Nero

Even from inside the building, Nero heard the echoes of a pained, guttural cry. It was with a sudden sense of fervent piety that he prayed to the Twelve that that was not Roen's fault. Now the smuggler was not so sure that it was a good idea to bring her along; the exasperating woman was just incapable of being subtle. She wouldn't be able to tell a decent lie if someone else covered her face, shoved her away, and lied for her. Nero shook his head, dashing his doubts away. If there were consequences for his choice to ally with her, he'd deal with them later. He needed to find his goods. Thankfully, the building's first floor was mostly devoid of workers; it seemed that it was being used as a storehouse. Fortunately, the crates were burned with the label of the Amajina and Sons Mineral Concern; this made his search significantly easier, for Nero's crates were unmarked, so any crate lacking the label would have a very high chance of being one of the crates he was looking for. Unfortunately, there were many, many crates, and checking each individual crate for the label would have taken far too much time, and it was not as if the smuggler could simply lift large crates filled with ore. A cursory inspection of the crates signified that the important ones--the ones holding the Lominsan arms--were not here, and Nero simply did not have the time to check every crate for the refugee's supplies. Some small part of him had hoped that his goods would be found easily, but of course, it was never that simple. Was there a record? That wouldn't be likely. Nero's goods, after all, were confiscated. It was very doubtful that they'd have been recorded in a ledger somewhere. Likely they were simply shoved in a corner somewhere, waiting to be picked up and taken to....wherever. There was a second floor to the building, and the smuggler did his best to remain quiet as he ascended the steps. The stairs were not very well maintained, as a horrendously loud creaking noise was heard whenever Nero's boot descended on one. The second floor seemed to be occupied by an office; huddled over a ledger was a Lalafell a quill pen furiously scribbling away at the book. So focused was the Lalafell--presumably a foreman of some kind--on the filling of the ledger that he hadn't deigned to notice the stairs squealing in protest, or the Midlander creeping up to him with knife in hand. In one swift motion, Nero covered the Lalafell's mouth in his left hand and pressed the knife to his throat with his right. "Try to scream, and the last thing that comes out of your throat is your blood," the Hyur said, his tone dangerously quiet. He couldn't see the Lalafell's expression, but the muffled struggling implied some degree of terror. "Brass Blades brought unmarked crates to the mines. Where are they?" His question was terse as he slipped his left hand off of the Lalafell's mouth. "Didn't see anything," came the equally terse yet trembling answer. Nero clicked his tongue. "That's the exact opposite of what I was hoping you'd say," the smuggler responded. "Try again." He pressed the knife with more force. "D-didn't see anything..!" The Lalafell's lips quaked out the same answer. The Hyur shook his head. The problem with these kinds of techniques was that it rarely produced a workable answer, but Nero was pressed for time and didn't have time to practice his usual method of making friends. "The bandit gangs. They are here regularly," Nero couldn't know that for sure, but the worst that could happen from the bluff is that it didn't work. "Where do they go?" "M-mines," the Lalafell babbled. It was impossible to tell if that was the truth--given his situation, the Lalafell was likely just saying whatever answer he thought the Hyur was looking for--but Nero could tell well enough that his weapons were not in this building. The mines seemed to be the only other location...and that probably meant having to deal with the Brass Blades. "My thanks." Nero showed his gratitude by putting away the knife, only to tighten his arms against the Lalafell's throat. The tiny foreman struggled and gasped for several long seconds, but the Hyur's grip was unrelenting until the kicking and flailing ceased. Nero didn't know if he had killed the Lalafell or merely sent him into the realm of unconsciousness, but it didn't matter. A rapid inspection of the latest entries in the ledger that the Lalafell had been writing in didn't reveal anything useful. As another measure, Nero snatched the ink well and poured its remaining contents on the ledger; a pointless act, perhaps, but one that didn't fail to give him at least some sense of rebellious satisfaction. The smuggler slipped out of the building and glanced around the corner to where he had sent Roen to secure the wagon. He cursed under his breath as he saw her occupied by two of the Brass Blades; there was no way something good was going to come out of her trying to bluff two of them. Nero wasn't sure the paladin could see him from her position, but he stuck his head out and mouthed the word mines, jerking his thumb in the direction before making his way to the back of the building, heading for the scaffolding that lead to the Nanawa Mines directly.

