Banquo Viaquo

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Signing up Gideon North for this. It's just traditional to have a butler present at this sort of thing.

Won't be at a FFXIVable computer on the day of Dress To Impress, but interested in indirect participation, potentially to set up getting in on one of these in the future. Would it be all right to offer some IC correspondence containing some (supposedly) philanthropic funding for the efforts in question?

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I'm INFJ - Introverted iNtuitive Feeling Judging; marked elsewhere as The Protector. Gideon North is ISTJ - Introverted Sensing Thinking Judging, marked elsewhere as The Duty Fulfiller. Banquo is ENFJ - Extraverted iNtuitive Feeling Judging; marked elsewhere as The Giver. On some level I feel like I should know this is about as reliable as horoscopery, but I like these things nonetheless.

"Do you think there's anything in it?" "Boss, I can tell you there's a LOT in it, but don't ask me what specifically." "I meant prospects, Fields." The Roegadyn sighs, swiveling his chair slightly--head tilted and ear scrunched against his shoulder as he tries to keep the linkpearl from falling out. Must not have set it right. Banquo squints at the saucy image through gold-tinged glasses, trying in vain to appraise the financial value of Miqo'te abdominals. "Do you think it's worth investing in, is what I mean." "I wouldn't know, boss, wouldn't know myself. All I'm sayin' is that I'm seein' more of the flyers than I am the bottles. Here at the Crossing, leastways." He takes a long gulp of Vitality, still keeping a suspicious eye on the advertisement. "...Drumming up any sales?" "Not sure, boss." There's a crackle on the other end of the line. Banquo winced at Fields' distant barking. "Hey... Hey, Gunt! Gunt! GUNTRAM! WOULD YOU DRINK SOMETHIN' CALLED 'BRON-CO GREASE'?" A long pause. Banquo drains the last of the Vitality potion. "Hah! Twelve, alright, I didn't need the fickin' visual aid..." Banquo can hear the Miqo'te grinning as he returns to the call. "Lemme ask you this, boss. Would YOU drink it?" He carefully folds the flyer, slipping it delicately into a folder. "I think I'll stick to homebrewed."

