Nero

It can be as simple as asking! If you feel as if you need more IC contacts, you can start from something as basic as "Hey I like your character, let's figure out a way for them to meet IC if you're up for it", and start brainstorming an introductory storyline. From there, very often it'll start to snowball as your character becomes connected to others from this introduction. Making that connection on its own is a sort of active roleplaying, because then by necessity, you start exploring how your character would break away from their comfort zone. Challenge yourself on how well you know the intricacies of your character: what motivates them to live day by day? What goals do they possess? How important is familiarity to them? Do they prefer the spiritual and faithful, or the material and the tangible? From there, you can start thinking about how to approach others, or how your character might establish new connections.

I enjoy posting after Verad because then I can always just point at his post and say "Pretty much that." I would put an emphasis on collaboration, too, because while you're worried about Hornet being a central element, the instant you introduce one or more people into how the story develops, it ties their characters into it. When you have multiple people involved, the story ceases to become solely about Hornet; it becomes about her connections with people, and how they react. They, too, become protagonists of a sort, because not only does Hornet's interaction with them build on her character, but how they interact with Hornet also builds on their character. That's the fundamental structure of social roleplaying: having a myriad of perspectives and connections woven together into a single (or multiple!) organic narrative. To add on to Roen's point: Start with a basic premise and a general direction with which you want to take that premise. Say you have someone come from Hornet's past, or an event that comes back to haunt her. From there, you can approach the premise with what direction you'd like to possibly take it in. How would encountering this event or person affect Hornet's relationships with others if/when they find out? If it's an event or person from her past, how does that event or person reflect on how much (or how little) Hornet has changed since then? How does dealing with the event reflect Hornet's personality (e.g. does she immediately go for help or independently try to solve her issues herself before involving others)? How would this event possibly cause Hornet to grow or regress as a person? What are the possible outcomes for Hornet and her relationships? Basically, begin with a starting point and a destination, and let the journey fill in itself. Sometimes your destination will change; sometimes it won't! Once you have a premise and a direction, all you need is a setup and some participants and hey, you've got a pretty active RP story!

He felt her gaze on him, and turned his head to glance at her, an expression of facetious annoyance plastered on him. "Don't smile at me, I'm allergic to positive feelings. Makes me sneeze like the hells," the smuggler said, waving a hand in front of his face. With his right index finger and thumb, he pinched the top of Roen's head and turned her slightly away, giving a sigh of relief as he did. It was the kind of gesture which everyone else would find quite odd, but which he found rather amusing. His doubts had not fully dispelled, but they had relented enough for Nero to put on his usual front of bad jokes and joviality. The smuggler inhaled, considering their next move. "I think the first thing we should do is make contact with your Brass Blade friends. We need to inform them of the situation. Let them find a copy of the list while you and I start sniffing around to find our cargo. And they sound like good people to be friends with." The smuggler started sauntering in the direction of Ul'dah, his hands held againsts the back of his neck. "Lead the way, Miss Deneith?"

Nero could only guess at the process happening beneath the man's skin, but from Roen's assessment, he supposed that the leg had more or less been recovered. The paladin looked tired, as if she had donated some of her own energy in the conjury. Her neat auburn hair had taken on some subtle signs of unkemptness, and her shoulders sagged a bit after the procedure. At the paladin's indication, he lifted his arms off from the man, as the door to the shack creaked open, with Lancel standing in the doorway. The boy looked rather pleased with himself, if rather tired and covered in dust that matched his matted hair, bearing his grand prize. It was a solid-looking branch, about one ilm thick. As fate would have it, it did not end in a convenient Y-shaped nock or curved end, as such discoveries usually did, but it would serve its purpose as a walking stick well enough. "That's a good find," Nero said, letting out an impressed whistle. He stood up and rubbed the boy's head. "Nice work, Lancel. You did a good job." The smuggler gestured an arm towards the man leaning against the wall, before turning a kind gaze to the wide-eyed boy. "Your father will be fine. Try to keep him from walking for some time." Nero reached for his gil pouch, counting out several coins. Stripping one of his fingerless gloves from his hand, he deposited the fistful of coins into the glove as a sort of makeshift pouch, holding it from the bottom before pressing it against Lancel's chest. "There's an apothecary who comes by this gate once every two days or so. His name is Reynold. Wears a fancy blue coat and hat." Nero's expression morphed to somewhat playful. "If you need something, potions or the like, talk to him and tell him that you're friends with Sebastian, and pay with that." He pointed a finger at the glove of coins. Reynold was one of Nero's newer clients who did regular business with the Alchemist's Guild. He was not overly wealthy, but he was mostly fair and didn't ask for anything too dangerous. Lancel glanced between the coins, his father, Roen, and Nero, as if the boy could scarcely believe his luck. It was with an amazed silence before the child's face broke out into a wide and innocent smile. "T-thank you!" He reached out to shake the Hyur's hand, which Nero obligingly provided, a soft expression on his face. The boy's tiny hand shook as vigorously as he could, with a child's innocent ignorance as to the purpose of a handshake. Lancel skipped over to Roen and did the same with her hand, simply grabbing it from her side and waving his arm up and down enthusiastically. Nero couldn't help but smile at the boy's earnest gratitude before covering his mouth with his hand, turning away lest the paladin catch his expression. As Lancel was about to skip outside, Nero caught the boy's shoulder as the smuggler knelt down again. "Lancel," he began, his tone firm yet kind, "be careful not to tell any of the other boys about this, okay? Not Sayer, not anyone. This'll be our secret." "But--" came the protest, which Nero silenced with a shake of his head, his earrings chiming as he did. "You can't tell anyone what we did," Nero continued. "If anybody asks, Miss Deneith and I weren't here. Can you promise me that?" With an expression mixed with both appreciation and confusion, Lancel glanced between Nero and Roen before nodding slowly. "That's good. You have my thanks," the smuggler said, tilting his head down in approval. He made a gesture to Roen towards the exit of the shack, stepping outside. Thanalan's heat began to make itself more and more of an unwelcome presence, though Nero couldn't tell if the heat was genuinely uncomfortable or if it was just because the pirate was so used to the mild climate of Vylbrand. Nero glanced at his left hand, now gloveless, in quiet contemplation. He had belittled Roen before on her idealism, on her beliefs, her naivete...and yet, did he not now just engage in that same foolishness he had mocked? There was no guarantee that the father had been hunting in the first place; Nero didn't see a bow or spear or anything suggesting such in the shack. Lancel was a child, but that didn't mean he couldn't lie. The Ala Mhigans might have been informing on the happenings of the refugee camp for the Blades or the bandits. The refugees were often driven to be the pawns of such people just to survive. And yet, without questioning it, he and Roen provided for Lancel and his father, without even considering any ulterior motives or possibly dangerous affiliates the two might have. Without even considering the logical options, without taking into account whether or not the boy was serving as someone's ears, the smuggler had exposed his plans, his name, and who he was working with. There was no telling how much Lancel had heard or who he would report to. In this instance, Nero's pragmatism had failed him. He lifted his bare hand in front of his face, flexing and unflexing it. Was he a hypocrite? Perhaps his own feelings were simply repressed. Perhaps his cynicism was merely a defense mechanism, a mask that had become so ingrained with his identity that he had forgotten why he donned it in the first place. Nero recalled the words he had said to Roen at Crescent Cove. "But should justice fail, I will see the Jewel drowned in blood, if that's what it takes to change it." At the time, he believed passionately in those words. His resolve burned like a wildfire. But if he was still prone to such weakness, and yet continued down a path that had no place for compassion, would he still have the determination to see his vision through? Nero shook his head quickly, trying to dispel his doubts in the same way a dog did with fleas. He folded his arms and turning his gaze to Ul'dah as he waited for Roen to emerge from the shack.