Nero considered his options thoughtfully. Avoiding a fight would be best. Injuring or killing any Brass Blades would only draw attention and cause a ruckus...and if the smuggler wanted the Sultansworn on his side, killing law enforcement would not be pragmatic. Morality wasn't an issue; it was practicality. Dead bodies meant grudges and investigations, and neither were very good for clandestine business. On the other hand, it was doubtful that the Brass Blades would let these strangers simply rifle through the crates looking for cargo. Roen lacked her Sultansworn uniform and Nero didn't have the coin to bribe even one of them, much less all of them. Subterfuge would have to be the name of the game, but it would be very dangerous. Three missing Brass Blades wouldn't be an issue; if they could get rid of them quickly and quietly, they could go in, get the cargo, and leave before anyone was the wiser. If a fight started, however... The smuggler's eyes darted to and from between the caves and the buildings. The supplies for the refugees be damned; it was the Lominsan arms he was concerned about. He couldn't see anything resembling the two rectangular crates he had carried them in, which meant they had to be inside the building or in the caves. The building was more likely; the Monetarists had Black Brush Station under their thumb, so if the goods were being sold to the bandits or...whoever, they wouldn't put them in the caves. The question, now, was how to deal with Roen. She couldn't be allowed to find out what else Nero was shipping, but there was no way to check which crates were his without checking the contents. Could he play it off as simply finding them? No, that wouldn't work; though the alchemists were capable of synthesizing the black powder, Ul'dah didn't manufacture firearms. Having Lominsan weapons in the hands of Ul'dahn gangs was enough of a political powder keg. The last thing Nero needed was the law enforcement trying to follow the threads. Nero filed away a mental reminder to commission someone to create a graphic for his merchant front; unmarked crates were all well and good but they caused more problems than they solved, particularly in this instance. There had to be a way for him to redirect the paladin to the refugee's supplies while drawing attention away from his goods. Or maybe it was possible to keep her from the goods altogether...as fortune would have it, Nero spotted his wagon resting against the side of the largest building, being attended to by a couple of miners. There was no chocobo, but if they hitched it to one from the porters, it would work. The wagon was empty for now, but it seemed the miners were going to use it to port ore back to the city. Nero tapped her shoulder again, pointing to the wagon. "Forget the building for now. First things first; an exit. If my goods are here, we need a way to get them out of here, and quick. I think that's my wagon, there." The smuggler withdrew his gil pouch--it felt uncomfortably light--and pressed it into her hand. "Do whatever you have to. I'll check the main building for the goods." Nero's thoughts raced in his head as he considered how to bluff the Blades, and without giving Roen a chance to respond, he walked towards the largest building that lay at the foot of the mines. She didn't want to kill Brass Blades, and that was fine. Let her do the easy work. Nero approached the Brass Blade, another Midlander, standing watch in front of the large building. The Brass Blade sniffed and glared at the smuggler apprehensively. "My name is...Kenneth Taeros." It was a snap reflex, and Nero hoped dearly that using Jameson's surname wouldn't come back to bite him later. "I am a representative of the Miner's Guild. The Mineral Concern wants to do an inspection." Nero's tone was business-like; one of Vail's fondest rules were that as long as you pretended you belonged somewhere, most people would get out of your way. "Never heard of an inspection," the Brass Blade responded, brushing a gloved hand past his nose. "They'd have told us." The Midlander peered at Nero's face under the hood. "And you don't look much like an inspector." Nero shrugged. "We sent a runner; if he didn't make it, likely he was eaten by a peiste or something. Nonetheless, the Concern is...well, concerned with the recent output. I need access to the ledgers and records." The Brass Blade folded his arms, his tone stern. "Let me see some papers, then," he said gruffly. Nero rolled his eyes in response, his voice taking on a derisive edge. "Look, friend, we're not paying you to ask questions. My employer didn't give me any papers; I was just told to come here, retrieve some numbers, and bring them back for comparison. I'm just the messenger." The Brass Blade didn't look too pleased with Nero's attitude. "We would have known," the Brass Blade growled, putting emphasis on each word. "Who in the hells do you think you are?" The Midlander's patience was clearly growing thin. "I'm the one trying to do his damned job," Nero snapped back, mirroring the Brass Blade's annoyance. "I couldn't give a rat's ass about what you think. Get in the way of my employers and you can happily say hello to a brand new position in Little Ala Mhigo." The smuggler's eyes narrowed from beneath the hood. "I'm sure the Amal'jaa would love the company. Better you than me." The Brass Blade's fierce attitude seemed to waver a bit, and he snarled as he pounded on the door. "Make it quick, then." "Thugs in uniform," Nero swore under his breath, pulling open the door and stepping into the building.

Burned by the flames of passion, maybe! Ooh-la-la~

You cannot truly destroy the Pillar, for the Pillar is a metaphor. The Pillar is inside all of us.

To be truly prepared for anything would require omniscience, but that didn't mean Nero couldn't try. Before leaving Ul'dah, he purchased a simple linen robe from the Weaver's Guild to wear over his clothing; he simply recycled his outfit from the previous day, a sleeveless doublet with trousers and jackboots. The robe would potentially be stifling, but the smuggler was not overly fond of showing his metaphorical hand right away, and the hood would conceal his face. The heat would, thankfully, not be too much of a problem, as the Twelve saw fit to bless Thanalan with a generous overcast. He had just enough gil to hire the services of a wagon, if he needed one--hopefully the Brass Blades had kept his own wagon intact--but not enough to bribe his way out of a bad situation. Which meant combat if they couldn't just convince the Brass Blades to return his goods. The fingerless gloves from before were discarded for rough leather gloves with cobalt plates affixed to the knuckles. A small knife was slipped through his belt, dangling from his right, and hanging from his left hip was a simple yet elegant silver sceptre, about a fulm in length, with a gleaming emerald embedded in the top. Nero considered using thaumaturgy on people distasteful--they had a bad habit of combusting, screaming, and exploding into chunky bits, often simultaneously, which lacked a certain subtlety that the smuggler preferred--but if they needed a distraction, being able to conjure a fiery blast would be a useful tool to rely on. Nero mumbled vague curses under his breath as he made his way on foot to central Thanalan. The smuggler wasn't lacking in fitness, but after having spent many of his years on a ship or at least hitched to a wagon where the chocobo was doing the walking, having to make the trip on foot was exasperating to say the least. Even so, retrieving his goods personally really was the only way. While simply leaning back and letting the--what had she called them, the Brass Blades of the Rose? Letting them take care of this would have been lovely, but Nero wasn't willing to risk them finding his more illicit cargo. It seemed he was the later of the two; the smuggler arrived just after noon to see Roen lingering near the aetheryte crystal as miners and various workers milled about to distribute the ore drawn out of the mines. He approached her from behind and tapped her shoulder, the hood drawn over his face. "See anything I should know about?" Nero asked tersely, his tone stiff and business-like. The sooner they got this over with, the better.

Charity and Temperance balanced with Pride, Envy, and a little bit of Wrath.

Pillar is love, pillar is life.

I'm actually an employee for Squeenix and I just leaked what the next Primal is going to be. It's not going to be Shiva. It's going to be the Pillar.

