Nero

Nero paused, being careful to mask the surprise on his face. He hadn't expected such a thorough answer. Indeed, the confidence with which the Flame Sergeant casually outlined his approach to bring utter ruin to the prosperous and delusional implied extensive knowledge that likely outstripped Nero's own. The smuggler was far too egostistical to openly--or even inwardly--admit that in this subject he was outclassed in both knowledge and resources, but he did feel a certain amount of grudging respect develop. Along with that, however, came forth the furious flag of wariness. It was fairly obvious that Osric was not just a simple lawman. There was a dark element to his past, one seeped in blood and shadows. What caused Nero's wariness wasn't so much that fact, so much as it was his suspicion that the Flame Sergeant deliberately revealed that facet of himself...perhaps as a challenge. Nero leaned back in the chair, his arms crossed. Though he'd made disparaging and dismissive comments earlier, he couldn't ignore this kind of opportunity. It wasn't because he necessarily needed another set of contacts, but rather, having those kind of people one hundred percent committed to hunting him as opposed to hunting for him could prove...problematic. Several long minutes of contemplative silence later, he finally spoke. "Get rid of Taeros. And anyone associated with him. I realise that some of them may be your...not necessarily friends, but acquaintances, at least, and thus you're in the most advantageous position to remove them as a threat without killing them. Once I've confirmed with my own sources that he is either dead or otherwise removed, then I can seriously consider letting you in on the plan." It was a long shot. Proposing this kind of thing ensured that Nero risked nothing while having the greatest gains, something Osric would obviously pick up on.. Still, what he had said earlier still held true in the smuggler's mind: the Sergeant needed him more than he needed the Sergeant.

Nero frowned. It was true that several of those things would be useful in the right contexts, but those applications were very...pedestrian. But then again, the worth was not in the actions themselves so much as it was the alleged reliability. Any self-respecting underworld setting had its own ring of informants and saboteurs, but the problem with relying on criminals for that sort of sensitive work is that it tended to be rather like using a coeurl to clean out a pantry: loud, noisy, and messy. And what was the price? Information. This would be an extremely expensive prospect indeed. "A hypothetical, then," the smuggler echoed, leaning back in thought. "Fine, then. Let's say I want to use your network to destroy an entire noble house in one night. Tell me how you and your fellows would go about this." It was partly a serious idea and partially a test. A person of a boorish or slow-minded mentality would immediately assume that "destroy" was synonymous with "kill", and balk at the prospect. The Flame Sergeant wanted to participate in Nero's activities to find out what the latter was doing, but his annoyingly stalwart moral boundary meant that he and his associates would be limited in their usefulness at best, and completely unusable at worse. Thus, the Sergeant would have to make up for it with creativity. "I don't particularly care how it's done, so long as it's done in a way that it is not directly linked to me. Pitch me some ideas as to how best to use this network of yours, because to be quite frank, I don't particularly need another set of tools unless you happen to be incredibly wealthy or extremely influential in the political sector." Nero folded his arms. "Convince me that you can be of use."