Nero nodded his acquiescence wordlessly, all the while carefully concealing a certain incredulousness. He'd obviously heard of the Sultansworn before--tales of paladins in shining armour, defenders of Ul'dah's sovereignty, righteous and mighty. The smuggler had never actually seen them practice conjury, however; he had assumed that the story of the paladins having skill in magic had been fictional, an exaggeration with which to enamour the populace. Admittedly, Nero knew little about conjury. He'd only ever been to Gridania once, and that was such a brief visit that he might as well have never stepped into the city at all. What he did know from his training as a thaumaturge, though, was that learning to manipulate aether was never a case of talent or inborn skill--it required dedication and careful study. To devote oneself to such rigorous application of both sword and sorcery was something to which the word "admirable" felt woefully inadequate. Though Nero's ego wouldn't allow it to expand too far, he did begin to feel a certain amount of grudging respect for Roen, naivete and all. The smuggler grimaced, flipping the ramshackle door to the shack closed, as he positioned himself to kneel perpendicular to the man against the wall. With a sense of practice, Nero held his left arm across the man's chest, just below his collarbone, and his right arm across his thighs. With a knee he pinned the man's right hand to the ground to prevent any flailing. Nero lifted his hand briefly to tilt the man's head to face him. "Look at me," he said softly, gesturing to his face, his earrings, the gaudy streaks of orange in his hair, anything that might distract the man from the ordeal to come. "Guess you don't see many people like me around, huh? Focus on the contrast." With a finger, he tapped his head where the black locks met the fiery orange ones, before giving a small jerk of his head to provoke a jingle from his earrings. "Focus on the sound." The man didn't nod, but Nero noticed that his irises dilate in an attempt to focus on the smuggler's directions. Nero returned his right arm to pin down the man's legs, clasping the unfortunate man's left hand, as Nero nodded at the paladin to begin.

But now it just sounds like gibbering nonsense. Actually, that's fairly apt, now that I think about it.

...what's the Eorzean equivalent of dialing 911? Call me crazy, but Reno /shout raise pls at ! doesn't really flow all that well as a comedy show title. Also, all of you are insane.