(( Recap of in-game session ends here )) The sun had sunk fully beneath the horizon, and night enveloped Ul'dah. His whimsical dinner date with the paladin had taken longer than he had expected, but the smuggler counted himself lucky that he was not too delayed. What I wouldn't do for a Garlean timepiece, Nero sighed inwardly. Even so, his little spat with Roen was rather amusing, now that he thought about it in retrospect. Nero had certainly been borderline infuriated with her tireless idealism at the time, but he grinned at the very recent memory now. She was certainly determined in everything she did. Determined to help the people, determined to "save" him...the uninitiated observer might have called her obsessed. The Twelve bless her for trying, at least. Hopefully that whole argument wasn't too awkward for Aldo and Maia to deal with. Nero stopped by his safe house to retrieve a small sack, which he slung over his shoulder, before making his way to the far end of Pearl Lane. It was with some relief that Roen didn't question who his "friends" were. He had no moral qualms about lying, but they had a nasty habit of coming back to bite the liar, so half-truths were often preferable. He stopped at a ramshackle door that had several wooden boards haphazardly nailed to it, and a small horizontal viewing slot that had been cut into it. Glancing around, the smuggler knocked on the door. The viewing slot slid open, then slammed shut again. The sound of chains and locks rattled from the other side of the door, which swung open, revealing a thin-looking Roegadyn, armed with a crude sword. "You're late," he growled, to which Nero merely shrugged in response. With a rather spindly hand, the Roegadyn gestured further into the building. A ragtag gang occupied the inside of the dilapidated building; a few Ala Mhigans, some Midlanders, one distinctly out of place Elezen, a pair of Hellsguard Roegadyn...an odd bunch to be seen together. A few torches illuminated the interior, but in an effort to keep things discreet, the building was still quite dim. Nero cleared his throat. "Where's Scythe?" Internally the Hyur winced, his voice sounding far too loud among the quiet and stern looking individuals occupying the building. "Thought you reneged on us. I'd have hated to have to hide another body," a gravelly voice resounded from the gloomy darkness. Emerging from the back was another Highlander. It was difficult to tell from the darkness and the warm glow of the torches, but a few distinct features made themselves out. The Highlander's body looked carved out of wood with chiseled muscles and the occasional scar marking his torso. A square jaw, brushed with a sand-coloured beard, squirmed as it awkwardly alternated between a smile and a scowl. The Highlander's hair had been swept back in a fanciful style, the tips occupied with blood red highlights. His elaborate appearance contrasted heavily with the fact that he was adorned in naught but sack cloth trousers; a leather sword belt wrapped itself around his waist. Hanging off of it was a wide-bladed falchion, wicked serrations occupying the back of the weapon. "You promised us product. Ain't good business to lie," the Highlander identified as Scythe said, stepping forward to allow his face to be seen more clearly. Nero merely responded with a cool smile, his earrings jingling as the Midlander tilted his head. He knew this man. Scythe's real name was the thoroughly un-intimidating label of Ernis Randolph. It'd been nearly twenty years since he and the smuggler had seen each other; they had just been children back then. An amusing coincidence that both of them had changed their names to become something intimidating, but whereas Ernis didn't seem to recognise Nero, Nero recognised Ernis. He knew how Ernis operated. And that was an invaluable advantage. "There were some complications. Brass Blades confiscated them. Maybe check with the ones on your payroll," the smuggler said, shrugging. "Or don't. I know where the shipment is, and I'm retrieving the products tomorrow. I guarantee they're worth the wait. I even brought a sample to whet your appetite." Nero gestured to the sack he was holding over his shoulder. Scythe's eyes narrowed in curiosity, and the Highlander folded his arms. "You don't expect full payment for a late delivery now, do you...pirate?" As if to illustrate the threat, he patted the falchion at his side. Nero shrugged again. "You could try to cut my fee...or just cut me, but doing so eliminates any opportunity for us to do repeat business. And trust me, when I can get you toys like these...you'll want repeat business." He withdrew from the sack a simple-looking flintlock pistol, making some fanciful manoeuvres by spinning it with the trigger guard. "Straight from Limsa Lominsa. Fits in your hand, packs the force of a fire spell...easy to conceal. Easy to use, and deadly. Loud, and packs a punch. I'd say it fits you perfectly. All you do is point, pull the trigger, and watch whoever is unfortunate enough to be in the way fall down." The Midlander unscrewed the long barrel from the pistol and juggled the two for a few seconds with ease, before screwing the barrel back on. He flipped the gun in his hands and held grips towards Scythe; it was an offer, and a dare. The Highlander eyed the device, before gingerly reaching a hand out to clasp it. Scythe pointed the pistol this way and that--towards the ceiling, at the wall, at the floor. His face scrunched in contemplation as he tested the weapon's weight. Then he pointed the weapon at Nero's forehead. Even staring down the barrel of the pistol, the smuggler's cool smile remained. It evolved into his trademark smirk. Nero was taunting the Highlander, and Scythe knew it. The Highlander's face took on an expression of what could only be called impressed anger, before he turned the pistol to the side if the Midlander's head and pulled the trigger. Click went the mechanism as the hammer shot forward, the flint striking the steel. A spark shot out, but the expected explosion did not emerge. The Midlander shrugged, his earrings chiming as he tilted his head at Scythe. "Sorry. You have to buy the shot and powder separately. I had some in that confiscated shipment. Still, it's a neat little thing, isn't it?" "It's...light," Scythe commented warily, lowering the pistol. He knew he was being toyed with, but his tone held some measure of grudging respect. "I admit, you pirates know what you're doing with weapons." Nero's smirk widened. "I like to pretend that weapons are one of the three things Limsa Lominsa's good at, the other two being drunken violence and violent drunkenness." He held out his hand towards Scythe, an expectant twinkle in his eye. "I do apologise for the delay, but I assume...we are still in business?" Scythe eyed Nero's hand, as if judging whether to clasp it or cut it off, before reaching a muscular hand out and grabbing the smuggler's, giving it a brief shake. "We are still in business." Nero felt his hand being squeezed with sudden crushing force, and it took all of his effort not to wince in reflex. "Try not to be late in the future. I am expecting our goods...on time," Scythe growled with a barely veiled threat. "It's all part of the business," the smuggler said lightly in order to keep a gasp from escaping his throat. The Highlander's vice grip was unrelenting. "Sometimes it happens." Scythe grunted, releasing the Midlander's hand, before turning around and making a gesture to the door. "Get out," was the terse command, one which Nero followed without much hesitation. Exposing himself into the cool night air of Thanalan, Nero's wince of pain reverted into a sly grin as he began to shuffle off back to his safe house. Hopefully no lasting damage was done that would interfere with his rendezvous with Roen on the morrow. The Highlander might think himself as the one who held the power, but dear old Ernis would be an excellent pawn, indeed.

They're a lot craftier than we give them credit for. Fortuitous things, they are. Yeah, but you could say the more well-behaved ones are really supportive. I'll show myself out.

The pillar struck first. That's all I'm saying. I was the victim here, acting in self-defense.