"You are looking well." It was a flat greeting, made more out of habitual politeness than any sort of genuine concern. Said greeting was meaningless anyway: the Duskwight's attention was fully occupied by the large schematic on his desk, a slender blue-gray hand gracefully piloting a quill across the sheet. Despite the speed with which the Elezen wrote, there was no chaos in the movements. The motions were swift but contained a controlled complexity, like a ballroom dance. "This is the first time we've seen each other face-to-face in moons, and that cold observation is all I receive?" Nero's trademark smirk accompanied his response as he leaned against the wall. Outside the secluded office, the blows of hammers and the shouting of workers could be heard. "In all of our previous encounters, your initiation of contact was an action brought forth by practicality. An expectation of courteous pleasantries at this juncture is both superfluous and asinine." The chilly response was punctuated by the soft scratching of the quill on parchment. Nero clicked his tongue. "I can't tell if you're blunt because of who you are or if it's because of my flippant attitude. A mixture of both, perhaps." The Duskwight did not deign to respond, merely brushing a hand past snow-white locks in a fashion suggesting that Nero's comment was not worth remarking upon. The smuggler counted what lucky stars he felt he had left for having secured the cooperation of Arturieaux Bellamont. The pair of them had known each other during Nero's studies of thaumaturgy; the Elezen arcanist had spent a number of moons in Ul'dah studying the intricacies of thaumaturgy, and had been courteously escorted through the city by Nero when the latter was still an acolyte. To call them friends would be going rather far--the Duskwight's harsh rebuke, though masked in grandiloquent loquaciousness, was a sure indication of that--but they shared some measure of mutual respect between them. The arcanist was a certified expert in his field of aetherial flow and the principles of energy utilisation and conversion, and the smuggler even back then had a certain talent for obtaining rare and valuable materials without most people knowing. Given the Duskwight's rather ruthless nature in his scientific endeavours, the pair were a simple match. "In any case, I had a rare moment of free time, and so I wanted to inspect construction for myself," the smuggler said nonchalantly. "Take a look at my investment, as it were." The truth was far more petty and whimsical, and both men in the office knew it. Nero had traveled across Vylbrand to the hidden cove to distract himself. In the smuggler's mind, seeing the direct effects of his influence would help quell his wavering doubts. Roen had confronted him about the weapons shipment he'd brought to Scythe and brought to the forefront how often Nero had deceived others, including her. In typical Roen fashion, she'd managed to throw all of his thoughts and conviction into disarray. That was not to imply that it was purely her fault, but Nero deliberately tried to ignore her during their conversation and he knew it. Speaking to Arturieaux was a subconscious effort as well, a silent cry for help. While Nero took pleasure in deconstructing the motivations and personalities of others--mostly to stroke his own ego--the Duskwight viewed people as puzzles to be solved. Speaking to Arturieaux was a way for the smuggler to unravel the mess that was his own psyche, and it was not the first time the former had done so. "I fail to see the point. It is not as if you are qualified to properly judge such a monumental undertaking," Arturieaux responded, sniffing disdainfully. Nero raised an eyebrow. The Duskwight's phlegmatic disposition was not something that was easily adjusted to. Arturieaux was not being arrogant or insulting in his comment: in the arcanist's mind, he was merely pointing out an accurate observation. Still, it wouldn't hurt him to adopt at least some measure of social grace. "Even so, mayhaps it would be prudent for us to move again," Nero said, gazing out the office's small window. The tone of the Duskwight's response was encompassed by a disdainful snort. "The foundation has already been laid out and we finally have set up the facilities to manufacture the necessary parts. Attempting to shift the location of construction now would merely throw everything into disarray." "I realise that you don't like it when we make you walk--only the Twelve knows why they bothered to give you legs--but recent events have turned some heat on our activities." "Your activities. And are you not the one who is used to evading the law? If you were less foolish then 'heat' is not something we need to be worried about." Their conversation was akin to a duel. The smuggler would broach a topic, the Duskwight would rebuke him with "foolish" this and "nonsensical" that, to which the smuggler would return with his characteristic sarcastic quips, only to be met with another cold, calculated response. Nero put on an indignant expression. "In my defense, that was because Scythe had decided to strain against his leash." "And you are the handler who put that boorish man on a leash in the first place. Is it not your responsibility to control him?" "Controlling him is different from supervising him. I'm not a fussy mother who can afford to ensure that the children behave in school. If he decides to throw chalk and kick another child in the face, then--" "Then it is still your responsibility, even within the contexts of this idiotic analogy." The smuggler turned, leaning his back against the small window and folding his arms. "Worry not, I've spoken to him about it. Nothing has changed. In fact, he'll be able to buy us some time." Arturieaux turned his head somewhat to shoot Nero an irritated glare. "I distinctly recall your statement saying that the 'heat' was on us. That is the opposite of what you are saying now, if you are unaware." The smuggler merely smirked--a hollow gesture--and shrugged. "What can I say? I like to keep you on your toes. But yes, we had a little discussion and I took care of a problem of his. He'll behave how I want him to and cause some sporadic chaos. That'll be enough to turn the attention to domestic issues, so to speak." "And yet, you are the one who supplied him with weaponry, so logically the focus of authorities will be on you." Arturieaux turned his attention back to editing the schematic as he spoke. "The inherent problem with violence in Ul'dah is never the weaponry, it's who uses it. Even if I didn't supply them, someone else who is trying to make a profit would. If the Blades were at all competent, bandit gangs would never be a problem." The Duskwight waved an idle hand. "Spare me your political ramblings. They are irrelevant. What is stopping you from having your paladin friend take care of it?" Now it was Nero's turn to snort. "Roen is reliably competent but won't be able to take care of a problem like this. She has no authority. If what my contact in the Blades said was true, she can barely show her face in the city." "And whose doing is that, I am forced to wonder," the Duskwight observed dryly. "Evidently this is becoming a running theme. Are you even aware of how capable you are of crippling your own allies?" "Even so, you are still cooperating with me," Nero shot back in an attempt to divert the flow of the conversation. But Arturieaux had sensed the former's discomfort and had locked on to the target, ignoring the bait the smuggler had laid out. "Ul'dah is her home and yet her association with you has made her a fugitive, and now you complain that she is unable to fix your problems for you. An exceptionally incompetent man you are, Nero Lazarov." On the one hand, Arturieaux's ability to not give a damn made the Duskwight incredibly capable of gaining the upper hand in a conversation, which is why Nero hated speaking to him at times. On the other hand, said "not give a damn" ability was what enabled Arturieaux to ignore all social etiquette and bring certain indisputable problems to the forefront, which is why Nero needed to speak to him at times. The smuggler paused in his response, but the Duskwight did not relent. "Do you love her?" Nero's head whipped around at that. He was prepared for that line of questioning to come forth as soon as the topic of Roen arrived, but he was not prepared for it to be that blunt, even considering who he was speaking to. What was most surprising was that while Nero had mentioned Roen and her involvement to him, never had he mentioned any sort of affection or intimacy to Arturieaux. "Why do you ask?" Nero responded carefully. "Responding to a question with a question is a sure sign of an incompetent man, doubtful in his motives and flawed in his reasoning, and the most infallible downfall to most men is their shallow desire for a woman. She lacks the power to do what you wish to be accomplished, yet you keep her as an agent. You have told me that she insists on her idealism which clashes with your own principles and yet you remain involved with one another, to which I repeat my query. Do you love her?" The smuggler folded his arms, turning his gaze down to the floor to gather his thoughts. "I...trust her. I value her. She is--" "Why?" Arturieaux had put the quill down and ceased his work, turning his attention to Nero. The Duskwight's elegant white robe shifted as he too folded his arms, mirroring Nero's defensive posture. At this point, Arturieaux had evidently decided that he would not accomplish any meaningful work so long as he was forced to serve as the Hyur's emotional adviser. "You claim to trust and value her, and yet those ideas are different from love. She most assuredly has some manner of affection for you if she is willing to forsake herself from her home, but you yourself are not willing to make such a sacrifice for her sake." "What I--" "Would you throw away your plan for her?" "No." The response was immediate, and accompanied by some sense of immediate regret. "Then you do not love her. You are merely using her, and I've yet to decide which is more despicable: the idea that you are using her without being aware of it, or the idea that you are fully aware and simply do not want to admit it." A long silence expanded in the room, with Arturieaux staring at Nero and Nero staring at the floor, his thoughts in turmoil. After several minutes of this stillness, the Duskwight loosed an exasperated sigh and turned back to the schematic on his desk. "Do me the favour of vacating this premise, and take your emotional baggage with you." Nero glanced at the Duskwight's back before wordlessly leaving the office.

Nero gave a hard stare to the sergeant for several long seconds before grinning and leaning back. "I suppose this all works well for you too, hmm? If I end up crossing a line, you'll be in a convenient position to take me down and reap some accolades." He gave a slight shrug and in two smooth motions, snatched the tumbler from the table, brought it to his lips, ingested a single gulp and placed the vessel back on the table. He grimaced somewhat at the taste of the liquor--it wasn't as pleasant as he'd hoped--but waved a hand nonetheless. "Fine, then. You want to know what I plan to do, and in return you're willing to be an agent. Of course, how useful you'll be--with regards to that aforementioned red tape--remains to be seen. Though, the fact that you're associated with the Flames--quite publicly, I might add--reduces your utility somewhat. You wouldn't be allowed on the same street as any nobles worth knocking down, and blackmail material in Ul'dah is mostly worthless unless profits or the loss thereof is involved." The smuggler folded his arms and rest one leg on the other. "Well, while we're being frank with each other, I don't want to kill anyone I don't have to. As the other side of the law, I'm sure you're familiar with the annoyances involved when dead bodies appear. That said, you're worth nothing to me as hired muscle and even less as a bagman. So I suppose if I want to use you effectively, I'd have to use your connections." Nero began tapping a finger on the table. "Care to enlighten me as to how those connections will help?"