“Kweh.” “I would have imagined, sir, that you would be quite pleased to be home.” “Kweeeeeh!” “Home in a figurative sense, then. The land of your origin, assuming the reports of your pedigree are true. Towering rock formations, sweeping vistas of pristine white. Surely it must inspire some manner of awe, or at least respect. Subdued, muted respect.” “Fweeeeeew.” “Oh, now! There’s really no call to be carrying on like that, Chesterfield. We have a duty to perform, and for once, one specially requested of us. We mustn’t fuss so.” North sighed, patting the talkative chocobo’s neck with equal parts admonishment and reassurance. The old boy didn’t seem terribly bothered by the cold, but the snow itself seemed to baffle the bird, piling up on his beak until it was shaken off by twists and sneezes. Still, chatting with the chocobo seemed to improve its disposition, if only slightly. He had read somewhere, years ago, that you could say whatever you pleased to animals, so long as you kept your tone soothing and consistent. He had found the principle also largely applicable to certain members of the upper class. As a fellow beast of burden, however, Chesterfield made a fine traveling companion, and North accorded him the respect he was due. Despite his apparent misgivings, the stocky bird plodded northwards. Sitting astride him, North looked startlingly underdressed compared to the locals, still in his Ul’dahn formalwear--if anything, Chesterfield was more equipped for the climate than he, draped in both bundled packages of clothing and insulated “barding” that looked suspiciously custom-tailored. Fallgourd, thankfully, was well-equipped to serve as the border settlement it was--some last-minute purchases swayed lazily under the bird’s saddle, the hempen bags flecked with snow. However, the Shroud was long behind them, and the Observatorium loomed in the white sky ahead. He had not been this way in quite some time. Absently patting the chocobo’s neck, his eyes lingered on the tower--imagining the excitable Roegadyn, Five Reflections, ready to come bursting out of it, eyes aflame and spirit burning with academic furor as he’d triumphantly proclaim… that a voidsent finger bone had proved instead to be a toe, or perhaps that he’d finally uncovered the etymological origin of “malboro”, or a new theory that all sheep did not truly exist and were instead aetheric illusions. Five was an especially productive scholar in that he consistently, valiantly, and tirelessly sought answers to questions that nobody was particularly interested in in the first place. However, he had long since vanished from Coerthas--evaporated into the snow with his notes and his effects following the matter of Jameson Taeros. North could hardly blame him for fleeing at the signs of trouble on the horizon--had the Roegadyn still been in contact with him then, the valet would have severed all contact for the man’s own good, as he attempted to do with Roen Deneith and Mistress Callae. Still, he could not help but wonder at the scholar’s well-being. Five was eccentric, but had been a friend nonetheless, and one even willing to help North research the possibility of violating the natural laws of aether, as had Roen--however cautiously and reluctantly… A whistle from Chesterfield snapped him from his reverie, and he hastily gave his companion a scratch behind the crest as they trudged onward. The gate to the Observatorium was just ahead. It would not do to keep the lady waiting any longer than she already had… but it would be quite a shame if he were to come all this way, and neglect to tie up the loose ends that still remained. The stones of Camp Dragonhead were just visible on the snowy boundary, but his mistress would doubtless be asleep at the moment. His eyes lingered on the tower. There were preparations that needed to be made first… ...that would, it seemed, have to wait. Chesterfield stopped, tweeting cautiously and shuffling in place, as a loud crack echoed through the mountains. “Easy, sir.” A white pup loped swiftly through the snow nearby, spooked by the sudden split in the wintry silence. He raised his eyes to Camp Dragonhead, squinting through the snow and darkness. Too loud for a simple accident, and too clear above the roar of wind… He learned forward, murmuring. “Haste, Chesterfield, if you please.” He had heard that, by means of ancient magic or tricks of Garlean technology, the word itself might under other circumstances invoke a sudden surge of actual, raw, physical speed. He had no such resources at his disposal, but Chesterfield raced forward all the same, snow crackling under the bird’s talons on the road to Camp Dragonhead. By the time he reached the grand archway, it was clear that the majority of the chaos was over, but the sight that greeted him provided more questions than it did answers. He tightened his grip on the reins, slowing Chesterfield as he surveyed the camp with eyebrow raised. Weary soldiers, dragging aevis corpses by the tails down from the battlements--Gideon hid the briefest of winces as one was tugged down the stairs, its battered chin thudding on step after step. An ambush, perhaps, or a guardsman’s patrol gone awry; either way, despite the number of carcasses being toted down from the heights, he spied no civilized casualties. Whatever measures they had taken had been ruthlessly effective, though he had to wonder at the sight of the dragonkiller being carefully calibrated, turned inward to face the bare ramparts. What circumstances could demand firing such an instrument on the camp itself? The camp was still fairly quiet. With no medics on the scene, and no sign of concern or panic from the triumphant sentries, it had likely been quite a contained incident. The mistress either had stayed removed from the fray, or missed the event entirely--which, the valet concluded, meant that this whole affair was not his business unless otherwise specified. He took one last glance out of the southern archway, the tower of academics barely visible through the sloping fog and the darkness. Personal affairs, as always, would and must come second to duties. He quietly showed Chesterfield to the camp’s chocobokeep, and made his way inside--with neither intent nor need to sleep, he set to work. -- As light filtered down through the windows of Edda's room, the sounds of clinking silver and the gentle bubbling of poured tea made for a strange departure from the usual morning sounds. It seemed someone was in the room with her as she awakened--making his way quietly to her bedside table, and setting a tray of warm pastry and hot tea down alongside her; trying to work as quietly as possible. Edda stirred awake out of her potion-induced sleep, buried under the thick blankets of the bed, the top of her head barely visible. She poked her head out of the top of her blanket to look at the sound of motion with groggy eyes. For some reason, the prospect of someone being in her room in an unfamiliar place did not startle her as much as it should. She narrowed her eyes in an attempt to focus them. "M'jh-" She blinked. This was Dragonhead. "Gideon...?" "Good morning, Miss." He spoke in low tones, as if trying not to wake her still. "You will be pleased to know that I arrived in quite short order, and with several days' worth of extra insulation. I could not imagine what led to a deficit in clothing in such wintry regions, but you may rest assured that I have come prepared to resolve the matter." He straightened. "Your breakfast is on the nightstand. I shall immediately begin laundering the items worn thus far in your journey." Edda did not move, perfectly content to stay under the safe, warm blankets for just a while longer. Her eyes stayed trained on Gideon, becoming more adjusted to the cold air of the room, and the pull of consciousness. "That is alright," she said as he moved for her clothes. "I cleaned them last night. Spare yourself the trouble." "It is no trouble, Miss..." Despite his words, he sighed, stopping--surveying her bedroom with a critical eye, as if looking for some way to make himself useful. "Is there anything in the merchant's stalls that Miss requires, perhaps? How may I best assist Miss?" Edda sat up in bed and leaned forward, resting her hands on her lap. She had worn a pair of long, black gloves to bed, ones that came up to her forearms. She yawned lazily, before eyeing the breakfast. "I cannot think of anything." She frowned, and shivered. Her sleeping potion supply was now down to one, though it was not something that could be simply bought. "More wood for the fire, I suppose. It is dreadfully cold in the morning..." "Perhaps Miss would be inclined to wear more comfortable sleeping attire?" He examined her thoughtfully for a moment. "I am told that native Coerthans have been known to craft what are essentially cocoons of blanket, that they might sleep more comfortably." Still, he bowed. "I shall see to the fireplace with all due haste, Miss. I will be happy to assist you with any matters of concern or luxury during your stay." Edda frowned. "You need not push yourself so early on, and in this... cold." She shivered again, and swung her legs out of bed. Her sleeping clothes were more suited to the short chill of the Shroud than anything, and so she gladly reached for the hot tea, not bothering to cool it before taking a sip. "No pushing is involved, Miss. Surely I have described my function before?" He set a folded cloth down on the silver platter; for no obvious purpose other than presentation. "Is there truly no facility in which I may advise?" Edda took a bite of the pastry, and chewed in a contemplative silence. "Roen is here," she said in a neutral tone, and looked up at Gideon, gauging his reaction. He paused, for a fraction of a moment, then moved to the window--withdrawing the handkerchief from his own pocket and patiently rubbing at the frosty remnants on the glass. "Indeed, Miss? Are there any duties you would have me carry out on her behalf, then?" "Not in particular." She paused and looked down at her breakfast. "I am not here for leisure. I imagine I will have great need of you in the next several suns. And yet, I would be happy if you took care of your own needs before my own. Do you understand?" He sighed, with as much patience as he could display without it seeming facetious. "I will endeavor to toe said line, Miss, although my needs as ever remain quite negligible." Edda looked at the man with a wondering expression. "Do you not wish to speak with her?" "I have no particular feeling one way or the other, Miss." He continued to clean the window. The frost was not cooperating. "I presume if she had any desire to speak to me, she would have done so." Edda looked down at her lap, as if scolded. "I see," she said quietly. "I take it you did not encounter the Au Ra upon your arrival?" "Not any immediately remarkable, Miss." He sounded politely bemused, turning his head to look at her directly. "Somewhat more pressing was the commotion that drew me to the Camp with such haste in the first place. It seems there was some manner of incursion in the dark hours of the morning; a small band of draconic assailants, from what I could gather. I hastened to join the fray at the sound of cannonfire, but it seems the matter was already resolved by the time I reached the grounds. I did not pause to scrutinize each guardsman attending to the mess. I merely inquired as to your lodgings, settled in, and began preparing for your morning.” He scrutinized her for a moment, and then spoke, with as little guile as possible. “Has Miss a newfound acquaintance?" "I am not sure I would categorize him as such," she said glumly. She finished off her pastry and began to make short work of her tea. "I have agreed to guide him to Ishgard. He has a tendency of poor behavior - though that is not quite his fault - and can be infuriatingly taciturn. I would appreciate whatever insight you may have to offer, when you meet him." He smiled thinly. "I am not unfamiliar with such remarks, Miss. Perhaps the gentleman will be more forthcoming to a servant rather than a woman of Miss's distinction." "On the contrary, I do not think he would be able to differentiate between us at all." A small smile tugged at her lips, but it was not one of happiness. "He is mostly ignorant when it comes to Eorzean procedures and culture. I do think it would be futile to educate him beyond the basics, but... I would know what his intentions are." "Then I shall do what I may to attend to his customs, Miss, and thereby gain his favor in your stead." He pocketed the kerchief again, nodding to Edda. "If that is all, I will leave you to your morning preparations, Miss." Edda nodded once, before flopping on her back and looking up at the ceiling. "Thank you," she said, and closed her eyes. She would not be able to sleep, but the fatigue of the past two days had begun to take its toll, and not even the rest from that night had fully assuaged the dull ache in her arms. "That... that should be all, yes," she murmured. He watched her for another quiet moment, thoughtfully, then let himself out with a delicate smoothness. "I will be here if needed." The door clicked behind him. -- “Miss Medguistl, I believe? I do beg your pardon.” The chef looked sidelong at him--the dapper Hyur, with an apron over a Sunsilk tuxedo and curious bundles in his arms, made for an odd visitor. “If I might make use of miss’s unneeded culinary tools, for the moment? You will hardly notice my presence, I assure you.” “Do you waltz in and commandeer the stoves of an entire frontline camp so easily?” She frowned, watching him begin to set up at the spare boilers to her left, unwrapping produce and meat from the thin papers. “I am disinclined to allow amateurs free reign in my kitchen.” “There I must take issue with miss.” As the soldiers outside began to stir in the morning sunlight, North began slicing the chanterelle mushrooms, focused and deft. “I think you will find I am no amateur.”

Gideon North never returns to Horizon after All Good Things, and commits suicide in Drybone shortly after delivering the news to Adama Landama. I'm not sure if that breaks the MSQ in the opposite direction or not.

North carries his lapel pin; the metallic maple leaf that marks his prior service to the Aerstorn family. It's doubtful if Banquo possesses anything you could assign sentimental value to. Still, he's rarely seen without his golden sunglasses, through which all of Eorzea gleams like gil.