Nero clapped his hands together, letting out an overly dramatic exhalation at Roen's acquiescence. "Ah, the obstacles that can be overcome by working together. Brings a tear to my eye, it does." He sniffed and pantomimed rubbing his eyes, before plastering his trademark smirk all over his face and winking at the paladin. "Are you...pouting?" The smuggler teased as he detected a frown attempting to clumsily crease its way on to Roen's face. Nero recalled that the paladin had never had to deal with this side of him before--the smuggler had cracked some small jokes in her presence before, but for the most part every occasion in which they've spoken to each other had been serious conversations that came uncomfortably close to revealing aspects of his true personality. Now that the melodrama had been mostly resolved--at least for now--Roen would have to contend with the flashy, arrogant mask that the pirate wore everywhere else he went. Nero raised an eyebrow and a chuckle, making a few steps toward her, his gaudy earrings chiming with every other step. It was with endless amusement that he peered at the Midlander's slender face; the smuggler noted that this was the first time he had really taken time to pay attention to Roen's face. His smirk widened. "You can be rather cute when you're annoyed. You should keep that look. It'll be useful for when you're looking for a suitor," Nero remarked, his tone taking on a flirtatious edge. "'But before that..." In two long strides that could almost be classified as leaps, the Hyur reached the trees behind Roen; the shrubbery that marked the border of the copse rumbled with panic as Nero's arm shot out like lightning and seemed to pull something from the brush, which he casually tossed into the middle of the thicket like a sack of potatoes. It was a child, an Ala Mhigan boy. He was a thin thing; he didn't look as terribly malnourished as many other refugee children, but the child was far too spindly to be considered of decent health, his dark skin seemingly stretched just slightly too far across his frame. The burlap tunic and trousers he wore sagged around him like drapes. He couldn't have been older than eleven or twelve, though it was difficult to tell with the rags. The child scrambled to stand up and make a run for it, but Nero pounced on him like a coeurl, pinning the boy's back to the ground by pressing a forearm firmly across his chest. The boy flailed his arms and legs, but the smuggler's grip was unrelenting. He had noticed the boy creeping on the outside of the copse for only a few minutes, but it was enough. Shrubbery can't rustle when there's no wind around, after all. "Eavesdropping is--agh--eavesdropping is impolite, you know!" Nero said, grunting as a wayward kneecap made contact with his back. He couldn't help but let out a small laugh as the boy gradually ceased his struggling, a look of terror in his eyes. What was so humorous about the situation Nero couldn't say...or perhaps he simply didn't want to say. Vail would have been very amused to see this sight, to say the least. "We're not going to hurt you, kid. Just stick around and let us talk for a bit and you can go home with a bit of gil, yeah?" Nero's smirk had subtly morphed from the smug expression he wore to Roen, to a genuine and warm grin. He turned his head to glance at the paladin. Let me do the talking, he mouthed silently to her, before refocusing his attention on the boy. The boy's terrified gaze, like that of a rabbit caught in a snare, didn't cease. "I'm going to let you sit up, alright?" Nero said slowly, almost in a coo, as if he were calming a wild animal--a metaphor which was not entirely inaccurate. "Stick around and talk with me. My name's Nero." Gradually he began to loosen his forearm from the boy's chest, careful to sense whether or not the boy was getting ready to bolt. The boy seemed to stop resisting for the moment, so Nero pulled the boy into a sitting position with his other hand, kneeling in front of him. The boy's face was rather gaunt; hazel eyes tried to hide themselves beneath a mop of sand-coloured hair. Nero's smile never left his face as he patted the boy's shoulder. "I'm Nero. Do you have a name?" the smuggler asked, his tone as warm as the sun that had just passed its zenith in the sky. Despite his friendliness, Nero's left arm was positioned in such a way that he could grab the boy if the latter tried to run. Even with children, complacency wasn't an option. "L-Lancel," the boy managed to stutter out with some effort. The characteristic jingle of earrings tinkled softly as Nero nodded. "Lancel. A good name. What were you doing around here, Lancel? If there's something you need, maybe we can help." There was a long silence before the boy glanced towards Roen and pointed weakly at her. "She...Sayer said she healed 'im. I-I wanted..wanted to get 'er to see my pa." Lancel's voice gradually begin to smooth the stutters out of his sentences. "He broke his leg...a Hammerbeak while he was out huntin'..." The Ala Mhigan boy gulped, as if expecting a refusal. Nero's smile grew softer, as he patted the boy's head. "Of course Miss Deneith will help your father. I will too. Come on, up you go." The smuggler stood and pulled the boy up; Lancel was light, far too light for a child of his age. It was a subtle but grim reminder of the conditions he had been forced to live in. Nero pointed at the shanty town and patted the boy's back. "Go to your father; we'll be right with you." Hesitantly, Lancel began to trot back to to the collection of huts and tents that made up the refugee camp as Nero shot a glance in Roen's direction. "You and I will go into the city...there are some things we'll need. After we take care of Lancel," the smuggler added, before staring at the retreating back of the thin boy. "And...um, maybe...well..," Nero seemed to struggle to say something, his usual confidence having evaporated at the worst time as he rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment. "Nevermind, we'll talk later," he said quickly, cutting off his own inquiry. Nero shoved his hands in his pockets and stepped past the paladin to make his way towards the refugee camps.

The smuggler pursed his lips in thought, even as he tried to repress a grin from emerging at the paladin's indignation. For all of his ambition and ruthlessness, there were few things in this world that gave him more pleasure than the knowledge that he had successfully antagonised someone. Part of it was pragmatism, for if he was capable of hitting the nerves, so to speak, it put him in a position above them, a position that his ego quite enjoyed. The other part was just plain amusement. It was the small things that mattered. Nero folded his arms, tilting his head slightly as a slight wind seemed to cause a rustle in the copse of trees. "There are a few ways to do this, not all of them easy," the Hyur stared at the ground for several long seconds before glancing up at Roen. "If I had to say, the most surefire way would not be to explicitly destroy the list, per se...it would be a forgery." The smirk streaked itself across his face in the same way that lightning streaked itself across a night sky, though the smuggler's smug expression at having an idea was far more permanent than the appearance of lightning. "We obtain a copy of the list, and find someone who can forge a modified copy of it. I may know a few people...though it'll require a lot of gil." Nero shrugged. He always knew that a venture like this could be expensive, but it didn't change anything. "Then we find this list maker. We can rely on your Brass Blade friends for that; they'll trace the route from inside the Blades to find out who's creates the list." "Who employs that list maker doesn't matter, whether it be the Monetarists, the Syndicate, or the Sultana herself. Hells, even General Raubahn could be getting in on the action," the smuggler gave a nonchalant shrug. "What does matter is how we spread our forgery to the guards, in which case we could try reaching out to the list-maker." The smuggler tilted his head from the right to the left instead, like a pendulum. "If he has family or something else we can use to blackmail or threaten him, we can obtain some manner of leverage. Or," cue the head tilt from left to right, "and this is my preferred method; we simply swap in our forged copy for the one the list-maker receives from his employers. He'll distribute our forgery for us, his employers remain none the wiser, and everybody wins." Nero gave a small jump forward from the tree he was leaning on and spread his arms out grandly, as if he were presenting the opening act of an illusionist. "This way, nobody hurts anybody, we get what we want, the good triumph, the evil suffer, and the innocent are spared," Nero echoed his past mockery, giving a slight bow at the end.