Night had fallen over Ul'dah, the cool glow of the night sky enveloping the Jewel like a blanket. A Brass Blade walked briskly through it, tugging on the cover of his turban over his eyes. The sound of mailed boots clicking on the cobbled streets sounded too loud in this quiet corner of the city. While the warm glow of lights and the festive shouts of people still echoed from the Sapphire Avenue, the area in front of the Brass Blade headquarters was relatively still. Inside was a token force of Blades, but many of them were out and about, enjoying Ul'dah's street life. The lip of the Brass Blade curled somewhat as he entered the headquarters and made a straight line to the gaol. No one questioned him. It was generally true that if you act like you belong somewhere, most people won't stop you out of fear of raising a fuss. It was rather gratifying to know that that principle held true even in places of authority. The area in front of the entrance to the dungeons was empty save for a single Highlander Hyur standing watch. Things were going just as planned. The first Brass Blade made a small gesture as he approached the door to the dungeons. He wasn't wearing the traditional bronze mitts but was instead wearing gauntlets that allowed him to extend his right thumb and index finger forward. The Highlander Hyur nodded and swung the door open. As the first Brass Blade entered the gaol, he passed a small pouch to the Highlander with his left hand. The farther one descended into the dungeons, the fouler the stench became. It wasn't just sweat, blood, and excrement; it was desperation, and fear. The Brass Blade gave cursory glances to each of the cells until he found the mark he was looking for. The sight gave him pause. The Elezen's sack trousers were covered in blood stains and the cell reeked of sweat and fecal matter. What was once a spindly, if reasonably alive Wildwood had thinned and shrunk into a mere skeleton covered in taut, pasty skin. Darkened bruises encased his wrists where manacles held them and were only defeated in hue by the bruises on his face and body. His chest heaved with laboured breathing. The Brass Blade opened his mouth to say something before stopping and wordlessly swinging open the cell door. The Elezen seemed to barely lift his head up as if to acknowledge this new torturer before his neck went slack. The Brass Blade then withdrew a small vial from his belt, uncorking it. The vial was filled with a translucent, viscous liquid, and driven through the cork was a small golden needle. He knelt down to the Elezen with the needle covered in the almost gelatin-like substance, glancing his head up. What a wretched place to be in. The Brass Blade looked down and examined the Elezen's calf. It was easy to see the blue veins against the stretched skin. With a careful motion, he pricked the Elezen's calf with the needle; the hole was minuscule but was surrounded by just the barest visible purple tinge. The Elezen did not react to it at all. He corked the bottle and sighed, standing up. It would only take a few hours for the substance to take effect. Perhaps even less, given the Wildwood's pitiful state. The Brass Blade corked the vial and walked out, double checking to make sure the turban covered any notable features of his face. The Brass Blade walked out of the dungeons and back into the streets of Ul'dah with nary a word. The night went on.

.... brb going to make placeholder character. And then you can coerce one of your Miqo'te friends to become David Meowie. With your powers combined, your guyliner will be unstoppable.

Man, I love you guys. Every other innocuous thread ends up turning into the reading equivalent of watching a car crash in slow motion. Never change, RPC. Anyway, I do really like the look of them, but I agree with the general sentiment that Au'ra look unoriginal in the sense that they're basically just Hyur with horns and tails tacked on. I guess it makes things easy for cosplayers? I do genuinely like the aesthetics of the race though. The idea of originality is laudable and everything, but you wouldn't see many people playing a race that was truly bestial in appearance. I still have PTSD flashbacks from how horribly armor fit on Charr in Guild Wars 2. The good news is that some people will be happy that they finally have a reason to change their name to Eddie Lizzard.

I hate playing alts. One reason why I like FFXIV is because I can consolidate everything onto one character. And I want to try playing Au'ra. I find the transformation plot device a bit distasteful though so I'm swinging back and forth. I might just end up killing Nero off; anyone who's read his arc up to this point can reasonably see that as the only way it ends. And that'd mean getting to reuse any of his character points I never properly established.

The soft, telltale scratching of a quill on paper was punctuated by the rhythmic percussion of the chronometer ticking through its gears. Nero's office was silent save for the oddly harmonic presence of these two sounds. The face of the chronometer indicated that it was quite late in the night, and yet the smuggler had yet to cease working. The paperwork was gargantuan amount of letters that needed to be sent never seemed to diminish. First was organising payment for informants, then certain authorities would need to be fed misinformation, and then another negotiation with a client for this or that, and all of that wasn't even taking into account the amount of bookkeeping needed to falsify the info on the smuggler's various front companies. I should seriously consider a secretary. Or three. Nero flexed his hand briefly before folding the last letter, slipping it into an envelope before placing it on a respectable stack on his desk. I'll just send these tomorrow, came the idle thought. His desk finally cleared, Nero's attention was brought to the small wrapped package sitting on the corner of his desk. Garalt had passed it to him earlier that day, saying that Roen had brought it by. In his frenzied workaholicism, the smuggler hadn't deigned to open it yet. Was it for some kind of event? He pulled the small note out from under the simple-looking ribbon, silently mouthing the words as he read it. The Starlight Festival. It's just about that time of year, isn't it? Nero frowned slightly as he realised that he hadn't gotten anything in return for the paladin. What would she like? Something practical? No, something a bit more sentimental. Jewelry, maybe? Shoes? I never was very good at picking out gifts, he thought rather sardonically to himself. That would have to be rectified, but first... The ripping of wrapping paper sounded far too loud in the quiet office, and it was with some measure of surprise that the Hyur found himself with a small smile on his face. He would recognise that style anywhere: the strokes of the quill was unhurried, each line and curve deliberate and steady. The sketch itself was simple, more of an idle thought than a piece with genuine effort, but its simplicity captured the essence of the man who had created it. There was always another side. He leaned his head on one hand to steady himself as he stared at the albatross and an unexpected tide of emotions came to his mind. Sadness at the loss of his first mate. Admiration for the image and the frame. Anger that Daegsatz had been taken from him...and though he would never admit it, some slight joy that someone else was thinking of him.