(THANKS TO EVERYONE WHO HELPED MAKE THIS TRAVESTY) “Oh, thank goodness you’ve arrived...! Wait… you’re not the sous-chef... oh, no… oh, no no no no no no... The master is due back tonight from his jaunt in Costa, you see, and in utter defiance of all probability and worldly benevolence, the serving staff have all taken ill at the same time! Here, sir/miss, my linkpearl--if you have any comrades, any at all, who might be compelled to assist, contact them immediately! Dinner begins at sixth bell tonight. Bring colleagues of infinite patience and steady hand. May the gods have mercy on us all.” ~ Gideon North Quest Name: Class War Fare Trial: The Manse The Manse is a Crafter level 50 trial requiring a party of 8 adventurers to buttle, valet, and serve the residents of Taeros Manse to the best of their ability, and see the night through to a successful send-off dinner. 4 Culinarian 2 Weaver or 2 Leatherworker or 1 Weaver, 1 Leatherworker 1 Goldsmith 1 Alchemist All party members are auto-glamoured into formalwear upon entering this instance. The Echo now applies to CP, Control, and Craftsmanship. Health will not regenerate while in The Manse. The manse is split into four areas: The Foyer, The Kitchens, The Dining Hall, and The Chambers. Two units will roam the area in randomly generated paths: Master Taeros and Young Master Jonathan. Madam Crofte will remain at a fixed point in The Chambers. Mister North will remain at a fixed point in The Foyer. Should any of The Manse’s residents be dissatisfied with your performance, they will cast Haughty Gaze, an undodgeable spell that will reduce your HP by ⅓ of max and temporarily reduce CP to 0. The trade function is enabled for the duration of this trial. To clear this trial, a target point total equivalent to a combined item level of ### must be reached. To reach this target, Culinarians must craft meals during Phase 1 to deliver to the dining table in Phase 2. Each meal carries a point value that corresponds to the difficulty required to craft it, with bonus points awarded for meals specifically requested by Taeros and bonus points awarded for HQ meals. Phase One - Preparation The Master (Tank): Master Taeros requires at least one Party member to be present within ten fulms of him at all times, but out of his field of vision. Obstructing the master’s path will result in immediate release from service, reducing HP to 0. Death animation still plays as normal. Should Master Taeros be left alone for thirty seconds, he will gain a stacking buff, Unattended. Upon reaching three stacks, Master Taeros will Call Out for a manservant. CP for all party members will gradually deplete until one Party member attends to Master Taeros with a /bow, at which time the stacks will drop off. Hard Mode: Taeros will occasionally request a particular grimoire or codex. This item must be crafted by an Alchemist and delivered within one (1) minute, or else Taeros will gain one Dissatisfaction stack. The Child (Tank): At random intervals during the trial, Young Master Jonathan will move from room to room, making a mess of objects. He can be temporarily sated by being given a candy; he will cease movement while consuming the candy. For each candy Jonathan eats, he will gain a stack of Hyperactive buff. Each additional stack will reduce the amount of time a candy lasts and increase his movement speed. Repairs and replacements must be made by a GSM. Should Master Taeros come into Line of Sight with a damaged object, he will cease his wandering and Call Out for a manservant. CP for all party members will gradually deplete until the damage objected is repaired or replaced. The materials for repairs and replacements can be requested and received from Gideon North in The Foyer. There is a one minute cooldown for request and receipt of GSM materials. Candies must be fetched from the pantries in The Kitchen or from Gideon North; there is no cooldown for receipt of candies. Hard Mode: Jonathon will occasionally request a particular dye. This color must be crafted by and delivered within one (1) minutes, or else Jonathon will gain two Dissatisfaction stacks. Upon receipt of a dye, Jonathon gains one Mischief stack and will spend one stack upon coming within three fulms of a Party member. That Party member will gain the debuff Painted, auto-dying their entire gear set in the color provided. This debuff can only be removed and the gear set returned to default colors by having the debuffed Party member deliver a Grade 1 Dissolvent to Gideon North. Should Master Taeros come within Line of Sight of a Painted Party member, he will gain one Dissatisfaction stack. The Dinner (DPS): As a team, the Culinarians must attend to various crafting stands throughout the kitchen, and within the time provided, complete meals with a combined item level of ###. No two food items may be the same. Culinarians will receive CP upon successfully crafting specific requests and they will receive a temporary Control buff for crafting a HQ meal. Ingredients must be fetched from the pantries, the cellar in The Kitchen, and Gideon North (though his distance from the kitchen makes him a suboptimal source); there is no cooldown for receipt of CUL ingredients. Culinarians must be prepared to be called away from their duties to assist with the Healer and Tank’s duties, though leaving their stand unattended for too long will result in the fire crystals powering the burner overheating. Taeros will open the evening with a specific request for a certain type of meal. Foodstuffs crafted that satisfy the given statistic will count for bonus points towards the goal. “Would you have me starve surrounded by a full pantry, man/woman? It has been a grueling trip. I require something… substantial, something filling.” +Vitality foods “Tomorrow will demand much of me. One must steel themselves with the means at hand… and a good dinner might embolden a man as much as sate him, wouldn’t you say?” +Strength foods “The world weighs heavily upon my shoulders tonight, I’m afraid. Have you anything that might bolster a man’s spirit? Renew his very zest for life?” +Determination foods Hard Mode: Sous-Chef Bellveil will occasionally enter the kitchen every so often and demand a taste test. Culinarians must work together to deliver three requested HQ meals to Bellveil within one (1) minute. Should the Culinarians fail to deliver, one will be randomly selected for dismissal from service, reducing their HP to 0. The Madam (Healer): Madam Crofte must be attended to in her room within The Chambers by at least one Weaver or Leatherworker. Her health will gradually deplete over time. A series of outfits must be crafted for her, comprised of Chest, Hands, Legs, and Feet. Upon delivery of each new piece of clothing to her, Madam Crofte will be healed for 25% of her maximum health. Should a spare piece of clothing be delivered to her before an outfit is completed (i.e., two Hands pieces in a row), the madam will gain the debuff Consternated in addition to casting Haughty Gaze. While debuffed, the madam cannot be healed. The debuff can only be removed by successful delivery of a HQ piece that counts as progress towards an outfit. Should Madam Crofte’s health reach 0, she will retire to her bed and will not attend dinner, resulting in a hard enrage upon Master Taeros noting her absence. The materials for the outfits can be requested and received from Gideon North in The Foyer. There is a one minute cooldown for request and receipt of WVR and LTW materials. Hard Mode: Crofte will occasionally request a particular piece of jewelry. This item must be crafted by a Goldsmith and delivered within two (2) minutes, or else Crofte will gain one Dissatisfaction stack. Phase Two - Dinner Once every minute, Master Taeros will call for a new course to be brought to the dining table. Meals must be delivered in the order they were originally requested, or else no points will be received for delivery. Successful completion of this trial requires that the target point total equivalent to a combined item level of ### be reached before Taeros calls an end to dinner. Should Madam Crofte be absent for dinner, Phase 2 will default to a hard enrage, setting the target goal to 150% of the original value. Hard Mode: Each stack of Dissatisfaction present at the dining table will reduce point rewards by 10% of the original point reward value. Furthermore, Taeros will occasionally subtly indicate a dinner guest and communicate through body language and verbal cues whether he wishes them to retire early or be given a dose of latent poison. An Alchemist must craft the requested Sleep or Poison potions and deliver them to Gideon North so that he may administer the drinks. Failure to deliver each potion will result in the value of one specifically requested HQ meal being added to the target goal of points per potion not delivered. Delivering a HQ Potent potion will result in that same value being detracted from the target goal of points. Delivering the wrong potion at the wrong time will result in Taeros gaining one Dissatisfaction stack. HARD MODE QUEST: The Importance of Being Furnished Master Taeros is, regrettably, short-staffed once more--and on the night of his celebratory dinner for some honored Ul’dahn guests! The (in)famous Dubious Distributions company has even been called upon to cater. It would be a shame indeed if such efforts and provisions were to go to waste. North hopes he can count on your continued support, in such trying times. Just be careful not to mix up the drinks meant for the guests. Some say Ishgardian Crystwine is an acquired taste... though they often don't say it for very long. Trial Completion Rewards: Constant: 40 Allagan Tomestones of Decorum (exchangeable for elegant, formal Sunsilk gear) Variable: 1 Master recipe book 1 Wind-up Taeros

S-Scandalous! Fraternizing with the help!?