Nero gave a bemused shrug. "I never said we couldn't use legal means," he said in a conciliatory tone. "They have their uses. And if I didn't want to use them at all," he wagged an index finger, gesturing between himself and Roen, "we wouldn't be speaking. I'm merely suggesting that we play the game with more than one angle. That is why you decided to ally with me in the first place, isn't it?" Because you know the law won't work. The smug thought was very close to forming into speech, but Nero managed to repress it. Another debate on philosophy was not ideal in the current situation. "So first off, the goods. I may have expressed my doubts before, but my doubts do not equal disapproval. Your friends...Broken Nose, was it? And another who I am assuming to be a Lalafell. I will take you on your word that they are capable enough. Mayhaps it will be a mutual gain if we became familiar with each other." Nero stepped back and leaned on one of the trees that made up the copse they were speaking in, his arms still folded. The Thanalan heat seemed to grow more oppressive, and he was grateful for the shade. "I believe your initial plan of action was a sound one. Locate the goods, stop the transaction, and if we're lucky we'll be back in time to give these refugees a decent dinner and some new clothing. And having your Brass Blade friends investigate internally can't hurt our chances." The smuggler then unfolded his arms, letting them fall to his sides. "And you are correct; when they confiscated my wagon, the guards had mentioned something of a list. No doubt their employers keep track of who will keep their vices supplied. Getting my name on that list would certainly help," Nero raised his left arm, the palm of his hand facing upward. "or we could make the list unnecessary." He then raised his right arm, his hand taking on the form of a fist. His smirk had taken on an eerie glow. "If we reach whoever is in charge of maintaining the list, we can eliminate him. And no, I don't mean murder. To be honest, simply stabbing people is terribly unimaginitive and not very effective of a solution." Nero dipped a slight nod at Roen. "Taking a man's life is merely one of many ways to kill him." Without even waiting for a response, the smuggler tilted his head upward to gaze at the branches of the trees and let his arms fall to his sides again, letting loose an exasperated sigh. "But let me guess. You want to do this the right way, by pursuing the bandits legally and putting them in jail, for if the corrupt Brass Blades have no clients, then they'll have no reason to confiscate goods to sell them in the first place, and by extension whether or not my name is on the Monetarist's list of delivery boys won't matter. Meanwhile, your fellows do some internal investigating, nothing bad happens, they punish the corrupt Blades with time in the gaols, the good triumph, the evil suffer, the innocent are spared, blah blah blah." Nero mockingly spun his left hand in circles as a gesture of his disdain, cocking an eye at the paladin. "It's not that I don't think it will work, it's just that I don't think it will work.

People with far more eloquence than I have posted their opinions above, but I'll throw in my two cents. Death doesn't have to be the only way to shelve a character, if you feel their arc has come to an end. They can retire to a peaceful life with no interruptions or adventures. I've thrown characters into prison or on a long, off-camera journey in case I ever want to bring them back as a plot device, or perhaps re-introduce them as the same character but with a different personality and motivations. There's a lot of ways you can tackle this. On the flipside, you can interpret this as a sort of writing challenge. People in real life, too, have moments in their lives where they feel aimless after achieving their goals, or restless because they have no prospects to focus on. You can bring these feelings to your character and perhaps introduce the theme of "Finding a purpose" as a new arc, which might cause your character to seek new acquaintances or places in an effort to find a cause that truly defines them. -What motivated your character before? Why did it motivate them? -What has your character learned from their finished arc? How might they apply this knowledge to the people around them? -It's common for people to feel as if they can no longer grow; if your character feels restless or directionless, how do you imagine they would cope with that feeling? Would this feeling of purposeless lead them to develop new vices or flaws in their efforts to contend with it? -Your character has reached closure about much of their past. How does your character approach the future? What is their perspective of spending time? Do they think long-term, planning ahead, or do they live day-by-day, taking each moment at its fullest? Those are just a few questions to think about. However, I'd like to make a point that if you feel as if roleplaying your character has become more of a chore than a fun activity, then please do not feel obligated to play it for other people's sake. If you're not having fun, then there's no point in keeping the character around.

Nero met her eyes with his own, that characteristic twinkle of amusement serving as a veil to a steely and studious gaze. It was with some humour that the smuggler noted how incapable of being dishonest Roen was; her expression was always a forthright reaction, and the knight could be read quite like a book. She paused at one point in her assessment, which was not surprising, given her past. The Brass Blades must have counted her among their number at some point before the Sultansworn did, and the idea of having to associate with them again must have drawn forth some unpleasant memories. The smuggler inhaled, considering his words carefully. There must be a way for him to be in position to retrieve his goods personally. Roen might take his word at face value, but her companions in the Brass Blades might not be so easygoing--they were, after all, being used ostensibly to retrieve contraband. If they were as righteous as the young woman in front of him, there remained the risk that they would not be so trustworthy. Nero wasn't worried about being seen associating with the Brass Blades. In fact, if he were to make any progress in Ul'dah, that was to be expected, for the Blades as a whole were more or less another bandit gang funded by the Monetarists. Dealing with them was to be expected. However, were he to be seen associating with a Sultansworn, even a former one, it could potentially tank any options he may be considering to expand. It was also rather problematic that Roen continued to keep in contact with her other fellows in the Sworn. With a certain grimness, the memories of the botched raid at the Silver Bazaar flashed to the front of his mind. One issue at a time. The smuggler will deal with those knights later. "I've no intention of slaying any of them," Nero replied, shaking his head, the gaudy earrings chiming in response. "Doing so would draw too much attention, and the Blades are known to hold long grudges. If they don't find me, they may end up taking their aggression out on the populace." His contention with the idea of killing Brass Blades was made more out of a sheer sense of pragmatism than out of any genuine moral qualms, but so long as it reassured Roen as to his intentions, it didn't matter. At Roen's suggestion, however, skepticism painted itself clearly across his face. Brass Blade of the Rose? That must have been some sort of internal splinter group within the Brass Blades themselves, but the smuggler wasn't keen on revealing his ignorance on the subject. "Not that I don't believe in your choice of friends, Miss Deneith," the Hyur said; in lieu of a nickname he was comfortable with giving the knight, he reverted to formality. "but given what you know of me, you can hardly expect me to simply let them settle it by themselves." It was bad enough that Nero had to leave the Taeros situation in the hands of the Sworns for now. Standing on the sideline was not his typical method of operation. "Simply retrieving my goods won't be enough," Nero added, leaning on one leg. "Complex prevention is always more effective than a simple cure. I need a way to transport goods in and out of the city without having such annoyances happen again. Nero brushed back his hair, the smirk spilling its way on to his face. "I mean, not that I don't like having my goods confiscated in their entirety by corrupt city guards, despite the fact that they're all more or less legal," The smuggler's amused tone enveloped his voice like velvet. "It's rather quite thrilling to be caught every now and then. But if I'm to be caught, I'd rather it be by an enraptured host of Miqo'te dancers. Chainmail and swords aren't really my type." He punctuated his statement with a shrug.