I enjoy conceptualizing story ideas and characters but sitting down and actually writing stories with all the details is labourious. RP lets me write stories by making up about one seventeenth of it and then letting other people fill in the blanks themselves. So basically, RP is my way of being lazy.

It was rather embarrassing, the truth: Nero hadn't done his research on the sergeant. The smuggler hadn't bothered. The Flame sergeant barely registered as an obstacle, much less as a possible associate, and Nero's knowledge on him was woefully inadequate. The number of people trying to kill or arrest the pirate had been growing steadily, and Nero had far more capable enemies to be wary of. He left his head leaning on the fist, the omnipresent smirk plastered on his face as he considered his option. Nero's other hand thumbed the scroll. He didn't need to read the contents. The Storm was not nearly as eccentric as the Serpents and not as corrupt as the Flames. If the Maelstrom had enough evidence and information to act against him, they would have done so by now, and with extreme prejudice. Still, knowledge was power, and knowing exactly what the perimeters of the game were allowed the smuggler to try to manipulate it that much more. That brought his attention to the Sergeant's last assumption. Indeed, Nero had agreed to the meeting in an attempt to gauge whether or not Osric would be useful. It was difficult to tell if it was his perception or simply his blinding cynicism, but the man undoubtedly possessed an infuriatingly prevalent sense of virtue that would certainly hinder more than help--especially if their last meeting was anything to go by. Still, something didn't sit right with the smuggler. The entire reason Osric had pursued this meeting in the first place must have been because the Sergeant had some manner of leverage. Idle threats and justice posturing was little more than faffing about, and the Sergeant knew that. Thus, two possibilities existed: one, he held incriminating evidence and information that would allow him to strongarm Nero into cooperation. The Sergeant had claimed otherwise, but there was no reason to make assumptions based on the contrary. The other possibility was that the Sergeant had access to something that Nero didn't, and might need. This could be anything from information to contacts to being a long lost twice-removed relative of Ishgard's Holy See who was born as a Highlander in some freak interracial affair that would throw the political stability of Coerthas into a boiling pot of chaos and bedlam as a quasi-religious civil war erupts in order to purge undesirable elements from positions of Ishgardian governance. In his mind, Nero politely asked his thoughts to eliminate that last idea as a possibility. His thoughts obliged. In any case, it was a good question. Assuming they did ally--and again, Nero searched his mind for anything that outweighed the downsides of such an alliance, and precious little came forth--how would he use Osric? A scapegoat would be useful, but if Nero assumed that the Sergeant had a position of power in reputation, that wouldn't be very effective. Information on the nobility might prove useful, but Nero could practically hear the combined indignant yammering of the Sergeant and Roen even considering felling more nobles, and that din was something he wasn't willing to put up with. Bandits? Osric Melkire did not have the capability of purging the gangs and banditry from Ul'dah, or he would have done so by now. Besides, the instant Nero let slip one hint about Scythe or Scythe's Limsan weapons, it would all go to the hells. The smuggler spun the issue in his head. Perhaps the problem was with his assumption. From only one conversation, Nero had immediately painted an image as to the Sergeant's demeanor and motivations: the exasperating moral crusader, fighting for the innocent, never willing to kill or maim or blackmail. Always pushing for what was right, while at the same time rigid in his ways and unwilling to change. The Sergeant's comments implied an indignation at being portrayed as such. "The question is not what I would have you do," Nero spoke finally, his tone thoughtful. His head switched to leaning on his right fist. "The question is, what are you willing to do? I don't suppose you'd be willing to, I don't know, cripple Ul'dah's economy? No, that would harm the innocents. Purge the bandits and corrupt Brass Blades? If you could do that, you'd have done it by now. I suppose I could have you gather information to blackmail the nobility into surrendering their assets to me, but I have the feeling that you'd object to that. What about just outright killing Taeros? But oh, it's about 'sending the message that justice exists', or something. And I already have Roen for that." The smuggler puffed his cheeks out and blew air from between his lips in a childish "pbbbt" as he spun his left hand in circles in the air before speaking. "Hypothetically, let's say I do agree to this little alliance. Naturally, you want me to tell you all of the intricacies of my plan and who it involves so that if, or rather, when it goes too far for your delicate, delicate sensibilities, you'll have all of the information you need to throw a wrench into the cogs and bring everything I've worked so hard for to a screeching halt. I understand that part perfectly." Nero bit his lip in thought before nonchalantly shaking his head. "Nope. Can't think of anything. Of course, I have in my head this image of you as the virtuous and noble soldier whose first duty is to his conscience and who has a line he will never cross, and that admittedly rigid assumption has your prospective uses to me limited to say the least. You know, typically the first step in preparing for a business deal is preparing an offer in which the other party will be interested in. You would not make a very good entrepreneur, if this meeting is any indication." Would it be easier to make alliances if he weren't so caustic? Very likely. Roen had questioned him on it previously: Nero showed so very little of himself to anyone. The wall he had built around himself was covered in cold steel and piercing barbs. His thoughts, his motivations, his limits...all of these things were hidden. Sharp focus was brought to his first meeting with Osric Melkire. After the Sergeant had left the dock, Nero had been left wondering when he had grown so jaded, so extreme. It was a simple matter of manipulation. Say some pretty words, enough to get the Sergeant on his side, then lead him off on some chase, use him until his value had been exhausted, then throw him away. What, then, made it so difficult? Such manipulations were so very easy before. After Daegsatz' death, however, Nero noticed himself growing more vehement, more rigid. He did not just want to change Ul'dah, he wanted everyone to admit that they were wrong and that he was right. He wanted to rub the city's face in it. He wanted to dirty the pretty armor of the Sultansworn, cut off the hands of the thieving Brass Blades, put out the eyes of the lecherous bandits, and break the knees of the bellicose Immortal Flames. It was...childish, and egotistical, and it was starting to become a problem. Nero sighed briefly, taking his head off of his fist. His mental problems would be taken care of later. For now, he should focus on swaying the Sergeant to his side. "What I want is to change the balance of power, so that people in that wretched hive have a chance. An opportunity for something better. A place where their children can grow without hardship. Change is never easy, and a brighter future will not come without blood." Nero leaned forward, pointing a finger at the Sergeant. "I'll ask again, and I think this question is just as important, if not more important to yourself as it is to me: what are you willing to do, to see that change?" A fiery corner in the smuggler's mind raged at the question, even as it left Nero's lips. Melkire will not help you. He cares for nothing but the 'right' way, so that when he views his failure, he can tell himself that he did everything he could. He will oppose you. He is content to let the Jewel waste away in corruption and filth for the sake of his conscience. Do not trust him. Do not work with him. He will be your end, as he was the end for so many others. Nero focused a hard stare slightly to the left of the Sergeant's head in an attempt to suppress his doubts. Yet they were growing louder.