I think there's an opportunity here, if only because Banquo's wealthy enough to be a target. I'll look for you online.

"Twelve, is this prison even up to code anymore? We need to get looking into real estate."

"Staying the night in the Vale! Can you imagine? Hah, I felt so tired I couldn't move on anymore. Good thing I didn't forget all that mythril I dug up in the Sagolii. Those miners even helped me carry it out in the morning. Coerthans are so nice."

[This marks the concurrence of DeServe and What You Are In The Dark.] The distinction between loyalty and faith is a fine one indeed. As North reflected on this, he also realized--rather too late--that Final Prayer made a poor refuge for one dedicated entirely to the former, with none of the latter. And yet he had somehow been led here, walking aimlessly through Eastern Thanalan, passing Drybone with nary a shudder or a glance. The last time he traveled that road resulted in the inexplicable attempt on his life--an incident that, even after all that had happened, went unanswered and unclear. No culprit, no motive, no trace. He had known from the very beginning that Taeros was little more than a momentary convenience; a shark onto which the remora latches. The man's crimes, both moral and literal, were as numerous as his adversary's. North had even been actively working against him--that had been his sole purpose in entering his employment in the first place. He had clearly been marked as a target from the start, and thus--Gideon set the wine bottle onto the dusty ground--he was not to be mourned. But he had been a master, hadn't he? He had ensured North knew his place. Above all, they both played their roles as best they could, and that, the butler had expected. But, over time--and yes, especially there at the end--it seemed as though he had truly valued not only North's life, not merely his well-being, but his happiness. He had apparently endeavored to keep North from those who sought to take him from Taeros's service, with all the suspicion due of one of his station. He had not treated North as more than a servant, but... that, he had given a strange dignity. A nobility. An understanding, North finally settled upon, that was almost painful in its long-missed familiarity. When Master Taeros had, at the end, called out Gideon's name, bleeding blue and black, the valet had hesitated out of shock. The healing aether never came, and Taeros had fallen. But had the valet been obeying his instincts... or fighting them? Whatever the motivation, he had not acted quickly enough, and now another master was gone. He stared blankly into the etched stone before him, absently fumbling the golden maple pin out from within his jacket and rolling it between his fingers. Perhaps this was simply the natural way of things. One may only serve until they fail, and thus lose that right to serve. Two masters served, and two masters gone. No. Something resounded in his head. One master served. And one master betrayed. His fist closed over the badge, and his head swam with sudden, overwhelming dizziness--thoughts churning with violent emotion and cold, detached appraisal. Preserving one loyalty does not pardon the betrayal of another. His face remained implacable as always, but a sudden bile rose up within him at the thought. Almost hastily, he took a long gulp from the bottle at his side, pushed more by impulse than true desire, and sagged as he returned it to its place on the ground. He sat silently among the gently humming fireflies, the open bottle at his side and his eyes on the ground. His eyes flickered to his silver grimoire, carelessly set on the dusty ground alongside him, then returned to the etched stone before him--staring blankly into it, hoping for some flicker of clarity, or even merely some relief. However (that same, cold part of him reminded), that was a luxury intended only for men of faith. His shoulders rose and sank in a brief sigh, and he pocketed the badge. Lingering too long on such questions would be provably unhelpful, and--more to the point--beyond his station. He closed his eyes, listening to the hum of the fireflies... then paused, paying closer attention to the sound as they drifted somewhat further away. "...?" The Miqo'te nearby took a few more steps, gradually more audible the closer he came. The ground was dry enough not to betray his footsteps, but he still walked with some measure of caution. Approaching, the young stranger spoke, noticing the valet's curiosity--his eyes obscured by a practical leather facemask. "Mister North...." "Ah." Of course; a place for reflection like this would no doubt serve others, who would also value their solitude. He instinctively began gathering his things up, politely nodding behind him. "A thousand pardons, sir..." "Please, no need for such apologies..." The rebuttal was pleasant, almost apologetic itself. Gideon watched the man dip into an apparent bow... then break almost seamlessly into a predatory lunge, vicious clawed gauntlets gleaming in the light of the fireflies. The valet scrambled back in shock, the bottle spilling from his arms and staining the ground wine-red as he raised the book as a makeshift shield, desperately trying to block the sudden strike. "Wh-What--" The clawed stranger's strike hooked against the side of the book, and he immediately twisted his arm back, deftly trying to rip the tome from North's hands. Something flashed in North's eyes, and he tilted the book just the slightest, letting the attacker simply rip open the front cover. One half of the book was all but shredded by the vicious claw, but the pages swiftly fell open to a random angular diagram. Concentrating his aether, he hissed darkly, letting the instant reaction of Bio course through his arms, into the book, and towards his assailant. "...Assassin." The accusation, predictably, had no effect on the Miqo'te--however, he clearly recognized the sudden flow of aetheric energy. He quickly dropped to the ground, both hands stopping himself directly before impact. Twirling nimbly on the ground, his foot blurred through the air, arcing towards Gideon's jaw. Twisting desperately, the valet attempted to deflect the blow, but North was no martial artist--the strike connected, sending him sprawling flat on his back in the dirt, coughing in pain and breathless rage. "Ghnnh... is it you...?" His face bore a strange, wide-eyed smile as his head snapped up to face the assassin. The momentum of the kick let the acrobatic Miqo'te twirl back up onto his feet--with not a word at North's senseless question; only replying with another lunge forward, claws out and angled towards the Hyur's neck. With barely any time to react, North twisted to the side, gasping--the razor claws tearing through his jacket and shoulder instead. Blood stained the pristine black of his formal jacket, and he breathed in soundless pain; fumbling with his free hand for the fallen bottle and swinging it towards the assassin's face in retaliation. With his free hand, the assassin lashed out to strike the wine bottle mid-swing, shattering the glass, sending shards and wine splaying across both North and the dry soil. "Ghh!" He recoiled, the shards of glass and wine provoking a brief, reflexive cringe. "Three YEARS, and--!" Seeing the Miqo'te bringing the claw down once more, he threw his head to the right, in a desperate attempt to protect himself--the claws raked across the left side of his face, slicing easily through his eye and cheek. He roared, in pain and anguish. The assassin hissed quietly, clearly somewhat irritated at the valet's persistent survival. He paused for just a brief moment, then twisted the claw embedded in the Hyur's shoulder, ripping the flesh--more blood, soaking the black. Almost instantly, he brought the other claw back down, shearing through the air to the man's chest, but North wrenched himself to the side in a desperate spasm, further twisting the claws in his shoulder. The man's other claws pierced him, but grazed off his ribcage, avoiding fatal damage once more. He arched on the ground, a ragged whimper of pain escaping him--incongruously feeble for the depth of the wound. "HALT!" Through the haze of pain and adrenaline, North heard the voice of Roen, of all people, cut through the fray. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a redhead figure in the uniform of the Blades charge towards the chaos, and the masked man's gaze rose to her for just a moment... before ripping both claws from North's body with a sickening sound of severance. He darted up from the crumpled valet, dashing towards the Blade as if in attack... then, at the last moment, he leapt and flipped over the Blade in an adroit flip, landing on his feet just behind her. Without another moment's hesitation, he bolted down the hill, out towards the plains. Roen seemed to hesitate, her gaze darting from the fleeing assassin to the valet, bleeding out on the ground. "Gyaaghk--" North arched again, panting in pain, and fumbled for the remains of his book. A mangled roar of fury rose within him as his fingers closed in a claw over the page, crumpling the paper--his other hand blindly firing out Ruinous bolts, green tinges of Bio, sickly green Virus--anything requiring no more than a second's thought. Roen ducked the aetheric onslaught, hastily rushing to the side, but not a single spell connected--the masked man sprinted away, not looking back. "YOU FINISH... YOUR JOB!" North roared out, choking on more than just his words. "DON'T YOU... RUN... N-Nnghh..." As the assassin vanished from view, the bloodied servant devolved into wordless howling and gasping. Roen's eyes followed the last crackling Ruin as it blurred down the path alongside her... but she rushed toward the fallen man instead, the assassin no longer in sight. She fell to her knees next to him. "Mister North!" Pulling off her turban to survey his wounds, she tried desperately to number the injuries. A gash in his shoulder... jaw badly bruised... both cloth and flesh shredded... one side of his face all but sheared through... "Gideon!" The valet did not respond, hands remaining where they were--clawing at paper and casting out in furious aetheric stabs at the air, though the spells no longer came. She grabbed onto one wrist, as if to bring him to the present from wherever his mind was at. "Gideon!" She leaned forward, wide eyes going from his face to the growing crimson stain upon his shoulder. Then inevitably, it returned back to his... wounded eye and face. She grimaced. Gideon writhed feebly, hand twisting in her grip. "M-Master, they're... here. Run, please... please..." Seeing his distress, she pressed him down a bit more forcefully, her tone firm despite the alarm upon her expression. "Gideon. Stop. Let me heal you... You are..." She swallowed. "You are injured badly..." North twisted his head from side to side, the frantic tears mingling with the fresh blood. "Master, you cannot stay!" Hurriedly, she fumbled her gauntlet off, to lay her hand upon his... shoulder? Face? Eye? There was so much blood. She swallowed to steady herself. "Gideon. Please. Calm. I am going to stop the bleeding first..." She put a steady pressure upon his shoulder, glancing warily over her shoulder to where the assailant had disappeared. Facing Gideon, she frowned. "He ran. I am not letting you bleed to death." "Master, they could return... at any moment! Think of... your parents! I promised them I would... I would look after..." North hissed out in pain, staring blindly up at the sky, the tears not stopping. After a moment, fully registering his words, Roen exhaled. She did not budge, holding him still as best she could as she summoned the aether onto his shoulder wound. Throughout, she remained silent, closing her eyes as the aether flooded his injuries. "Stop... stop, please..." Though he shook, jolting one way and then another, his movements gradually slowed--his hand falling to the ground, and the paper tearing with a slow rip as his other hand closed into a fist. Seeing the flesh closing, Roen breathed out in relief. "Gideon... you did everything you could..." she murmured. "I knew he would come back, Master... but he knew I'd be looking for poison this time, so he... he chose another means..." North muttered indistinctly, still panting with effort and pain. Roen's expression saddened as she met Gideon's unseeing eye. "Do not blame yourself..." she said softly, moving to treat the wounds on his chest. The severity of the damage made her falter for one brief moment before the aether rose within her once more. "They always come, master... wherever I go... they're always there, you can't escape them. No servants, only masters. Never servants, only masters." North whispered in horror, staring blindly skyward. "Him, her, her, him, her, him, her..." He shuddered, shaking uncontrollably. "I have to, I have..." Her shoulders slumped, the treatment having drained her somewhat. She laid a hand upon the man's jawline, turning his face towards her. "Gideon," she said softly. "Please. Come back." The valet swallowed, hard, and went completely still. Her gaze darted from his jaw to the long gash ripped across his eye, face twisting in worry. "...Miss Deneith." North opened his eyes, speaking with sudden, unshakable calm and composure, despite his wounds and the situation. Roen Deneith finally released a long sigh, her shoulders slumping and relief washing over her face. "....Mister North." She curled a faint smile, although it was still tinged with worry. "Please hold still, let me at least... close these wounds. Your jaw and... your eye..." "Very good, Miss. Please do as you see fit." The valet stared politely forward, his injured eye slightly rolling. Surveying the damage, Roen winced. His jaw appeared to have suffered the least of the damage, but his eye... "We should get you to the infirmary." North appeared unconcerned, speaking while gazing blankly ahead. "Pardon me, Miss, but would you possess any insight into the identity and purpose of that man?" Roen Deneith glanced past him to where the assailant had disappeared. "He wore a mask. I did not recognize him." He watched the fireflies, seemingly entranced. "Of course. Of course that would be the case. Thank you, Miss." "We should get you to the infirmary, Mister North. You have been injured badly." Roen swallowed. "I mended what I could but..." "The infirmary? My goodness, I AM in Drybone again, aren't I? You'd think I would have learned!" North burst out laughing, his good eye somewhat wider than usual. Roen blinked, a bit incredulous. "Ah. But you have survived. Yet again." "Yes, Miss, indeed! It is just my luck!" He laughed merrily, closing his eye with a broad smile... then grunted in quiet pain, hauling himself to his own feet. She blinked again, looking to her hand, then back to Gideon. "I take it you did not recognize the attacker." "No indeed, Miss. I'm afraid not. A bit of a waste, isn't it?" She watched him cautiously, then picked up her gauntlets, redonning them as she rose as well. She gave him an odd look at the words. "What do you mean..?" "I yet live, and I have not the means to find my assailant, nor keep it from happening again! I daresay nobody has gotten what they wished for tonight!" He shrugged good-naturedly, chuckling with uncharacteristic mirth. Roen frowned instantly. "You are wrong. You live. At least that was my wish when I came upon the scene." Pausing, she stepped forward, lowering her voice. "This was the second time you were attacked. Perhaps we can find a pattern. A rhyme or reason..." "I suppose if one wishes for constants to remain the same, Miss, then one can be thusly satisfied. But this... why, nothing really changed, did it? Nothing changes." North stared at the fireflies for a moment. At his words, Roen blinked again, her movements slower. Her gaze quietly fell to the ground. A moment of silence passed... before North turned to her, smiling politely. "...Miss, I believe it would be unwise to remain here for much longer." Roen pressed her lips into a thin line, then nodded in agreement. "Aye. Let us at least get you to a more skilled healer than I." "If it is needed, Miss. I daresay I feel... fine." He chuckled faintly, striding forward. She regarded him again, her eyes narrowing. "I would feel better if you were checked. And your eye, Mister North..." "Please, Miss. What do I have to worry about with one eye less? Certainly, if tonight is any evidence, I should have been making better use of them in the first place!" He laughed heartily again, making his way down the path without looking back at her. She watched him oddly, following silently behind him. North sat on the bed, smiling blankly as he stared forward. They had even placed him in the same room as the last incident. Perhaps they were coming to recognize him. Roen glanced around, standing by the bedside--clearly remembering similar circumstances. Seeing the healers bustling to and fro, she sighed, relaxing somewhat. She took an uncertain step forward, towards the wounded valet. "Please, let them help you in however way they can, Mister North." "Of course! Familiar comforts indeed, Miss, familiar enough." North nodded vaguely. She parted her lips as if to say something, then stopped. Instead, she lightly placed her hand upon his shoulder, her voice softening. "I am glad you are alright." She studied his face. "And even if nothing changes, does not mean we should stop trying," she murmured. "Miss need not worry. I know precisely what I must do." He nodded, smiling--still staring into the middle distance. "Nothing foolish... I hope?" Roen stared at him, unsure. "Do I seem a fool, Miss Deneith?" North stared back at her. For a brief moment, his eyelid twitched. She slowly shook her head. "Nay. Anything but." Her voice lowered. "Then I shall leave you in peace." North smiled, the expression apparently fixed in place. "Now. I believe it is time I rested!" She shook her head again, just slightly. "Do get your rest, Mister North." "I shall endeavor to." At last, she stepped back, but paused once more. "I will check on you soon." She smiled almost meekly at him, as if in reassurance. North stared, smiling, at the wooden screen. "Thank you, Miss. Goodbye." Roen paused at the doorway, giving the man another strange look, then made her way out of the infirmary, steps slow on the worn stone. For a long while after, while the chirurgeons and healers attended to him, North remained staring blankly forward. He could not fail them--fail those who had stood alongside him--as he had failed his Masters. Though faith remained beyond his reach, now moreso than ever before, he would always have loyalty. If his surest way of protecting them was to disappear, then so be it.