The smuggler couldn't help let his grin expand at her embarrassment. "So you can be quite charming, even if by accident," he commented idly in the same way one would remark upon the weather. In response to the message she passed from Daegsatz, he provided a wordless nod of thanks. Satz was a Sea Wolf through and through; one would naturally be hesitant to define "landsickness" as a legitimate feeling, but if one person could suffer from it, it was Satz. Nero made a silent prayer for his friend, knowing how uncomfortable the Roegadyn must be in the gaol. He trotted along the path Roen had gestured towards in silence before eventually coming upon a surprisingly secluded copse of small trees. Thanalan, the savannah that it was, was not terribly prone to sprouting patches of greenery like this innocent-looking thicket; typically the flora were the massive, thick-trunked trees that usually dotted the landscape or hardy shrubs. As both a secluded meeting place and a possibly romantic picnic, this location was fairly ideal. From here, the ramshackle little huts and tents that the refugees had constructed were still visible. It was with no small measure of pity that Nero found his gaze drawn to the shanty town. "To have no option but to live such squalor," he remarked more to himself than to Roen, his voice barely above a whisper. Though his trips to Thanalan had become more frequent, the sight didn't become any easier to witness. In a sudden fit of uncharacteristic self-consciousness, Nero gave a brief yet rapid shake of his head, once again replacing his mask of joviality. He wasn't grinning, but his lips were still slightly creased rigidly in an expression of nonchalance. "But I said I had something important to talk to you about, and I do." The Hyur folded his arms. "I ran into some...trouble. With the Brass Blades. They confiscated some goods of mine." The corner of his mouth scrunched in a manner that suggested he was suppressing a frown. "Ordinarily, I wouldn't come to you about this, for obvious reasons," Nero continued, "except that the supplies in question were for the refugees. Food and medicine, some spare clothing to keep out the night chill, some leathers for them to repair their tents. Essential things. And as luck would have it, the Blades at the gate labelled them as contraband and took them, most likely to sell on their own to the bandits within the city." At the memory that had happened just this morning, the smuggler let loose a sigh before glancing at Roen. His cargo did contain some more clandestine products, but Nero wasn't about to tell her that. "I'd like to get them back. Failing that, I'd like to take care of these Blades so that I can make shipments without issue. And I've no contacts here willing to cross the Blades for these refugees besides you." It was with equal measures amusement and guilt that Nero noted how easy it was to rope the paladin into his schemes. Her eagerness at such things was almost frightening.

Nero stiffened in apprehension as he felt someone approaching him, but the cautiousness turned to some measure of relief when he recognised Roen's neatly arranged auburn hair and slender face. By a guess, she must have been caring for the refugees here. It was gratifying to see that her compassion was genuine, but it was also worrying. Were Roen's soul a colour, one might have seen it as a shining white light of nobility, but he could see the fading lustre, the dimming gleam. Whether she knew it or not, her resolve had cracks in it. It was strange. He scoffed at her for her belief in ideals, for her belief that the world was fair. His world had never demonstrated such even-handedness. In Ul'dah, the ones who knew didn't care, and the ones who cared didn't know, or at least didn't know enough to change anything. Breaking the law was necessary; results were what mattered. Balking at the means only delayed the achieving of one's goal. And even as he derided her naivete, he held an earnest hope for it as well. Nero knew just how far he was willing to go; he knew his limits, as any man must should he wish to exceed them. He was not so confident that Roen possessed the same insight to her own determination. But if that became an issue, it would reveal itself in due time. There was no point in fussing over a broken window before the glass had been formed. The smuggler gestured towards her with a slight wave of his hand and a flash of his trademark smirk, his earrings chiming softly as he tilted his head. "I should become a fortune teller if I managed to predict you being here," he said jovially, placing a hand on his hip. He wasn't willing to admit it, but Nero was glad he managed to find her without much incident. "Do you think there's room for 'fortune tellers of the evident and obvious'?" He waved a hand in front of his face slowly as a gesture of mysticism, imitating the voice of an old hag in a stereotype of fortune tellers. "'In the morning, the sun shall rise, and in the eve, it shall set!' That's my pitch. Good, right?" His wide grin became somewhat toothy at his joke, but diminished as he tapped the side of his head above his left ear. "I was trying to contact you, but someone forgot their linkpearl," the Hyur said, his tone a cross between amusement and annoyance. "I had something...important to talk to you about. It has nothing to do with the other day," Nero was add to quick the addendum, "but it is something I can't take care of alone."

"The Missing Member sounds decent enough," Nero said. It was out of the way and smaller than the Wench, but public enough to guarantee that Inessa wouldn't try to do anything. Hopefully, anyway. It was anyone's guess how unhinged that Miqo'te was, but then Nero had only met her yesterday. "Get rid of Red Reeve," Nero summarised tersely, quietly congratulating himself on the slight alliteration, "and find the source of his product, and I'll wait there for the results. And do be careful with where you take your attack dog, yes?" The smuggler sniffed. "One wrong move and she might try to slaughter the whole city." The smuggler turned to leave, pushing open the double doors of the warehouse. The dawn had given way to an early morning, as the gulls screeched in the harbor and the cries of dockhands loading and unloading vessels echoed through the docks. He turned back to Kink, gesturing into the city. "And I just realised, I hadn't introduced myself this whole time." The Hyur gave a slight bow. "Captain Nero Lazarov...at your service. Sometimes," he said cheekily, flashing a grin.