Nero dropped his fists, folding his arms. Though it was difficult to tell, Roen's form was more lean than it was muscular. She would not have much weight behind her blows, but she could potentially compensate for that with speed and endurance. The paladin yanked her foot back, an indignant expression cresting her face. Nero tapped her shoulder, gesturing at her to raise her fists. "Let me see your stance." Roen nodded, obliging his request. With a studious eye, the smuggler examined how she held her fists in the air. Vail would have been far better qualified to teach her how to fistfight properly, but in lieu of his foster parent, Nero supposed that he would have to do. He was by no means an expert, but he knew enough to know where her form was sloppy. "Your stance is your foundation. Everything else is built upon it. An improper stance means less punches, weaker blows, and less speed. Now," Nero clutched at her right fist, bringing it closer to her chin, and pulling her left fist out. "your lead fist is always your less-dominant fist. Hold your left hand out about six ilm in front of your face, at eye level." He tapped at her elbow, bringing it towards her chest. "Use your elbow to guard your ribs." Another hand pushed against the top of her head, tilting it down. "And keep your chin tucked in. Your opponents will be aiming for your face and your arms will primarily be guarding your body, so you have to adjust for that. And loosen up a bit," Nero tapped her shoulders. "If you're too tense, your blows will be weaker. Your arms aren't swords; you don't just stab with them. You use them," he turned to the side and threw a punch forward to demonstrate, the air resounding with a whff, "like a sling, or a whip." Roen nodded, making the needed adjustments. She held her shoulders with a bit more slack and corrected the position of her fists. Nero stepped back and held his hands at his hips, admiring his handiwork. Or something else. "Not too bad." The paladin's expression was concentrated and focused; her head was bent and her gazed focused at the ground. "Now, a basic one-two combo." The smuggler stood next to her to demonstrate. His left fist shot out straight, while his torso remained still. "Left jab, and...right cross." After the jab, his right fist reached forward. "Twist your torso as you send your right fist forward." He demonstrated the right cross again, then another, demonstrating the position of his shoulders and how they swivelled as he sent the punch forward. Nero shifted his position so that he was standing in front of Roen. "Your opponents will probably be taller than you, so you'll have to aim up." He repeated the manoeuvre, aiming his punches at the space above the paladin's head. She nodded again, and followed through without warning; a jab, then a cross. Instinctively, Nero flinched, tilting his head to dodge. He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "That was...pretty good." The Hyur let out a sigh. "Guess I'll need to find a way to resurrect ol' paps so that he can teach you properly. I can't pretend I'm qualified to give actual lessons." Nero folded his arms in front of his chest. "But you have some promise. Potential. That's the word. We might make a scrapper out of you yet." Roen's expression of somber focus brightened, giving way to a small smile. "I would like that," she said, nodding. "Perhaps if not lessons..." she shrugged. "You can teach me through sparring." "I have been mostly practising on dummies," the paladin explained, wrinkling her nose. "They do not move much." Nero gasped, an expression of feigned horror on his face. "Are you suggesting that I strike a lady, Miss Deneith? But I am the very soul of manner and etiquette!" He placed the back of his hand on his forehead and glanced skyward, as if to imitate fainting. Roen pursed her lips, stepping closer to him. "I am sure you will get over it. But...another day, perhaps." She tilted her head, her eyes examining his temple. "On a day when you did not fight a pillar...and lose." Nero's face took on a cocky grin and he responded to her advance with one of his own, as he brought his face closer to hers. "I am not so sure I would get over it that easily, Miss Deneith," he said softly, his voice taking on a hint of challenge.

I'm not sure I can give much genuine advice on this, but let me go ahead and throw in my opinion. 1). What purpose does multiclassing serve for the character? That is to say, what aspects of your character do you want the multi-classing to reflect? Why do you want them to multiclass? For example, you can demonstrate that a character has worldly experience by knowing how to use many varieties of martial weaponry, or that a character is very dedicated to be able to study multiple forms of martial or magical combat. It's also important to note that you don't have to justify every class your character has in-game. To try to justify everything is essentially arbitrary and serves no purpose from a writing standpoint, and also reeks horribly of Mary-Sue. To use Nero as an example, in-game I have every Disciple of War and Magic levelled to 50. However, IC he fights mostly with his fists, an axe, or thaumaturgy. This thinly-spread array of combat skills is meant to be a reflection of his wandering--he went from learning with his fists in Ul'dah, to learning with an axe in Limsa Lominsa, and cycling back to studying thaumaturgy in Ul'dah. He is, essentially, three different classes. However, he's absolutely not above average in proficiency. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that he's below average. A lot of people underestimate the amount of time it takes to genuinely master a skill. Were he to fight a reasonably experienced pugilist or pirate or thaumaturge player character, he would lose. His versatility loses when pitted one-on-one against specialisation. His fist-fighting is scrappy and unrefined, his axe blows focus purely on strength and not technique, and he can cast fire, blizzard, and thunder spells, but his limited time spent studying thaumaturgy (five years) means he'd never be able to cast Thunder III or Flare or Manaward IC. And sometimes his spells will fail due to a lack of focus or concentration. 2). What does your character lose as a tradeoff when they multiclass? For me, personally, I always treat this part like assigning attribute points in RPG games. For a character to have a proficiency in something, there must also be an equal deficiency in some other area. To use Nero as an example again, he can't use bows. At all. He hits himself in the face with one every time he tries to shoot. Even though I have Bard levelled to 50 in-game, I do not want him to have that proficiency because using a bow is difficult. Being a good archer requires dedicated training; Nero's only studied thaumaturgy with any amount of dedication, and all of his other fighting skills are from combat experience. This means he can fight reasonably well but lacks any sense of finesse or technique one would gain from practise. He also can't use swords with any degree of proficiency besides "swing the edge at people", he can't use arcanist's grimoires, or conjury. He can stick the pointy end of a lance in people but can't do much elses with them. To bring back up my previous point, about reflecting an aspect of your character: let's say you were using a character who is very dedicated. If they spent their whole life training with every weapon and form of magic, they would be deficient in social skills due to all the time spent just practising instead of interacting with other people or building a social life. Anyway, hopefully my rambling made a bit of sense in all of that. Multi-classing is a tricky thing but is possible without making your character appear as "good at everything".