The Elezen and his associates glanced around with grim looks on their faces. They turned to and fro, only to see that the narrow alley that had provided them with such an ample kill box had now served to trap them with a wall of bodies and chainmail. The Elezen was still clutching his hand that had been slashed, and his baleful gaze carried deep contempt. The trio of them spun slowly a few times to find that they were well and truly surrounded, and their riflemen had retreated. "As the Blade said, you have one chance," the figure, now revealed to be a woman, spoke firmly. "Surrender now or your life may be forfeit." At her offer, the Elezen's face curled into a spiteful scowl. He barked out a bitter laugh in response. The hoarse laugh only grew in its crescendo as the Brass Blades grew closer. "Where do you think we are, you pompous bitch?" he spat, coughing slightly as if choking on his own amusement. "My life is already forfeit. Anyone forced in this shitehole" he swept his arms to the run down buildings of Pearl Lane. "got nothin' to lose." He pulled out a dagger from within his sleeve and his companions, still wielding their weapons, turned from the woman and lashed out at the approaching Blades.

Nero rested an elbow against the table, leaning his head against his fist, considering his words carefully. His face was concealed by a placid veneer of cordiality, though his thoughts ran through his mind. So the Sergeant already knew about his alter ego. The smuggler had to admit to himself that he had not been doing that excellent of a job of concealing it; the false Sebastian was nothing more than a surface front to dissuade the bookkeepers and occasional customs officials. Any sort of focused investigation would, when combined with asking the right people, reveal who Sebastian Redgrave really was. And the comment about Maelstrom vessels...that was a test. Its presence as a test was so obvious that Nero wasn't entirely sure if it actually was what he thought it was. It was a common way to draw information out from people; drop some sort of false news or knowledge and see if the opposing party corrects that assumption, directly or indirectly. It had to be that kind of test; Melkire wouldn't be so ignorant as to imply that Nero was managing to get away with raids on the Maelstrom without attracting the attention of the Knights of the Barracuda. Nero nearly snorted, a myriad of answers that varied in their vitriol resting on the tip of his tongue. Why would Melkire be doing any of this? Because the sergeant knew he had no authority to convict Nero outside of Thanalan. Because he knew that removing Nero would only be a temporary solution. Because in the mind of Nero Lazarov, Osric Melkire and Roen Deneith were two of the same people: self-righteous moral crusaders who wanted to use him for his plan, only to condemn him when they saw fit. It took some effort to keep the sneer from his face. Nero raised an eyebrow. "I take it you're not the sort who does well with snide comments, so I'll refrain from that in the future. In any case, you should understand my position. Agreeing to this meeting was risky enough. There are exactly three kinds of people who want to meet a man like me in a location like this: people who want to do business, people who want to kill me, and people who want to do business and then kill me. Two of those three options end with me dead, and you are absolutely one of the latter two. You understand my apprehension, of course." Nero shifted from leaning his head against his right fist to leaning against his left. "And I know you, or rather, I know men who are just like you. You don't forget, and you don't forgive. Even if I do believe that you're just here for some open dialog and a civil sharing of ideals, I have everything to lose and nothing to gain from confessing to you my plans and motivations, which is obviously why you called me here. In short," the smuggler crossed one leg over the other and leaned back slightly. "in every possible scenario of this conversation, you need me more than I need you. So no, I don't know why you're doing any of this, or rather, I don't know why you thought any of this would work." Again he leaned on his fist, smirking slightly. "But I will let you amuse me with your answer."