Nero frowned at the suggestion. While he did have some rivals, he would rather eliminate them in a way that didn't leave their guts splattered over the walls; not to mention that if he did use Inessa for such things, there was no guarantee that she wouldn't destroy their valuable products. This was all just conjecture, though; Nero had no idea how Inessa operated in her hits, but leaving as few things to chance as possible was preferable to throwing caution to the wind. "It's not that I don't have people I'd like removed," Nero said, raising a skeptical eyebrow, "but my gut instinct tells me that that vigilante you've got guarding you is the kind of person who spells the word 'subtle' with five Qs and a number." The smuggler pursed his lips. "But I suppose we won't know until we try, will we?" Nero placed a hand on his hip. "There is perhaps someone you can loose that attack dog of yours on. A Miqo'te; red hair, red tail with a feather duster on the end, incredibly jittery. You might know him. His real name is some obtuse thing I can't be bothered to remember, but a few people on the lower docks know him as Red Reeve. You know, Limsa Lominsa, a den and haven of artistic talent and creativity," he said sarcastically. "He's a small time dealer in somnus, not really worth noting, but I've no idea how he stays supplied; he couldn't be growing the plants himself and none of my associates are fessing up, so they're either lying or there's a third party shipping the stuff into Limsa Lominsa without anyone else knowing. If your cat friend pulls out his intestines, he won't really be missed." Red Reeve was a pitiable wretch, to be sure, but mercy was nice while it was convenient, and in this case, it wasn't. Nero folded his arms again, a habit that didn't seem to be going away any time soon. "Now, if you want to make some extra coin, get me his supply, or better yet, get me the names of who's supplying him." A steady stream of somnus could be very profitable indeed. "I guarantee it'll be worth your while. You get to see the kitty vigilante in action and possibly make some extra coin, I get to figure out if she's worth using and possibly some valuable product." He shrugged. "Win-win."

Nero studied the names. His sheaf of parchment had begun to fill fairly quickly. Many of these names he could use, but some were strictly off-limits--harassing them would draw the attention of the Maelstrom, and Nero wasn't interested in contending with the Admiral's brand of justice. But this was a good haul of information. He'd use his gil and his men to lean on some of these names, and be able to muscle his way into the good graces of some Ul'dahn clients. Nero already had some ongoing operations to Thanalan and a few clients here and there, but this would accelerate his profits and his status considerably. "Contacts," he repeated to Kink's inquiry. "Should you or anyone you're associated with need a job, I will likely have something for you to do worth a few hundred gil. You can consider me a source of regular income, so long as the jobs are accomplished correctly." Nero had never needed to use runners or assassins before, but it wouldn't hurt to have a few in his pocket. The beggars and the fishermen of the docks worked well enough as eyes and ears, but the farther his reach extended, the better position Nero would be in to focus on Ul'dah. "And while I know your sort are fond of their autonomy and freedom of choice and all of that," the smuggler was tempted to insert 'the freedom to choose which garbage pile to sleep in', but refrained. "I can always use capable employees." Finally, he pocketed the parchment and turned to look at the Miqo'te, his arms folded. "For the moment, there's nothing else. You'll already be providing information to that vigilante about Limsa Lominsa's crime scene. Any information you provide to her, I'll pay additional." If Nero's instinct was right, someone like Kink wouldn't be able to resist double dipping on clients like this. What the vigilante did didn't matter, as long as she didn't try to stick him; if Inessa removed Nero's competition for him, it'd be all the better.

"This is contraband," the Brass Blade snarled. "I have no idea what you're talking about," the smuggler replied. The Gate of the Sultana wasn't particularly busy. It was a late morning as the sun had begin to reach its zenith. The chocobo hitched to the wagon was starting to get particularly agitated; perhaps it too could sense the irony of the situation. Nero was smuggling in every senses of the word, true. None of the goods in the wagon had been subject to taxes or tariffs. No authority had inspected his unmarked crates. Some of the goods, particularly the rarer potions, had been stolen or fenced to him. Even so, his cargo manifest was more or less completely honest--food, medicine, supplies that he had brought to distribute to the refugees and the poor in Pearl Lane--and so too was his merchant's seal from Limsa Lominsa. In short, everything was in perfect order, and Nero should have been on his way into the city. Either his luck had gone rock bottom or the Twelve had a sense of humour, for it was with this shipment that the Brass Blades chose to engage in their daily brand of corruption. First was the "entrance fee" for using the Gate of the Sultana, supposedly for the maintenance of Hammerlea--the guards must have been quite proud of themselves for coming up with that excuse--and even when Nero had paid them, they decided to do a "random inspection" of his wagon, and had then decided upon its contraband status. It's not as if the Brass Blades were necessarily wrong on the assessment, after all. The Hyur pinched his nose and sighed, his earrings jingling softly. Just his luck. He didn't have the pull or influence in the city to stop them, and he had come alone with no guards, not that he could order his guards to cut down Brass Blades anyway. If he had to guess, they were planning on selling these goods to the bandit gangs within the city, or to the refugee camps outside the walls at extortionate rates. It was good to know that the wonderful Jewel of the Desert still had such capable law enforcement. With guards like these, who needs criminals? "You would do well not to cross those I work for," Nero said, attempting to bluff his goods back to his possession as he crossed his arms. It was a long shot, but if it's stupid and it works... The Brass Blade who had declared his cargo contraband, a Roegadyn, scoffed at him. "You weren't on the list. We would have known." A list? So the guards knew who they were supposed to let in without harassment. Probably some design of the Monetarists. Nero filed away a mental note to get his name onto that list somehow; it might mean cozying up to the Monetarists, but having his mostly legal goods taken by the Brass Blades was far too expensive of a cost to deal with more than once. "I'm a late arrival," he said, shrugging. The Roegadyn just growled at him, and while Nero was typically more than happy to antagonise people who insisted he stop running his mouth, he wasn't interested in beating down the Blades or having a rib broken, and so he acquiesced to the Blade's silent threat. There was nothing Nero could do but let the guards take his goods. Beating on them would do more harm than good--the Blades were known to hold grudges--and Nero's generous offering of gil to let him pass unscathed had been denied, with the Blades having the audacity to make claims to their integrity, even as they started hauling the crates away. Clearly they thought they could profit off these goods more than just a bit of bribery. Thus was it that Nero was left at the Gates of the Sultana with no wagon, no goods, and an expression of annoyance on his face. All in all, a wonderful start to a day. At least the guards had the good grace to let him into the city. The smuggler was dressed surprisingly modestly, given his usual flamboyance. He still had his jewelry; a golden choker, elaborate, if slightly tarnished earrings, obsidian bracelets streaked with silver, but he was adorned in a simple cotton doublet vest, black trousers, and leather jackboots. Internally he grumbled and fumed, his hands jammed in his pockets as he paced up and down the Emerald Avenue, considering what to do next. He had no viable contacts in this city yet, and the smuggler dare not risk contacting Taeros about this. Simply letting the Brass Blades have his goods was out of the question. If he couldn't get his goods back, he at least needed to have some manner of leverage so that the Blades wouldn't harass him for his cargo ever again. In short, being empty-handed was not an option. Perhaps that woman...Roen could help him. She was a former Sultansworn, and at the moment, the closest thing to a friend he had in Ul'dah right now. Nero did have a few clients in the city, but his relationship with them wasn't such that they'd be willing to cross the Brass Blades for him. Roen, however, was easy to manipulate. Almost too easy. All Nero would have to do is tell her that the supplies were for the poor and downtrodden, spout some nonsense about good deeds, blah blah blah. Whether or not she'd actually be able to help was another question entirely, but given her penchant for justice and other such hollow idealism, she'd latch onto his cause faster than a drowning man latches onto rope. And having someone watching his back would be worth it, even with the price of being forced to deal with her annoying ethics. There was a risk involved, as there usually was with everything, but Nero would deal with that when it came up. If it ever came up. The problem, however, was that the two of them had never explicitly worked out a way to keep in contact without a link pearl, and Roen didn't seem to have the one Nero gave her. Were this Limsa Lominsa, Nero would have plenty of runners or couriers at his disposal, and he was well-known to the fishermen and the beggars who served as his eyes and ears. Were he to pay someone in Ul'dah, however, they were just as likely to simply wander off with the money as they were to actually accomplish the task he wanted them to, and what gil Nero had, he would need. She had mentioned spending some time with the refugees who'd been forced into squalor just outside the gates. If there was one place to start, it'd be there. The first place he started looking was Stonesthrow, just outside the Gates of Nald. Nero did not ask the locals, but if Roen was here, she would notice him. It was hard for most people to forget the fiery orange streaks that ran through soot black hair. As subtly as he could, Nero peered at the faces of the poor wretches forced to live in the refugee camp, hoping to maybe catch a glimpse of the one he was looking for.