The two of them said nothing for a silence that felt as if it lasted for years. They clashed with invisible swords, the crescendo of their combat resounding in neither the ring of steel nor the trading of sharp words, but with a pair of steady gazes, neither willing to back down. Hate was a strong word. It was often misused, either in jest or hyperbole. It was rare when one could say they harboured genuine hatred for another individual. Perhaps this instance was merely exaggeration, but Nero felt as if he hated Roen with every fibre of his being, even as they engaged in a silent contest of wills. With every ounce of determination, he held nothing but loathing for her. There was safety when hidden away in cynicism and indifference. Within that corner, Nero had been secure. He held few expectations that could be dashed. People were tools, even as he played himself to be their friend. The world's cruelty was a harsh truth, but at least there was no uncertainty. Life was fleeting. Emotions were worthless. What mattered in the end were results, for history remembered only the victor. And yet this mewling paladin, this simpering girl who had no business picking her own dresses, much less wielding a sword, threatened to pull away that familiar cover. Roen seemed to try, perhaps almost desperately, to rip through the veil he had cast around himself. Nero's enmity became an inferno, yet even so, he could not truly tell if he despised her for it, or... At last, the smuggler shook his head, breaking his gaze. He let out an exasperated sigh. "I do not know if I find your hopeless idealism infuriating or refreshing," he conceded, a tone of clear annoyance--cloaking just the tiniest bit of relief--making itself known in his voice. Nero waved a dismissive hand. "I see that I cannot convince you otherwise. Believe, then, what you will. I expect you will be responsible for however your faith rewards you, in the end." Roen, that maddening woman, merely responded with a smile. "Now you know how I have felt about you all day," she returned idly. The comment seemed to stun him, as he raised an eyebrow, slipping back into an amused expression, his usual mask. It was impossible to tell that the two had just been arguing just minutes before. His mind still held many questions and smoldered with some anger, but for now he managed to shove such thoughts to the back. "To a lovely woman such as yourself, I would certainly hope that the 'refreshing' outweighs the 'infuriating'." A small wink accompanied Nero's comment. It was a juvenile thing, perhaps, attempting to disarm her through flirtatious behaviour. He was fully aware of the contrast between the mundane comments they traded now and the intense glares they had just been giving each other. The paladin's response was to blink before clearing her throat and returning to picking at the trout on her plate. "This...is good fish," Roen commented rather awkwardly. Gauging from her reaction, Nero supposed that she did not do well with flattery. That would have to do for now. "Finish when you'd like. I will..be outside." The doors creaked as he pulled them open and stepped into the crisp, evening air. Dusk had begun to fall on Ul'dah; the refugees in Pearl Lane had begun their nightly scrounging. The smuggler inhaled deeply before letting his breath out slowly through his nose. It was still rather warm, but nothing close to the oppressive heat that beat down on them earlier in the afternoon. Stepping to the side, he faced the wall and raised his fists. It would have been lovely to have a sparring partner to work out his frustration and stress, but practise would have to do for now. "One...two...three..." Three lightning quick jabs--left, right, left. The air responded with slight whff noises as his fists shot out like arrows. Such practise was simple, but cathartic. Vail had taken the time to teach him some proper boxing form. "One, two, three." A jab with his left, a cross with his right, and a left hook. So engrossed in his practise was Nero that he failed to notice the paladin step out of the establishment, her eyebrows raised as she examined his form. "One, two, three," he said under his breath, repeating the combination. Nero's muscles had begun to protest with the sudden exercise; he hadn't deigned to stretch and he had been mostly sedentary all day, but he ignored the presence of soreness and continued throwing his fists at the air.

He searched her face. A careful mask of composure had placed itself over him, hiding the turmoil and doubt that swirled in his mind. Nero's only response was a long silence as he mulled over her words. "I do not know what it is you want from me, Roen," he said, breaking the tense atmosphere. The Miqo'te waitress was nowhere to be found; the Highlander had vanished into the kitchen, even though there were no patrons. He and paladin were courteously left alone. Nero's eyes narrowed at her. "I am not so sure you know what it is you want from yourself." Where exactly did he stand with this infuriating woman? She claimed to want to save him, from...what, exactly? From himself? From injustice? From some hollow idea that the world was fair if one went looking for it? The more the thought about it, the angrier he became, and the more his temper began to boil beneath his facade of tranquility. "You are fortunate, Miss Deneith. You are stuck in the twilight. You are caught on the cusp between the hopeful dawn and the despair of night." Nero began to tap a finger on the surface of the table, a subtle gesture of his self-control. "You claim that I am a person who contains naught but good intentions, that I am chained to my path because of fear. And perhaps there is some truth to that." He leaned back in his chair again, a cold, analytical gaze being thrown across the table. "You see me as far better of a person than I actually am. And I do not know whether I should thank you for that, or pity you. But regardless, I cannot walk the path you ask of me. I have seen too many stray from it. The darkness holds no power over those who have never possessed the light...and lost it." The paladin tightly pressed her lips together. "You are right. I do not know what I want from myself," she admitted quietly. The corner of Roen's lip curled upwards just slightly. "Since you do not hold hope for yourself, I will have to, for both of us." Her tone was firm, yet hopeful. "If you have lost the light, then you get it back, for I do not believe that it can ever be truly lost forever." Nero's fists tightened. The thoughts pulsed in his head, a maelstrom of contempt and disgust. His lips trembled, pleading, demanding that he say what was on his mind. He wanted to shout at her. He wanted to slam his hands on the table and scream in Roen's face. Why? Why do you have such blind faith? Why do you believe in someone you know nothing about? Why must you fill me with these doubts? His knuckles took on a pale pallor as his nails threatened to bore into the skin of his palm. You are arrogant! You know nothing! Don't you dare pity me from your pedestal of self-righteousness and hollow idealism! Don't you dare pretend that you know anything about this world! But no words emerged.