"He’s been gone an awfully long time.” The well-dressed Roegadyn’s voice was calm, though the furrow of his brow indicated more frustration than his words let on. He sipped on what appeared to be a murky green potion occupying a delicate wineglass, idly staring over the vista from one of the Bismarck’s railing seats, talking into a linkpearl as his eyes scanned blankly over the bluffs. “You’ve been keeping an eye out?” “I’m tellin’ you, Mr. B--” The voice on the other side was patient, placating, but unapologetic. “The last sighting anyone’s got of him was when he stopped through the bazaar about four suns ago, buying a bottle of wine.” “Wine.” The Roegadyn raised an eyebrow. “Out of character, Fields. Our friend Mr. North doesn’t really strike me as a drinking man.” “That’s what I thought too, boss, that’s what I thought too, but Salt’s never got it wrong before.” Fields sighed, a brief moment of hissing static over the pearl’s connection. “He says it looked real expensive, too. The good stuff. One of those fancy Ishgardian ones. You suppose it’s for someone else?” “Most likely.” Lost in thought, the Roegadyn merchant dug his thumb against the rim of the glass for a moment, leaving a dark imprint on his grey skin. “Though I wouldn’t say it’s particularly like him to be going visiting any parties, either. I certainly hope he isn’t considering anything particularly drastic.” He drained the last of his potion in the brief pause, setting the little glass back down on his table. “Maybe we need to get someone trawling Thanalan. Properly, too, not just occupying one of the outposts.” “Well, Mr. B, you know I’d be delighted to go out on your little manhunt here, just delighted. But thanks to you, I got a business to run.” The Roegadyn had to roll his eyes at the Miqo’te’s exaggerated deference; Fields’ debt to him had not dulled his irreverent snark. “I’m a busy cat, Mr. B, a busy cat. Imports! Exports! Transports! Teleports! And who’s to say that Callae girl won’t be stomping back down the Steps, seizin’ me by the throat and demandin’ Mr. North’s whereabouts? That’d put me in a tight spot, Mr. B, a real tight spot.” “Speaking of which.” The Roegadyn sits up a little straighter. “Fields, Dolf, Plum, whoever’s still listening--don’t forget, it’s Brandt Wintfrydsyn when you’re dealing with her. ‘Banquo’ is the reclusive, eccentric Highlander lord. Understood?” “Yeah, we’ve been OVER it, Mr. B, we’ve been over it. Relax. I told her Banquo’s a paranoid old loon who doesn’t like anyone learnin’ too much about him.” His smirk was almost audible. “Where’s the lie in that, my friend?” There was a pause in which Fields grunted, a slight thump of wood underscoring sounds of exertion--judging by the slight hubbub in the background, he was handling his shipping at Scorpion Crossing even as they spoke. “Honestly, Mr. B, if you want my advice... what with old Taeros going quiet, I’m not too sure the whole pseudo-name stuff is a great idea anymore.” “Precautions have to be taken, Fields. There’s too much at stake for us to go into this holding our cards the wrong way around.” Banquo shook his head, uncomfortable. Almost time for another potion. “I’ve told you how important this deal is to me. I can’t afford to let anything compromise it.” “Alright, Mr. B, alright. Forget I said anything.” A clomp of wood against wood, as Fields set something heavy down. “As for old Dolfy, I don’t think you gotta worry about him saying the wrong thing, specially not to her. After that time she snuck up on him in the Bazaar, I figure she’s liable to shoot the poor fella down before he even has a chance to grump at her. He’s been stayin’ out of trouble like you wanted, and he ain’t gonna let himself get caught again.” “Lodolf?” The Roegadyn waited, voice taking on a carefully probing tone. “Are we good?” A brief silence on the line. Fields went quiet. Banquo tapped his finger on the wineglass rim once, then twice... then the Highlander’s voice rumbled from the pearl, grudging and indistinct. “We’re good, boss.” “Glad to hear it.” Lodolf clearly wasn’t happy, but that was hardly new. Banquo uncorked a new bottle, plucked from within the countless ones in his coat, and refilled his own glass. The green elixir gleamed somewhat unpleasantly in the coastal sunlight, the entire bottle only barely filling the wineglass. Somewhere in the Bismarck’s kitchens, a dishwasher winced. “It would represent a significant loss of investment for us if you were apprehended, and after that disaster in Drybone, I’d rather keep you well away from all this business with Mr. North. And the law, for that matter.” The Highlander almost cut him off, snapping. “Yeah, I get it, boss.” Lodolf’s own debt to the Roegadyn went unspoken, but hung forebodingly on the edges of both their words. “Alright then.” A longer pause, in which he drank deeply from the dense green--setting it back down with a sigh of relief only after a full five seconds of throwing the entire contents back. “Well, that’s enough about North, I think. Doubtless he’ll turn up, and if he doesn’t, we’ll see what we can do about it. Anyone found any good prospects lately?” “Ah, now there I can help you, Mr. B, there I can help you.” Fields seemed to brighten up at the idea. “Let’s see. Old Roarich’s been giving the stink-eye to a fine-looking little weaver girl. Seems she’s been turning in some commissions on the side, but she’s been dying ‘em different from how it’s usually done. Somethin’ about coloring ‘em before she even stitches it together.” “Ooh.” Banquo stroked his chin, smiling thoughtfully. “Well, ‘color’ me intrigued.” Ignoring the groan of pun-induced anguish from Fields and Lodolf’s disapproving growl, he continued. “Perhaps I’d better ensure her business is appreciated, then. It wouldn’t do to have potential like that stamped out… and I daresay I could use a new pair of gloves anyway. We’ll see if she’s worth investing in. Anything else?” “Let’s see… new fishmonger roaming Ul’dah, old Highlander fella, don’t know much about his background… elezen jeweler dismissed from Esthaime’s…” Fields hummed, audibly flipping through sheafs of notes. “And there’s always the Grindstone.” Banquo wrinkled his nose, gently swirling the wineglass. “Grindstone.” “Oh, Mr. B, you need to get out more. The Grindstone? The tournament? The unauthorized, independent-run tournament that’s been goin’ under Ul’dah’s nose?” Fields sighed in mock despair. “Stay on the ball, Mr. B, or I’ll be running this operation before you know it. Anyhow, you might check them out. I dunno if they could use the money, but you’re bound to find a couple good prospects there, eh? Folks who’d rather skip all the rules and Monetarist eyes, and just get straight to the fighting? Sure enough, Mr. B, sure enough, that kinda place is bound to have what you’re lookin’ for. Talk to old Warren Cast-Iron. He’s running the show. I’ll get you some details.” “I’ll look into it.” Banquo shook his head in quiet exasperation. Fields’ observations and connections were helpful... but simple, direct communication was not one of his strong suits. “I’LL look into it. And you’ll give me a bonus for m’trouble.” Fields’ shit-eating grin was audible. “How about you, Dolfy? Anything turn up?” There was a heavy sniff from the Highlander’s end. “Mnh. Golden Bazaar’s quiet. Not many newcomers needin’ jobs. All goin’ to that carpenter guy. One reject, though. Roe mercenary. Sounds like the Blades took ‘im in for threatenin’ an officer when they found him with sword drawn on the road. Can’t get any work, now that people know he’s been arrested before.” Banquo nodded, eyes narrowing. “The man still there?” “Yeah, boss.” He exhaled. “Keep him around if you can. I’ll see if I can find a place for him.” He rose, leaving a little heap of glinting gil on the table as the nearby waitress sagged in relief. After ordering a bottle of wine and not even taking a sip, it was the least he could do. He strode out of the Bismarck, tapping his ear with two fingers. “Stay alert, ladies and gentlemen. I’m counting on you.” “You got it, Mr. B, you got it.” “Yeah, boss.” “And if you know anyone who might be able to help track down our errant valet, I am certainly all ears.” Banquo stared ahead, eyes settling on the Drowning Wench. “From the sounds of things, we can hardly afford to sit around waiting for bad news.” “Well, Mr. B…” Fields hesitated. “I might have one idea. Don’t think you’re gonna like it, though.”