Nero nodded, mentally filing away each name to be used for a later time, even as he scrounged for a scrap of parchment, ink, and a dip pen. A tiny desk with a drawer was located at the far end of the room, behind several of the larger crates. Inside was some used ledger paper and the ink and pen; it was slipshod, but it would have to do. "I always play the game to win, Kink," Nero said, his voice somewhat muffled by his position behind the crates as he scrabbled some names down. "I won't be approaching any of them until I'm already victorious." It was part truth, and part bravado; the smuggler preferred to leave few things as possible to chance, but only the most naive would believe things would always go according to plan. Emerging from around the crates, the Hyur stared at the sheet of parchment in his hand, scanning the names. Some were recognisable, and some were not. A few were legitimate merchants; they were most likely being used, without their knowledge, as mules or to launder gil. Those were likely the ones Nero would target first. "I trust your expert opinion," Nero said, his eyes refusing to leave the paper. "If you've any advice on the subject, I'll accept it."

Nero's typical armament when travelling in a city is a simple pair of cobalt knuckledusters; they are particularly brutal in that they have several jutting, ridged protrusions that are not quite piercing spikes, but are still shaped in such a way to fracture bone. He had them made for him in Limsa Lominsa, upon his return from his thaumaturgy studies. Knives spill too much blood, axes and lances are too hard to conceal, swords require proper training to use effectively, especially in tight quarters, and he's never learned to use a bow. For raids or pitched combat, a simple steel bardiche serves him quite handily. Function is more important than form, and thus it is devoid of any elaborate markings or decorations. Nero also favours the lance, as "having a longer pointy thing than your enemy's pointy thing increases your chances considerably." He does not carry any personal versions of these weapons, however, and will typically grab whatever is nearby. For thaumaturgy, however, Nero carries an ornate silver scepter with an emerald embedded in it. The head of the scepter has some elaborate patterns carved into it and the emerald is of fairly obvious value, but otherwise it lacks any other significant features or adornments. There are no identifying marks of any guild or craftsman, suggesting that he fashioned the scepter himself.

Nero shook his head. "My main concern is whether or not they make frequent landing at Thanalan." Choking out the sea trade to Ul'dah's underground would be the first step in expanding. If the Monetarists and their cronies couldn't get their precious black market goods, then Nero would be in the stronger position to defy them. "Following that criterion, the ships who transport the most goods to least. Their captains are my primary concern." The smuggler re-folded his arms. "And if you happen to know any such captains, then I would be happy to take their names now," he offered.

Nero raised one shoulder and lowered the other. "That suits me just fine. The last thing I need is Miss Paragon-For-Justice crashing my safehouses," he said amiably. He followed the Miqo'te inside and shut the double doors shut, before turning and folding his arms, gazing at Kink intently. The grin molted off his face like a snake sheds its skin. "First and foremost, ships," he began. "I want to know about ships travelling to and from Thanalan, and if they're connected to any other smuggling, or if they serve as funds for any other crime organisation here in Limsa. And before you make a smart comment, ships that aren't mine," Nero said, his stiff and business-like manner prevailing again. "If they're providing black market goods to Ul'dah, I want to know about them." The Hyur was careful to make his desires clear without revealing his plans. The easiest way to keep a secret was not to tell them. "Secondly, about those goods. I want to know who those imports are going to here in Limsa. I want to know who relies on the smugglers for their narcotics or their weapons or their indentured servants. The bigger the reliance, the better. Any additional intelligence you can gather on them will be valuable." "Lastly, contacts. You've surely made a few business associates in your...profession." Nero moved his arms from across his chest to on his hips. "Fences, runners, informants, assassins, anyone you think might be useful. For every viable contact you can establish with me, I'll pay you one-fifty extra." He had almost said the word "trustworthy" instead of "viable", and it was only at the last second that he realised how foolish that would have sounded. "Do our terms sound reasonable?" he asked.