He couldn't help but notice the similarity in situation. It was very likely that Roen's Sultansworn compatriots were affiliated with Taeros in the same way that Roen herself was affiliated with him. Two sides of the law, each allied with a side of the lawless. The Twelve, it seemed, had a sense of humour about the whole situation, to pit two sides of the same coin against one another. Nero was doubtful, but he offered a shrug at the suggestion as he leaned back in his chair. "Agreed, then. Mayhaps we may yet squirm ourselves out of this misunderstanding before we are forced to become enemies." Still, he had to make preparations. There was the possibility that his plan would have to be altered to account for the Sultansworn. If they would not join him or at least refrain from interfering in his operations, they would have to be removed. He leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows against the rough wood of the table. "If I am to meet them, then I would know about them. I saw some of them during the raid, and I am vaguely acquainted with Crofte, but the others I know not. Describe them to me." The paladin picked at her fish, as if fidgeting. "You have met Ser Crofte, aye. She is the superior ranking Sworn of the three. Honorable. I have not known her to break her word." That would be advantageous. Assuming Crofte's authority held true, if Nero could convince her, then the others would--hopefully--no longer be a factor, or at least fall in line enough to make their presence negligible. It would be naive to assume that she would acquiesce to the smuggler's reasoning so quickly, however. Roen paused, eyeing the trout on her plate. "Then...there is Natalie." From her tone and mannerisms, Nero could only assume that there was some bad blood between them. The paladin began to cut into the fish more diligently. "She is ruthless. Goal driven. Will do whatever it takes to get things done." The paladin took another bite of her fish, the curling of her lip suggesting she was repressing a frown. Ruthless. From Roen's description alone, the smuggler had a decent idea of what kind of person Natalie was, and who he would be dealing with. Suffice to say that she and him were more than likely birds of a feather. If Nero couldn't convince Crofte to keep her subordinate in line, they would inevitably be opposed to one another. The grin that made its way across Nero's face was smug. "Seems the Sworns aren't all together in their methodology," he commented idly, a subtle challenge to Roen's image of her compatriots. The paladin shook her head, chewing on a chunk of fish. "They are like oil and water. Crofte and Natalie." Nero folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. "You understand that this Natalie and I will most likely enter in conflict? She will attack whatever her Monetarist handlers point her to. And I will not suffer such thugs tarnishing that particularly shiny uniform the Sworns have." He put the tankard to his lips and drained the remaining rum from it, signalling the Miqo'te for a refill. The waitress swiftly swept away his plate and tankard. His gaze narrowed at Roen. "Dogs like she and I must be put down early, lest they become rabid. From your description of her, I can guarantee that she is thinking the same thoughts as I on the matter." "She is not handled by the Monetarists," Roen responded quickly. Nero raised a skeptical eyebrow; that was a quick defense. He wondered if her insistence on Natalie's supposed integrity was for his sake or for her own. The paladin's expression became somewhat alarmed. "Neither of you have to...become dogs. Or become rabid. You two can reason to the same goal," she said quietly. Nero's face twitched in an effort to keep the scowl from his face. The Miqo'te returned with a filled mug, and the smuggler slipped her several more coins. "Then I will assume she considers Taeros to be a necessary evil, just as you consider myself as such." He couldn't help but grin. "What an amusing situation. Two noble and righteous paladins, each siccing their animals on the other. It makes a good story, I must admit." Nero's appetite for rum had been satiated, but he pretended to drink from his tankard to hide his gaze from Roen. "If that is the way you want to see it," her voice came from the other side of the tankard. "I do not think you are just...someone or something to sicc on an enemy." Perhaps Nero was just imagining it, but her voice sounded stiff, almost tremulous. He put his mug down. Roen's gaze was focused directly on him. "I thought we were allies. That we were to help each other." Nero sighed, considering his words carefully. His face shed his amused facade like a snake shed its skin. For only the second time since they met, his expression had taken on one of brutal honesty. "Roen," he began sternly. The smuggler leaned forward, taking a deep breath. "You do not know me. You do not know what I have done, and what I will do. You do not know to what extremes I will go to, for the sake of something I believe to be greater than myself. For the sake of a better Ul'dah." Nero's icy blue eyes had become steely and firm. "I told you once before that I will drown this city in blood if that was what was required to change it, and my resolve since then has not wavered. I hold no illusions. What I have done, and what I will do, is evil. But it must be done. I will not inhabit the new Ul'dah I seek to create." Nero looked weary. "For myself and anyone like me...there is no place for us there."

(( The following posts are an edited recap of an in-game session. )) It was an obscure place, near a junction that connected the Pearl Lane and Onyx Lane. A ragged sign swung in front of the door, marked with a crude drawing of a sword and the words Soldier's Club scrawled beneath it. It wasn't as ramshackle as the other buildings inhabited by the refugees and the squatters; a new door had been fitted to the entrance, and the windows weren't broken. The sandstone that had been used to construct the building didn't have the same signs of wear and tear as the surrounding buildings. It was as close to a clean establishment as one could get in Pearl Lane. Nero pushed open the door with the paladin in tow, revealing a small room of several small tables and a bar. There were a few scraggly-looking refugees occupying a table or leaning against a wall. A tired-looking Ala Mhigan was slouched behind the bar, but was alerted to the door creaking open. A female Miqo'te who had been sitting on the bar perked her ears up, providing a friendly smile as she leapt off it enthusiastically. "Mister Redgrave!" The smuggler provided a small wave, gesturing for Roen to take a sit. He took one of the chairs for himself and plopped onto it. "Good to see you're as healthy as ever, Maia. Aldo still washed out?" The Miqo'te giggled before patting the Highlander behind the bar on the head. Nero glanced at the paladin sitting across from him. "Myself and many other individuals of Ul'dah's less savoury elements fund this place," he explained. "Good way to serve as a meeting place. Sometimes it can be a bit crowded, but it's better than the Quicksand. But then," he snorted derisively, "a horde of rampaging aurochs is better than the Quicksand." He glanced at Roen, who nodded slowly. "The Quicksand can get a bit...rowdy," she concurred. "How's the head?" At the reminder, Nero rubbed his temple gingerly. "A bit sore, but it's not worth using conjury for. Could do with some ice." The Hyur made a swift gesture to the Miqo'te. "Warmwater trout, if you would. With lots of salt. And rum!" Nero swept a hand towards the bar as an expression of his boundless magnanimity. "Meal's on me. Whatever you want. Consider it my way of making amends for the trouble." Roen followed his gaze to the waitress. "I will have the same. Less salt. And sweet water." Nero leaned somewhat out of his chair and slapped several gil onto the table, which swiftly vanished beneath the Highlander's hand. The Ala Mhigan then ducked behind a slightly tattered curtain into what was presumably the kitchen. Though the smuggler still held his cocky grin on his face, Roen studied his expression curiously with a sidelong glance. "What happened exactly? Why did you...." He raised an eyebrow at the paladin's inquiry as she shook her head. "I did not expect that at all." Nero offered a shrug that was equal parts nonchalant and helplessness, his smirk holding fast onto his face. "What can I say? I'm full of surprises. I even surprised myself with that." His deflection wasn't exactly a lie. He didn't know where that burst of vitriol had come from, and it was certainly not his intention to have offended Broken Nose in such a way. "Besides, I already told you. Shadow being. It mind controlled me. Didn't we agree to run with that story?" The smuggler cocked an eye at her. It seemed his refusal to answer the question had worked, for Roen narrowed here eyes and let out a sigh of resignation and amusement. "As you say," she responded tersely. The paladin leaned back against the chair, crossing her arms. "I would be extra nice and polite to Broken Nose the next time you see him, however." Nero's response was another shrug. "I'll bring him a pie with hearts drawn on it, then." Roen's response was to roll her eyes. "Well, at least he agreed to help," she conceded. As if on cue, the Miqo'te returned with two plates, steam wafting from their surfaces from the freshly cooked trout, adorned with a pewter fork and knife. She dashed behind the bar and returned with two tankards. "Thanks, love," Nero said cordially, clapping his hands as he took up the knife and fork and began to dig into the trout with gusto. He paused his enthusiastic consumption to swallow before turning a somewhat more serious gaze towards Roen. "To shift the topic...what I want to know is if you've heard from your Sultansworn friends yet." As if to punctuate his point, he peeled off another chunk of the trout and stuffing it into his mouth. "I am affuming 'e 'ih o' 'ih way 'o 'a gaols 'ight 'ow," he said, his mouth full of fish. He chewed rapidly before taking a swig from his tankard. Roen paused, her knife and fork poised to begin cutting into the fish. Nero watched her carefully, even as he ate; she took a bite from the fish, chewing slowly. The paladin's eyes had furrowed, suggesting that she was stalling as she tried to determine what to say. "About that..." Roen began, rather hesitantly. The smuggler's eyes narrowed, as if daring her to say what he was expecting her to say. "I spoke to Ser Crofte yesterday." Roen cleared her throat and took a sip of the sweet water. "He was...not arrested." Nero's mind was blank. He had no thoughts on the subject, but it took some measure of restraint to prevent the words I told you so from slipping from his mouth. He paused in his evisceration of the fish and let out a long sigh. "I knew it would be so, though that did not stop me from hoping, however slight that hope may have been." His gaze was stern and his tone was stiff as he shot an accusing glance at Roen. "Then justice has failed. Again."