The alley was briefly filled with blinding light. The Elezen grunted as he covered his eyes with his good hand. The sounds of bodies shuffling in the chaos intensified as the Wildwood kept his eyes shut tightly for several seconds that felt like years. "Multiple targets up top!" came the unknown voice again in a distinctly feminine timbre. As his vision gradually returned, it was impossible for the Elezen to know whether the threat of reinforcements was real or fake. A few scant moments were spent scanning the ground for the pistol which had been kicked away in the chaos. The Elezen's lips curled into a snarl. The rising crescendo of boots on pavement echoed in the distance, likely the authorities. Any shouted commands were unlikely to be heard, so he placed his fingers to his mouth and produced a loud, sharp whistle. On cue the windows that the riflemen had been using slammed shut, one after the other. It was fortunate that most of Ul'dah ignored the run-down buildings of Pearl Lane; walls were easily knocked out to make passages between buildings, and there was nobody there to protest besides the occasional squatters. Assuming that nobody was there with them, the riflemen could easily make a hasty retreat, and the weapons themselves stored in such a way that it would be it would be highly improbable that anyone with any sort of actual authority would be able to identify which of the many bandit gangs had been using them. Meanwhile, the Midlander had managed to recover from the shield bash as the chaos ensued, and pulled out his own pistol. Blood streamed down his nose and his disorientation showed as he aimed it at the one who had attacked him and pulled the trigger, but the bullet missed narrowly, whistling past the newcomer's hood. -- "You get your gods-damned eyes on the Blades now before I pull your eyes out with pliers!" "There's a lot of chaos. It's not--" "You do as I say or I will personally pull out your spine through your throat!" The crew had awkwardly shuffled away as their captain raged in his cabin. It was not the usual tranquil fury or smoldering glares, but it was a full-blown inferno of enmity and frustration. Nero paced back and forth restlessly, clenching and unclenching his fist as his other hand lay pressed against the ear. The crack in the window to his cabin had scarcely been repaired and already another one had been made next to it. The pearl made a soft chime again. On the one hand, it had been worth it to pay some people to keep an eye on Scythe and his gang; on the other hand, when one pays street rats and petty underworld brokers, one can hardly expect professionalism. The report had come in naught but a few minutes ago. Firearms had been discharged in Ul'dah's Pearl Lane. The tentative assessment was that Scythe had been muscling in on another gang's territory and the confrontation had gone south. In the span of ninety seconds, Nero had thought of a varied litany of curses on Scythe, his parents, his grandparents, his future children and any pets he might have owned. Surely now, though, the bandits had the attention of the Brass Blades and the Sultansworn. The rule of Ul'dah was that the nail that sticks out gets hammered down; breaking the law was only a problem when it made trouble for someone with power. Out of sight, out of mind, and the bandits had made a mistake in letting their presence be noticed. That idiot had acted without thinking! This could ruin everything! All it would take is one confiscated firearm and the Monetarists had the ammunition to turn the public opinion on Limsa Lominsa. This wasn't supposed to happen. Nero had known for a while that Scythe had started using his newfound firepower to strongarm territory and men away from the other gangs, but so long as everything stayed quiet, it was not a problem. Scythe was the kind of dog where pulling at the leash too hard made him try to break it that much more often. The territory grabs were concessions, but now it had spiraled out of control. "There's someone else fighting down there. No uniform." "Description," Nero snapped. "Robed; can't tell if they're man or woman. Some people saw a flash of light; must have been magic. No smoke from an explosion besides the firearms. Shouting. Blades are moving." "Just...get out of there," Nero said, his voice straining to control his temper. A gods-damned paladin, then. But who? If they were wearing robes, they were attempting to conceal their identity. If there was no visible uniform, it was someone who had to resort to subterfuge to move through the city. Might it have been a member of the Sultansworn? Surely their uniforms were shiny enough to blind all passersby with their conceited self-righteousness, but more than likely it was one of the so-called "free paladins". Nero's face twisted in contempt. Was it Roen? If she had stumbled upon a gang fight, she would have impulsively jumped in to stop the bloodshed, the idiot girl. A small part of him sincerely hoped it was not, but anything was possible at this point. She was the last thing he cared about right now though. There had to be a way to salvage this. Assume a worst case scenario and execute a plan based on that. Scythe was the most dangerous kind of brainless thug; one who was smart enough to make simple plans, but lacking in the foresight and patience to initiate anything of genuine success. In short, he was simultaneously the best pawn to have and the pawn that was the hardest to control. No, no, there was still a way to turn this around. The firearms would be identified as Limsan, but they couldn't be linked to Nero. In actuality, does this outbreak of violence not help his case? The more he thought about it, the more it made sense to him. This happened not because of Limsan weapons, but because the Monetarists couldn't give a rat's ass as to whether the bandits were in the city. After all, the bandits regularly preyed on refugees and travelers and used their spoils to bribe the Brass Blades and bureaucrats, both of which were on the Monetarist's payroll. So long as the bandits didn't target trade caravans or anything that made a noticeable impact on the Monetarist's revenue, they were permitted to do as they pleased. The gangs formed because of the enormous economic disparity in Ul'dah, and said disparity was enforced by the Monetarists in order to keep the gil flowing. Propaganda. That was what he needed. This onset of violence and corruption was because the Syndicate cared naught for order unless it affected their pocketbooks. Yes, there was still a way to turn this around. But I have to work quickly, or everything is lost.

Nero gave a disdainful frown at the establishment, wincing as he felt a particularly ample amount of dew drop onto his head. His earrings jingled as he gave a brief shake of his head in an attempt to banish the uncomfortable feeling of moisture, to no avail. The smuggler was dressed conservatively, a contrast to his usual flair, and an annoyed sigh escaped from his lips as he brushed a hand through a nest of hair. "I suppose this is an alright location," the Hyur said more to himself than to Osric as he took a seat on the stool, scanning the space around him. "Sort of screams 'I am a deranged hobo', though on reflection that's not an inappropriate connotation." Nero raised an eyebrow at a particularly fascinating wall as he gathered his thoughts in contemplation; why he had agreed to this meeting was beyond him, but then prevention was better than a cure, and if meeting this once would mean the Flame Sergeant ceased his prodding, then all the better. The smuggler turned his attention to the man sitting across from him and folded his arms, nearly leaning back on the stool before recalling that it was in fact a stool, casting a cursory glance at the tumbler full of liquid. "Though I appreciate the drink, neither of us are here to enjoy the other's company, though that smug grin of your suggests that either you've information to ruin me or you just got your cork popped. Perhaps a mixture of both."

The sudden shout startled all present in the alley, and the Elezen whipped his head around looking for the source of the voice. Unfortunately, the cramped conditions lent the slightest bit of echo to the female timbre, and the Elezen's moment of distraction would not go without punishment. The Midlander opposing the Elezen shouted and swung his sword, cutting a large gash in the Elezen's hand and calling the Wildwood to drop his pistol. Snarling, the Elezen, clutching the wound with his other arm, made a wild gesture at the remaining Hyur. "Kill them!" The Highlander Hyur all made various battle cries that seemed to synchronise with the crackles and booms of gunpowder igniting in the rifles, and in the first few seconds several of them fell.

Night enveloped Ul'dah, the cool breeze contrasting with the heated tempers that shouted in Pearl Lane. It was a scene not unusual for the city; on one side of the street was a skinny Elezen, flanked by a Hellsguard Roegadyn and a Midlander Hyur. On the other side of the street were two other Midlanders and several Ala Mhigan Highlanders. The Elezen and his companions were dressed in scraggly cotton robes and held no weapons that could be seen. Conversely, the opposing Hyur were shirtless, wearing only some woolen kecks and armed with unpolished but clearly functional scimitars. Their arms were adorned with tattoos that depicted a crude image of a hawk with a warhammer in its mouth, and all of them wore confident smirks. "Scythe owns this area now," the Wildwood Elezen spoke calmly, folding his arms in the cotton robe. "We had gone over this before. Everywhere from the Onyx Lane to here belongs to him. You had best be on your way." One of the Midlanders briefly scratched his head, before letting out a bark of laughter. As if on cue, the rest of the Hyur followed suit, filling the area with guffawing. "'ear that, laddies? We'd best be on our way," the Midlander said with mocking confidence. "Th' 'ammerbeaks be bowin' t'nobody, an' if ye got a problem wit' that, well..." he patted the scimitar on his side. "Bein' the generous sort o' people, we can sort that out fer ya." The Elezen shook his head. "Your numbers are meaningless. Scythe is giving you one chance. One. I suggest you take it." Out of sight, one of the second-story windows that had been previously boarded up silently swing open, a detail that would be fatal to miss. The Midlander's amused expression dropped. "Who ye be thinkin' ye are, ye knife-eared shite licker? Ye think ye can waddle in t' our turf and get out unscathed?" He and the other Hyur drew their swords, their joviality replaced with violent anticipation. "On the contrary," the Elezen said, smiling. "It is you stepping into our territory, and it is you who will not be escaping unscathed." He raised his hand, seconds later a sound not unlike the crack of lightning was heard. A plume of smoke emerged from the open window and the Midlander's furious countenance was replaced with one of shock. He looked down at his chest and found a small hole that quickly blossomed into a crimson plume. The Midlander looked up at the Elezen's now sadistic grin, and tried to say something. Nothing emerged but a gurgle as blood escaped the Midlander's lips, preceding the dull thud of a body hitting the pavement. As if on cue, several other windows swung open, and polished wooden rifle barrels poked out. The remaining Highlanders were surrounded as their position of confidence had crumbled under the threat of the barrage. The Elezen reached into his robe and pulled out an ornate pistol, pointing it at the next Midlander in the gang. "Scythe extends his invitations," was the smug proposition.