And now… The Aerstorns were dead, and Gideon North yet remained. First had been the parents, ambushed at sea by opportunistic pirates and soldiers of fortune. They, and their wealth, now lay at the bottom of the Rhotano. Then the son, Dynitar--poisoned through deception, in which North’s dismissal lasted just long enough for his “replacement” to slip some degenerative agent into the young master’s meal, and vanish from the scene. When North reappeared on the scene, the last of the Aerstorn line was hunched dead at his desk, face wracked in a rictus of pain and anguish. North had fled to Gridania, consumed by paranoia and despair, unable to direct his grief and rage towards some kind of culprit. The conjurer’s guild, and indeed the soft-spoken denizens of the forest, had provided a quiet solace for the deposed valet. He was asked few questions, and little was demanded of him other than his adherence to tradition, and North clung to the local rules and social order like a drowning man to a buoy. For almost three years, he remained there, recovering and trying to rebuild himself--politely attending the Gridanians when he could, putting up the pretense of studying the elementals further though his conjury remained amateur at best, and spending the evenings in quiet conversation with Ursandel, an old local who had been schooled in the same arts as North, if by different teachers. Little by little, the sting of his losses faded, and North grew to study the art of his healing somewhat more seriously. Though he could hardly be said to be emotional at the most dire of times, he began to feel like his old self once more. Despite everything he had been through, however… despite everything that he had lost over the course of those short years… and despite the danger involved... something pulled him back to Ul’dah. After those three years, the valet returned. North knew that he could no longer attend his young master. Dynitar Aerstorn and his parents was dead, and North was a servant without a master. However, there remained a part of him fixated on the idea that the young master’s desires had outlived his mortal body. Somehow, certainly, if North could still uphold the young master’s wishes--if he could serve the Aerstorns’ interests now that Dynitar himself no longer could not--then surely that would be the pinnacle of anything he could do. He would be a true servant to them, loyal beyond the simple ties of employment, or even life itself. It was with this in mind that he returned to the city of wealth and sand, intent on seeking one thing above all else, for the sake of both he and his young master: the truth. Unfortunately, it was not the truth that awaited him in Ul’dah, but a brewing storm, and the dark machinations that fueled the city soon rising to a violent crescendo. In delving into its inner workings, North found himself caught between the cogs; ground with immense pressure between two powers bent on maintaining control. On one side, the Monetarist Jameson Taeros, with the power of sheer wealth, prestige, and employed force. On the other, the ex-pirate Nero Lazarov and his allies united by his vision of an Ul’dah free from the oppressive force of its controllers. Placed in the midst of this conflict, North came to know, trust, and alternately plot against several of the major players positioned against each other... Roen Deneith, the wayward paladin with a bond to Lazarov. Tormented by doubts and emotion, she had been the one to first speak to North about placing him among the higher powers of Ul’dah, that he might feed information back to her (or find more information regarding her quarry). Despite her virtue and strength, she had faltered many times over the course of the long journey, struggling to find a purpose in following the whims and schemes of her seemingly uncaring love. Lazarov himself had never asked anything of North; indeed, it had always been Roen asking, apologizing, pleading, thanking. In her darkest moment, entrapped within Taeros’s underground prison, North had been the one to secure her freedom by deceiving the guards. He had grown to feel a curiously paternal bond with her, sharing insight and wisdom with her whenever her path grew dim. Nero Lazarov, the pirate-turned-terrorist who opposed the Monetarist hold over Ul’dah. It was his scheme that ultimately placed North into noble employment, but as events unfolded, it became clear that he himself had been the murderer of the Aerstorn elders--decimating their ship in that nautical raid years and years ago. Aghast, North severed all ties with his cause… but, torn between his revenge and new loyalty, could not bring himself to act against the man Roen loved. Lazarov went on to wreak untold destruction in the streets of Ul’dah, driven by whatever ideals had replaced his mercenary attitude in days past. Though North yet despised him, the justification had changed--with all that he’d committed, it gradually became clear that he was simply no longer the man that had ended Dynitar’s parents, but a haunted, violent ghost of a man, with more ideals than sanity. Jameson Taeros, the distinguished Monetarist into whose service North had been placed. The man had began just as North expected him--ruthless, detached, and accepting nothing but the finest luxuries his wealth and influence would afford him. However, North’s time in his service had provided a feeling he had long missed; a curious sensation of being in his element, of fitting precisely where he belonged. Taeros was by no means a good man, but his treatment of North had been less that of the uncaring master rising above the masses, and more… simply master and servant, in the relationship of mutual-but-different respect that North had heard long ago to be the true, fulfilling archetype. No longer certain of his position against the man, North had in the end clutched to his newfound professional loyalty, serving the man as faithfully as he could without disrupting his other allegiances. His final disappearance in the bizarre battle beneath the high streets of the Goblet left North empty, and once more without a master. Brynnalia Callae, Taeros’s information expert and inscrutable advisor, always ready with a sly smile, and the glint in her eye that straddled the line between cheerful wit and a shark advancing on its prey. She and North had shared an unsteady tension and a push-and-pull dynamic throughout the course of their work together. At one point, such tensions resulted in a startling, impulsive kiss, born more of calculated psychological maneuvers than any true feeling--on another night, culminating in a violent armed standoff at a Starlight gathering… but as they grew to understand each other, there was a strange kinship, respect, and even genuine endearment in their unexpected similarities. Even after her threats, her caution, and her ever-present air of deception and false emotion… something yet resounded, and they shared a bizarre closeness. Coatleque Crofte, the paladin whose affections trumped her professional obligation. Once merely an investigator and element of law enforcement investigating the crossfire between Taeros and Lazarov, an inebriated night and an uncompromising intent to find the truth led her into a relationship with Taeros himself. What began as a cautious gambit to reach further into the darkness developed into genuine emotion, and Taeros’s disappearance hit her perhaps the hardest of them all. Verad Bellveil, the dubious merchant whose insight and whimsy helped North see through Roen’s well-intentioned equivocation. It was only thanks to him that the armed Starlight confrontation orchestrated by Brynnalia was settled with minimal amount of blood loss--the eccentric Duskwight had spent the entire evening alternating between off-color jokes, betting all his clothes off, engaging in heated political debate, and obfuscating his own business practices before he called on an armed squadron of Miqo’te. The man was seemingly more well-connected than he let on, and though North had rarely seen him after that evening, he remained at the back of North’s mind as an unanswered question--or potentially the answer to a question of North’s own. Edda Eglantine, the reserved woman of noble bearing and background. A chance encounter with North in the streets of Ul’dah was their only meeting, but now, chance seems to conspire to throw them together--as an unaccompanied woman of high social class, it seems she had been considered as a candidate for North’s new assignment, replacing Taeros after the man’s disappearance. Still hesitant, North had not sought her out again after that meeting--still sorting out his mental turmoil after the disappearance of yet another master. Fearing the ripples of the recent chaos coming to affect her as well, the valet kept his distance, remaining alone with his thoughts. Finally, there was Brandt Wintfrydsyn--the mysterious Roegadyn merchant and speculator working on behalf of one Lord Banquo; a foreign noble who had apparently taken a very keen interest in employing North for his own services. Enigmatic, well-dressed, and constantly drinking what seemed to be aetherically-enhanced potions, the Roegadyn had suggested that North represented a tremendous asset not only in terms of his skills as a valet, but in his newfound knowledge regarding the inner workings and secrets of the Ul’dahn upper class. Though he claimed the best of intentions, something in his demeanor and suggestion seemed to hint at something darker to all those he negotiated with. However, with Taeros out of the picture, it would seem that there is no longer anything to keep Brandt from taking the valet to serve his own master...