"Not so loud, please," the smuggler pleaded, raising a hand to shoo the paladin away. He inhaled through gritted teeth, before letting his breath slip through his nose. Nero's head still rang with the memory of the impact, but his vision began to clear. Some blood had dripped onto the pavement; it wasn't anything that indicated a major wound, but it was just enough to be somewhat worrying. It seemed as if Halone herself had saw fit to punish Nero with a blow from her shield. "Before...before you ask, I have just managed to cure myself of all of the various ills that had been afflicting my mind...agh.." A soft groan escaped from the Hyur's lips. "A malevolent shadow was...um, mind controlling me. Which is why I spewed all those insults at your friend. Yes. That's it. That's a defense that will hold up in court, right?" The pain gradually began to dissipate enough for Nero to start making his usual quips and deflections. He slowly stood up from his kneeling position, somewhat wobbly, a hand clutching his temple. A small trickle of blood ran itself down his nose and the left side of his face, running along the prominent scars that occupied those areas of his head. Nero briefly buzzed his lips and shook his head, an amused and pained grin cresting his face. "What I meant to say was that...um...that was a test! To see if he was really your friend. Or something. Yes. And you passed. Good job." The smuggler padded Roen's shoulder like a parent congratulated a child, even as he winced again. He withdrew a handkerchief from his trouser pocket to dab at where the pillar had broken his skin. The bleeding seemed to stop, but as the pain gave way to soreness, Nero began to seriously consider retrieving his thaumaturgy scepter just to cast a blizzard spell at his face in lieu of using cold water to soothe his aching temple. "Anyway. Nanawa mines, and Kejin Zinjin. I personally recommend we go for the mines first. The sooner we can get those supplies to the refugees, the sooner they can find some measure of relief. And then we can turn our attention to the list." Nero's stomach rumbled quietly, causing the smuggler to glance away, somewhat embarrassed. "Though I recommend we do so after we eat supper. We'll need a plan anyway before just assaulting the place." He turned his gaze back to Roen and flashed her his trademark smirk. "If you're up for it, I know a place. Discrete, covert, and the food's almost good enough for a dinner date," he commented idly.

6BBJ0m9Bllo The Japanese are pretty good at jazz.

Tiergan, your colouring should be illegal. It's just too good.

"This Limsa trader seems to be the only one besides Roen who gives a rat's ass about the people this city has discarded," Nero retorted, breaking the silence he had been maintaining while the paladin had negotiated with Broken Nose. "Trust Ul'dah to kick the teeth of whoever tries their hand at altruism." He had gained control of his words again, but his residual anger still smoldered, and it was with his full consent that his words shot back to the Hellsguard. Regardless of what the Hellsguard thought of him, the smuggler made his message perfectly clear: if it weren't for Ul'dah being Ul'dah, this would have never have happened in the first place. It would be incredibly inappropriate for him to change demeanours so suddenly, and so the 'offended trader' front would have to serve him for now. Even so, Nero gave an apologetic nod of his head. "I...will endeavour to repair my attitude, should we meet again, ser. You do have my gratitude for your assistance." The apology sounded flimsy, but it would have to do. The corner of his lip curled into a small, yet contrite grin. "Should our next encounter fail to be pleasant, then you may consider my ribs yours for the breaking." It didn't take any divination for Nero to sense when his presence was no longer welcome; he made a slight gesture to Roen that he would wait outside and allow her to finish any discussion she might have with the Roegadyn, making a hasty exit. Exiting before her was becoming a habit, but the longer he stood in the Brass Blade headquarters, the more his skin began to crawl. It was with some measure of relief that the smuggler exposed himself to Thanalan's oppressive heat. The simmering mugginess was actually quite refreshing, given the circumstances, and ironically gave Nero some time to cool down. He had his arms crossed again, but his foot tapped the ground restlessly as he leaned against a pillar, indicating a flurry of thought perpetuating inside his mind. That was a mistake. A massive mistake. An inordinate screw-up of catastrophic proportions. Nero did not have the room or influence to make such enemies so quickly. And if they were friends of Roen, then it was likely that they were at least somewhat trustworthy. It should have been incredibly easy. The smuggler should have been able to easily sweet-talk his way to Broken Nose's good side and be in good standing with a valuable ally. So what had happened? Why had he lost himself to anger in that moment? Such things were dangerous. Broken Nose would have absolutely refused to assist had Roen not been there to plead him. Was it just repression? Nero didn't consider himself an emotional person by any means; Vail had taught him that reason and logic should always prevail, and that losing one's head meant potentially losing everything. He was angry. Angry at Ul'dah, angry at the Brass Blades, angry at Vail, but most of all, he was infuriated with himself. That outburst was an embarrassment. It was more than just embarrassing; it was shameful. And Nero had exposed another vulnerability to Roen. The paladin already knew more about the smuggler than he was comfortable with anyone knowing. Nero couldn't help but let out a small, bitter chuckle. Now it would be her turn to lecture him on the values of pragmatism. With that childish tantrum, he'd very nearly ruined their only chances of accomplishing their goals. Thus, only one thing was in order. As if on instinct, Nero turned to face the pillar he had been leaning on, gripped it with both hands, and hurled his head at it. An uncomfortably loud thwack that accompanied the impact, and the smuggler fell to his knees, clutching his forehead. "Halone's great frozen ass," the Hyur gasped a mix of exclamation and curse. A tiny trickle of blood seeped through his fingers; the pillar had broken the skin but otherwise done little visible damage besides leave Nero slightly dazed. In lieu of Vail being there to smack his head with an oar, the pillar would have to do. As of this moment, Nero considered himself cured of such impulses.