A large map of Eorzea lay spread on the desk, with small ceramic markers dotting various points on the map, mostly based around Thanalan and La Noscea. On the left side of the desk was a large stack of letters. On the right, a ledger. Soft, warm light illuminated the office as Nero Lazarov pursed his lips in study of the map, alternating his gaze between it and a letter in his hand. A previously empty notebook laying on the right side of the map had been filled with notes; personal thoughts, plans, addendums, everything that the smuggler was keeping track of in his grand scheme. The smuggler sighed and brushed a hand through his hair; the chronometer on the wall indicated that it was early morning. Nero had been up all night organising his plans, and now it was time for a review. The latest letter from Arturieaux indicated that the manufacturing was slow but steady, and the Duskwight was not complaining; the plan for keeping such a large operation under wraps was the arcanist's idea, after all. The key to keeping the plan quiet was to make the act of tracing the lines extremely complex and convoluted; they would contract ten separate companies, who would contract ten more, who would contract even more suppliers. The supply line was chaotic, like a tangled ball of rope or twine, and even Nero had trouble keeping it all together, though at the end as long as the steel and the ceruleum came in, it mattered not. As far as anyone involved was concerned, they were all making a profit. And since every company was only involved with making one type of part, and those parts were passing through so many transactions, no lowly accountant would be diligent enough to put all the pieces together enough to have any evidence. Construction, however, would be deliberately slow. The purpose was twofold: one, to maintain the veil of secrecy, and two, to lessen the immediate demand for gil this project required. Nero's smuggling operation had ceased to become adequate, and with hesitation the smuggler had begun to probe certain areas looking for wealthy investors. He knew that some of the nobles in Ul'dah held a vested interest in seeing the power balance shift. With a silver tongue and some deception, several mining companies had invested in Dyna-Forte, Nero's front company, under the impression that he--or rather, Sebastian Redgrave--was constructing experimental magitek drilling technology. The investments made by those companies would keep his operations aloft for a while, but it was a temporary fix. More gil needed to be made, whether it be from trading profits or investors. He put the letter from Arturieaux away and opened the next one. This was another curious specimen; a letter inviting Sebastian Redgrave to join the "Rhotano League", a planned conglomerate of Lominsan trading companies. It was a monopoly in everything but name, as such a theorised organisation would hold undisputed control over the routes of the Rhotano Sea and the Indigo Deep, perhaps even as far as the Sea of Ash. This kind of endeavour had the support of the Bloody Executioners written all over it; though Hyllfyr ostensibly followed the command of Merlwyb and the Maelstrom, the Executioners longed for an opportunity to metaphorically punch the Admiral in the nose. This "Rhotano League" would cause seaborne profits to sink--Nero's lip curled at the small pun--for all companies except those with the League. The Executioners and free pirates in their current state rivaled the Lominsan armada in terms of naval strength, and if they truly were heading the Rhotano League, Hyllfyr would have the economic base of power with which to oust the Maelstrom, or at least break any authority it might have. Or, the worst case scenario happens and civil war would break out. The implications were....interesting, to say the least. The most pressing issue, perhaps, was how to respond to the destruction of his warehouse. Clearly, Nero's distraction was not working; he needed the focus to return to Ul'dah, and keep the eyes away from Limsa Lominsa. Yet, if Nero unleashed Scythe too early, that would do nothing but cause chaos and bloodshed, and if Scythe failed in turning the political pressure against the Syndicate, then the heat would return to Limsa Lominsa. Simply put, if Nero reacted at all to the bombing, the chances of it turning against him increased. Direct retaliation was not an option, but neither was taking losses like the contents of that warehouse. A reorganisation was in order. It would be expensive, but in the long run if it worked, it would pay off. Nero scribbled a note to start planning for a rotation of goods in warehouses. Some of his underworld associates might be interested in participating; already in his head the general idea was forming. Every moon, sell certain properties and repurchase others. Move the goods accordingly. Hopefully such movement would be mobile enough that if another warehouses was targeted, it could be pinned as Ul'dahn sabotage, taking the heat off of the smuggler. Nero sighed again. Really, he was relying on Roen for this. Hopefully she was gathering allies and punching holes in the Syndicate's network. As if recoiling from his own thoughts, Nero shoved all his thoughts of the paladin away as he pulled up several sheets of parchment to begin writing letters. The chronometer ticked silently as the night went on.