Nero's patrol around Fisherman's Bottom was fairly routine. He would often hand out a few gil to some of the beggars and collect some rumours. A few of the fishermen would update him what ships they had seen come into port--many of them rose early before going out to sea, and so if any clandestine arrivals had come in before dawn, they would have seen it. He also took the time to check on his new ship; construction had just started to begin, and thus the hull had barely begun to form. It was to be a brig, and due to be somewhat larger than the Second Forte. While Nero's vessel wasn't lacking in fangs, his clipper was slight and built for running blockades; raids took in the form of hit-and-run or boarding action, never ship to ship combat, as the latter would likely destroy valuable cargo and cause unnecessary damage to both ships. Nero hadn't any idea yet what to christen the vessel, but he would worry about that when it was complete. Returning to his warehouse, Nero found the Miqo'te lounging outside of it, to his surprise. She had arrived sooner than he'd expected. And it was to his great pleasure that Kink had decided not to bring along her new bodyguard; that was going to be very annoying if Nero had to find a way to lock that vigilante out. "Morning," Nero said, a small smile cresting his face. He never greeted anyone with "good morning"--the smuggler considered it bad luck to greet someone with an oxymoron. The Hyur kneeled down to unlock the padlock of the warehouse. "This is something you can consider to be a safehouse. I'll give you a spare key when we're done discussing our business." The padlock unlocked with a click, and Nero pulled open the double doors of the warehouse. It was a small thing; various unmarked crates covered in various tarps were scattered around it. There were a few makeshift cots scattered around it, and the unfinished sail that Nero had used to cover himself lay on the floor. A hammock was also strung between two massive crates that couldn't possibly be used for smuggling. "Ladies first," Nero said cordially, waving a hand to the inside of the warehouse.

The next morning, a blood red sun dawned on the island of Vylbrand, the sort that the superstitious would fear as an omen of turbulent times. As it stood, the most ominous thing that it signified for Nero was that it was the morning. He hated mornings. Sleepily, the smuggler managed to muster the discipline to sit up, his eyelids blearily making up and down motions that vaguely resembled blinking. Like molasses, he cast off the unfinished sail that had served as a blanket and struggled to roll himself off of his ramshackle cot, landing with a dull thud. The impact with the ground having jolted his basic senses to kick in, Nero stood up and stretched, his back protesting with a loud crack that relieved tension as much as it sounded wholly unpleasant. In an attempt to stimulate his mind, he forced himself to recall as many details of last night's little rendezvous as possible. Kink. A runner and street rat who nonetheless had dirt on some important people in Limsa Lominsa's underworld. She had vexed the wrong ones. He was going to make a deal with her. Then the newcomer--the name escaped him--had butted into their conversation, spouting some nonsense about cleansing Limsa Lominsa of crime. Kink decided to use both the newcomer and Nero to her advantage. They were due to meet him today. A hand was rubbed across his face like one would attempt to wipe a smear off a window. The plan had been so simple. Hire Kink for her info, use that info to remove or appropriate the assets of the rest of Limsa Lominsa's crime bosses, expand into Ul'dah, overthrow the Syndicate, become Sultan, conquer the Garlean Empire, ride a chocobo made of solid gold, replace his left arm with a cannon that fired pastries and slices of cake, go gambling with Nald'Thal, open an entertainment venue upon which the name "Grand Wonderdome Eorzea" is emblazoned on it in perpetual blue flame, clean that one barnacle off the hull of the Second Forte, and open a successful chain of culinary steak houses in Gridania. Where had the situation become so complex? His imagination ran wild as Nero slipped on a functional black sleeveless shirt and pulled on his boots. He couldn't be bothered to dress well for his appointment today, and it was about time that he made his rounds in Fisherman's Bottom anyway. Walking to the front of the building he was sleeping in, the smuggler pushed open the double doors to be greeted with the early cries of gulls and the sound of the sea lapping at the docks of Limsa Lominsa. It was a small warehouse he owned, but for a single frigate it served well enough as a storage facility and occasional hideout. Every now and then the tax collectors would come around, looking to collect on the property value from one "Sebastian Redgrave", who was always mysteriously absent but who nonetheless always left his owed amount on the door. Locking the double doors behind him with a thick padlock, Nero stretched again, groaning as he did. It was bound to be a long day.

That seemed to be the best offer Nero could get from this. The phrase "you don't know what you have until it's missing" rang invariably true this time around. Had Daegsatz stayed, Nero and his first mate might have been able to turn things to a more favourable position; the Hyur was no slouch in a fight, but he didn't have the Sea Wolf's talent for tearings limbs out of their sockets. Thaumaturgy wasn't an option, as even if Nero had his scepter in his possession, reducing the Wench to naught but rubble and broken bottles was out of the question. "I thought we were here for business," Nero said to Kink, pursing his lip. "This spat you have with Xydane sounds personal. And if you ask me, personal isn't good business." The Hyur's point seemed to be punctuated with the sound of a chair being smashed over a school. Nero glanced hurriedly towards the centre; the last thing he needed was the breakout of a brawl. It would hardly be unusual in the Wench, but he'd be damned if he was going to foot any bill for broken furniture this time. As for Kink's suggestion that he might utilize Inessa for sweeping, Nero preferred to do that himself, or at least assign it to someone he trusted like Satz or Garalt. There was no way of knowing if this less than subtle vigilante would leave a blood trail splattered over the walls, a trail that might lead directly to Nero and possibly to the brig or, if he was incredibly unlucky, the execution block. "But then, that's the way it goes, doesn't it," Nero said to nobody in particular, his face expressionless. He withdrew the gil pouch from his pocket, but took a hefty measure out of it and running calculations in his head. He had initially planned on overpaying the runner, but that plan was now off the table. Nero withdrew a small sheaf of parchment from his trouser pocket and slipped it inside the pouch before pulling on the draw string; inscribed on it was a location and a name: Fisherman's Bottom, Sebastian Redgrave. Apparently satisfied, the pouch made a clink on the table. "Five hundred and fifty," Nero said tersely. "We can meet later to discuss the details." He winced reflexively as a few roars grew louder, and somewhere in the din were Tenfingers' enraged wails. If it wasn't a brawl yet, it was very likely going to start soon.