Looks like something right up my alley. Expect a PM from me soon!

It was only with a great deal of effort that Nero managed to repress a scowl at being dragged through the headquarters of the Brass Blades. Nothing sunk his mood more than forced exposure to Ul'dah's thugs in slipshod armour. They were little more than paid enforcers for the Monetarists, conscripted to be cannon fodder against the Amal'jaa, all the while administering their employers' generous policies to anyone who didn't have enough gil to purchase some respite. Outside of the city, they may have different stories, but within these walls the only thing that separated the Blades from the bandits were the uniforms. How many of his friends vanished into the gaols, never to be seen again? How often did he see them dealing with the bandit gangs they were supposed to be arresting, their eyes gleaming with greed at the prospect of gil and the warm touch of a few prostitutes? How many times did they witness a refugee being beaten, only to turn their heads away from the beleaguered cries for mercy? How many times had they blackened his eyes and kicked in his ribs, just because he tried to feed himself? Within these walls, in the presence of the Monetarist's gangsters, Nero considered himself to be a righteous citizen in comparison to these criminals. Upon meeting the Hellsguard, Nero gave a stiff bow of his head. While he would have ordinarily loved to engage in his usual quips and sarcasm, the Roegadyn was a fair ways larger than Nero had expected, and the smuggler wasn't interested in getting an arm broken today, and simply looking at the Brass Blades had soured the Hyur's mood enough to guarantee that no mordant remarks would emerge from him for now. "My name is Sebastian Redgrave, ser. I am a trader just in from Limsa Lominsa." The casual observer might have called Nero's ability to change demeanors intimidating. Naught but a few hours ago, his grin had been plastered across his face like a child browsing an infinite selection of sweets, and he had been aggressively passing out bad jokes in the same way a philanthropist might have tossed out gil at a banquet. But now, his eyes were dull and flat. His tone was metallic; it rang hollow, cold and steely. Nero's words were polite, but within his voice there was no warmth to be found. He knew he should let Roen explain the situation; leaving the talking to the paladin might have been the more pragmatic idea, even if she lacked the ability to lie. Even so, she knew these people and would be able to explain the situation in such a way that would allow them to obtain what they needed. And yet, in what could only be described as an emotional impulse, Nero's mouth continued running, his tone becoming more and more caustic as he did. "I will get straight to the point, for I am sure a man of your stature is not interested in suffering the presence of one such as I." It took every ounce of self-control the smuggler had to keep his words from being doused in venom right from the get-go; as it stood, they were only laced with it. "Your compatriots within the Blades have confiscated a wagon of my goods. These goods were legal; the manifests were accurate, as was my merchant's seal, in addition to an affidavit vowing to the authenticity of the items." That last part wasn't true, but let the Roegadyn think it was. It was something that could possibly appeal to whatever passed for a sense of justice in this city. Nero folded his arms, further indulging in his acrimonious behaviour. His voice remained quiet, so as to not draw attention, but his words remained fiery. "Now, I realise that Ul'dah doesn't have laws so much as it has gil-enforced suggestions," Despite his best efforts, Nero failed to repress his sardonicism. "but in the interest of at least maintaining the illusion of order and honesty within this godsforsaken city, I would like to ask that the Brass Blades investigate as to the whereabouts of my stolen goods--and stolen they were, by criminals in uniform--and secure them. Failing that, providing their location will be enough for me to retrieve my property on my own, seeing as how competence is in such short supply in Ul'dah." What was he doing? He was better than this. He knew better. He had more than enough self-control, and there was nothing he detested more than losing that self-control to emotional impulse. Nero felt as if he were an outside observer to his own body, unable to stop himself from spewing his scarcely-contained vitriol, like a ship that could not help but be shaken by violent waves. All he needed was to explain his situation simply and politely, and let Roen handle the rest. Broken Nose would help them retrieve what they needed, and they could carry out their plan without a hitch. And so, why did he apparently choose now of all times to lose himself to contempt, to anger? His memories of the Brass Blades were...unpleasant didn't even begin to describe it, but they were in the past. Nero had conquered Ul'dah's hold over him. The smuggler had come to this city to change its future, not to become mired in his own melodramatic past. At last, after a few seconds of silence that felt like hours, Nero felt he had some measure of control over his body--and more importantly, his words. He didn't notice that his hands had tightened enough to cast a pale pallor over his knuckles, but he turned away from the Hellsguard to stare at the wall, his earrings chiming as he did. The pirate breathed in deeply before exhaling. "I...do not expect you to accept my apologies, ser, but I offer them nonetheless." Nero's tone remained steely but at least somewhat more cordial than it had been previously. "It has been a trying time for me, and I have not adapted to the city as well as I had liked. Please...listen to what Miss Deneith has to say."

I don't know how my schedule would factor into this (I'm basically completely unavailable Mon-Thurs) but I can tag along as any job or role if you need a space to be filled.