why was the ball advertised as such? How many other spies had they already caught seeking evidence of corruption at balls like these? For an instant, Kage froze. If this was a trap, he needed to get out, and quickly. He was a quarter of the way through rising from his seat, before seeing the sprawled over form of the spy in the crowd, still shaking his head free of the daze. That would mean leaving him to his fate. All eyes on him, Natalie had said. Better not to let her down. Kage continued his rise from his chair, but rather than flee, he smiled, the gesture feeble but broad, and extended his hand down to Verrrahd. "I-if you'll excuse my asking," he said, trying to suppress a stutter. "Would you care to dance?" ---- It had been ten minutes, and Natalie still hadn't stopped laughing. Every time it seemed like she was about to relent, she found some new source of energy and the peals continued. Kage frowned, shifting his body to avoid putting more weight on the sling around his left arm. He'd been seen by a Conjurer, and the break was a clean one, but they had insisted on letting it rest for a day before healing it completely. The evening had been a disaster, of course. Between Kage's lack of balance in heels and the Duskwight's inebriation, they had managed to stay on their feet for thirty seconds before collapsing in a tangle of limbs and clothing, spilling into the crowd and knocking aside several dozen guests like very high-class dominoes. The crash eclipsed the attention given to the spy, however, and had given him the chance to get away. Kage hadn't been so lucky; the Duskwight was surprisingly heavy despite his apparent age, and he'd suffered a fracture for his troubles. He'd been seen to by medics in the Blades, and had come to Natalie's own quarters to report on the matter the next day. Since then, the hilarity hadn't stopped. Only when she threatened to fall out of her chair did the noise subside. "So - " she said, righting herself and wiping tears out of her eyes. "She got away you said?" Kage nodded. "Yeah. I'd be surprised if he got anything though. Looks like it was all some setup." "Big party, send out invitations to people the Blades want to silence, and gather them all up at once." Natalie nodded. "Good, good. Good thinking there, Kage." She smiled, and Kage found himself blushing harder than he had in a dress. "See? You were the only one could have done it." "Yeah." Kage swallowed, looking around the room to avoid direct eye contact. "Listen, though, I was wondering - " "Yeah?" "Couldn't I have just worn a suit?" The laughter started again.

As I said, easy-mode! Very good job. It'll be a little while before I can respond in kind, so hang in there.

[table] [tr] [td]Item Name[/td] [td]Drop Chance[/td] [/tr] [tr] [td]A Small Mountain of Crap[/td] [td]100%[/td] [/tr] [tr] [td]Pocket Ledger[/td] [td]5%[/td] [/tr] [/table] A Small Mountain Of Crap: Verad's seemingly limitless supply of dubious goods. How does he carry all of this stuff? Takes up 16 inventory slots. Untradeable. Cannot be vendored. Cannot be discarded. Pocket Ledger: A small notebook in which Verad records his daily transactions. He seemed to be making a profit, somehow, but it certainly never shows. Mod note by FreelanceWizard: Edited formatting 'cause it was causing some major pain to IE. OP note: Thank you for that, I have no idea what happened there.

Come now, I am easy-mode. Make up nonsensical product, justify it with spurious logic, annoy customers. Simple! Challenge yourself!

I'm down.

The nice thing about playing older characters is that if I want to, I can just kill them without incident. . . . Not that I'm planning that, of course.

Verad Bellveil is an eccentric merchant who sells junk and tells people it's junk, but is nevertheless oddly personable and easy to get along with. He has an honest and idealistic streak - save where he is bragging about himself - that doesn't do him much good, a flair for the dramatic, and a tendency towards the verbose. As far as my influences go, well, I read a lot of Terry Pratchett growing up. I generally play with an eye towards humor, in part because that just interests me more, and in part because I find that making a character most people associate with comic relief suffer is an act that hits the audience in the gut pretty hard. I also tend to play him towards the verbose because I am fascinated with the aesthetic of writing, and with the use of style. I find that it's easier to get away with stylistic flourishes in RP if you're playing a funny character - otherwise, past experience has shown me that things like narrative voice and wordplay can be looked down upon by some players.

That bastard.

So this happened. I'm pretty sure he's the evil one, given the eyebrows and tattoos.

Its not for me, you know... but for my starving family back in Ishgard~ *Hands over a large bag with a dollar sign logo while tears stream down face.*

I am going to take that idea. It is mine now. It will appear later. So... about that Verad <3 Aya shipping idea...? I will maintain this ruse until Aya realizes that the real gold was true love all along.

I am going to take that idea. It is mine now. It will appear later.

I actually do need to play with Zhavi more. Perhaps with his new office in Limsa this will happen. Then again, she may murder him for his imitation fool's gold.

"All-natural condoms! Guaranteed liquid-tight! Made from real intestines!" "Ew... Like aldgoat guts?" "Sure, probably!" I am offended! Verad would never sell a product of that nature without thoroughly testing it himself! Thoroughly.