Nero sighed, taking some time to gaze out onto the open ocean as Roen left, his arms folded. His mind remained with his jumbled thoughts until the sun dipped beneath the horizon, and night embraced Limsa Lominsa like a cloak of velvet. The spires and docks of the city began to flicker as lamps and lanterns were ignited, illuminating the towers and walkways with tiny spots of red and orange that were not unlike the stars that were beginning to emerge from the sky. "Your life is not forfeit to be a sacrifice. Lives lost does not gain justification with more lives lost." Her words echoed relentlessly in his head. Was all of this pointless? Part of being a businessman was understanding the concept of a gamble, and knowing when to cut losses. Was continuing after all that had happened a fruitless endeavour? No, the real question wasn't whether or not it was pointless...the real question was whether or not he would be willing to accept it if it was. The Hyur sighed again, shaking his head to shove his doubts aside. It did not matter. Even if he wanted to quit, he'd come too far now. Scythe was slowly but surely beginning to strain against his leash; the bandit and his gang was getting antsy and eager to try their new weapons. In addition, the supply lines for the steel and ceruleum had been solidly established and fabrication of the foundation parts had already begun. Nero was preparing to march both doom and hope to the walls of Ul'dah, whether the city wanted it or not. No, it was far, far too late. Nero pulled up a pocket watch from his trouser pocket. While it was not shoddy, it was not nearly as elaborate or sturdy as his Garlean timepiece. The smuggler made a mental note to barter with Shaelen for his timepiece's return; she had been very...forward in their last interaction, but there was quite the difference between a drunken fling and a passionate reunion. At the thought, the corner of his lip curled in a grin. There'd be time later when this was over to mix together business and pleasure. Another shake of his head. Clarity, that is what he needed. He needed to be of sound judgment, for there was no rest for the wicked, and there was much work to be done. As the veil of night deepened in Limsa Lominsa, Nero drew up his mental checklist of tasks to be done. While he traversed the various walkways, his mind wandered other avenues, namely how to respond to the destruction of his warehouse. Try as he might, the smuggler could only scrounge a few details of the incident as witnesses were few in number and the perpetrators had fled the scene after the explosion. He knew that the Sultansworn were present; Mcbeef would not have been alone. A frown formed on his lips as he considered the possibility that Crofte had been present, but the lady knight did not seem inclined towards such subterfuge and sabotage. Still, anything was possible. It was also likely that the Maelstrom had participated in the raid, and if the Sultansworn were there, then the Flames were there too. Was that possible, though? If Maelstrom personnel were present, Nero had to operate on the assumption that they were assisting as independent parties and not as representatives of the Grand Company. Merlwyb would have never suffered Ul'dahn interference in Limsan affairs.... unless refusing the Sultansworn would have caused a major political incident. No, that wasn't possible. Nero might not have escaped the notice of some of Ul'dah's more powerful elements, but he assured himself with some confidence that he had covered his tracks. There was no hard evidence that they could have brought to the Maelstrom. No, any officers of the Storm would have been there as a personal favour, and not as legal authorities. Still, though, that presented another worrying element. The Sultansworn were well-connected and could call upon members of the Storm. Part of Nero's security had relied on the rivalries between Ul'dah and Limsa Lominsa to get in the way and prevent any sort of consistent collaboration. The situation was getting dangerous. The number of factors had to be trimmed down considerably. The smuggler's contemplation came to a halt as he arrived at Naldiq & Vymelli's. Most of the apprentices had gone to the Wench to drink, but there were still several journeymen working hard on their craft. Nero sauntered down the ramp on the eastern side of the building, where leaned a Highlander man who looked like anything but a Highlander. Rather than tall and bronzed, the man was short, pale, a bit portly, and scraggly. His unkempt ashen hair was kept in place by a haphazard bandana, and his face was pointed and narrow, like a rodent's. The adornments covering his body was a simple linen outfit, and a pair of sheathed stilettos hung from his side. The Highlander's grin revealed a few missing teeth as he glanced at Nero, who swiftly withdrew a pouch and tossed it at the rogue, whose vermin-like countenance had earned him the unflattering moniker of Ratface. "Ye be providin' quite the greed t' keep me from blowin' me gab," Ratface said roughly as he eagerly opened the pouch and started counting. Nero merely shrugged. "I make the necessary investments to keep my business running. You are one of those good investments," he said diplomatically, though truth be told the Midlander wanted nothing to do with the man. The smuggler disliked dealing with Ratface, but the latter and his various corrupt associates were so far the only reliable veil that Nero had from the Rogue's Guild, and what Ratface lacked in any sort of etiquette or pleasant qualities, he made up for in efficient information gathering. Ratface peered up at the smuggler, temporarily distracted from his coin counting. "'eard one o' yer hangs out been floored," Ratface said idly. "Who do the rogues suspect?" Nero said shrugging, though he was a bit alarmed that news had spread that quickly. The Highlander scowled. "Mixi been tryin'a split 'em t'wards th' Executioners, but 'er mobs be thinkin' otherwise," Ratface said, scratching the back of his neck with a spindly hand. "If'n the ruffmans be catchin' the wrong rummy, ye bet yer millin' be imminent." "As long as you keep doing what I pay you to do, that shouldn't be a problem," Nero said rather sharply. Ratface merely grinned and waved a hand. "Ye wanna be cookin' more eggs, ye be turnin' up the heat," he said. "If it comes to that, your fee will increase," Nero replied, trying to keep the distaste out of his voice. Anyone who was anyone in Limsa Lominsa's underworld knew about Merlwyb's shadowy enforcers and that escaping their grasp was not a simple thing to do. That said, scum was still scum, and though the rogue's guild was not incompetent, they were not infallible either; many believed in that farce of a code, true, and many still like Ratface were willing to bend or break the rules to get ahead in coin or influence. The Highlander had the upper hand, and he knew it, and that was something Nero hated; so long as he was dependent on Ratface's protection from the rogues, Nero had to adhere to the scraggly Highlander's terms. "Keep an eye out for me for any Ul'dahns that enter the city. Suspicious-looking types. You know the ones." Ratface tilted his head in curiosity. "Funnily 'nuff, we already been lendin' our daddles gazin' fer some stranger coves. This be fer yer paddy warmin' up?" "Possible and probable," the smuggler responded as he began to walk off. "Keep me posted and there'll be a reward as always." Meeting with Ratface was only one of many things on the agenda. As he left the corner of Naldiq & Vymelli's, the paladin's words floated back to his mind. "Do not give me reasons to try and fill my heart with hatred for you." Nero had not deigned to respond. He couldn't think of one. He couldn't promise that he could give Roen what she was looking for. It was far too late to turn back now.

Meanwhile, in the basement....

hyeurgh

After doing the Rogue storyline in one sitting, I'm going to shift the focus to NPCs. I'm setting full sails on the ship of V'kebbe and Jacke.

Caught looking at a really cool butt.

Did they ever establish where the horses in Eorzea come from? Are they bred in Eorzea? Imported from elsewhere? There's a lot of gaps to fill.