Maybe you meant this.

The distinction between loyalty and faith is a fine one indeed. As North reflected on this, he also realized--rather too late--that Final Prayer made a poor refuge for one dedicated entirely to the former, with none of the latter. And yet he had somehow been led here, walking aimlessly through Eastern Thanalan, passing Drybone with nary a shudder or a glance. The last time he traveled that road resulted in the inexplicable attempt on his life--an incident that, even after all that had happened, went unanswered and unclear. No culprit, no motive, no trace. He had known from the very beginning that Taeros was little more than a momentary convenience; a shark onto which the remora latches. The man's crimes, both moral and literal, were as numerous as his adversary's. North had even been actively working against him--that had been his sole purpose in entering his employment in the first place. He had clearly been marked as a target from the start, and thus--Gideon set the wine bottle onto the dusty ground--he was not to be mourned. But he had been a master, hadn't he? He had ensured North knew his place. Above all, they both played their roles as best they could, and that, the butler had expected. But, over time--and yes, especially there at the end--it seemed as though he had truly valued not only North's life, not merely his well-being, but his happiness. He had apparently endeavored to keep North from those who sought to take him from Taeros's service, with all the suspicion due of one of his station. He had not treated North as more than a servant, but... that, he had given a strange dignity. A nobility. An understanding, North finally settled upon, that was almost painful in its long-missed familiarity. When Master Taeros had, at the end, called out Gideon's name, bleeding blue and black, the valet had hesitated out of shock. The healing aether never came, and Taeros had fallen. But had the valet been obeying his instincts... or fighting them? Whatever the motivation, he had not acted quickly enough, and now another master was gone. He stared blankly into the etched stone before him, absently fumbling the golden maple pin out from within his jacket and rolling it between his fingers. Perhaps this was simply the natural way of things. One may only serve until they fail, and thus lose that right to serve. Two masters served, and two masters gone. No. Something resounded in his head. One master served. And one master betrayed. His fist closed over the badge, and his head swam with sudden, overwhelming dizziness--thoughts churning with violent emotion and cold, detached appraisal. Preserving one loyalty does not pardon the betrayal of another. His face remained implacable as always, but a sudden bile rose up within him at the thought. Almost hastily, he took a long gulp from the bottle at his side, pushed more by impulse than true desire, and sagged as he returned it to its place on the ground. He sat silently among the gently humming fireflies, the open bottle at his side and his eyes on the ground. His eyes flickered to his silver grimoire, carelessly set on the dusty ground alongside him, then returned to the etched stone before him--staring blankly into it, hoping for some flicker of clarity, or even merely some relief. However (that same, cold part of him reminded), that was a luxury intended only for men of faith. His shoulders rose and sank in a brief sigh, and he pocketed the badge. Lingering too long on such questions would be provably unhelpful, and--more to the point--beyond his station. He closed his eyes, listening to the hum of the fireflies... then paused, paying closer attention to the sound as they drifted somewhat further away. "...?" The Miqo'te nearby took a few more steps, gradually more audible the closer he came. The ground was dry enough not to betray his footsteps, but he still walked with some measure of caution. Approaching, the young stranger spoke, noticing the valet's curiosity--his eyes obscured by a practical leather facemask. "Mister North...." "Ah." Of course; a place for reflection like this would no doubt serve others, who would also value their solitude. He instinctively began gathering his things up, politely nodding behind him. "A thousand pardons, sir..." "Please, no need for such apologies..." The rebuttal was pleasant, almost apologetic itself. Gideon watched the man dip into an apparent bow... then break almost seamlessly into a predatory lunge, vicious clawed gauntlets gleaming in the light of the fireflies. The valet scrambled back in shock, the bottle spilling from his arms and staining the ground wine-red as he raised the book as a makeshift shield, desperately trying to block the sudden strike. "Wh-What--" The clawed stranger's strike hooked against the side of the book, and he immediately twisted his arm back, deftly trying to rip the tome from North's hands. Something flashed in North's eyes, and he tilted the book just the slightest, letting the attacker simply rip open the front cover. One half of the book was all but shredded by the vicious claw, but the pages swiftly fell open to a random angular diagram. Concentrating his aether, he hissed darkly, letting the instant reaction of Bio course through his arms, into the book, and towards his assailant. "...Assassin." The accusation, predictably, had no effect on the Miqo'te--however, he clearly recognized the sudden flow of aetheric energy. He quickly dropped to the ground, both hands stopping himself directly before impact. Twirling nimbly on the ground, his foot blurred through the air, arcing towards Gideon's jaw. Twisting desperately, the valet attempted to deflect the blow, but North was no martial artist--the strike connected, sending him sprawling flat on his back in the dirt, coughing in pain and breathless rage. "Ghnnh... is it you...?" His face bore a strange, wide-eyed smile as his head snapped up to face the assassin. The momentum of the kick let the acrobatic Miqo'te twirl back up onto his feet--with not a word at North's senseless question; only replying with another lunge forward, claws out and angled towards the Hyur's neck. With barely any time to react, North twisted to the side, gasping--the razor claws tearing through his jacket and shoulder instead. Blood stained the pristine black of his formal jacket, and he breathed in soundless pain; fumbling with his free hand for the fallen bottle and swinging it towards the assassin's face in retaliation. With his free hand, the assassin lashed out to strike the wine bottle mid-swing, shattering the glass, sending shards and wine splaying across both North and the dry soil. "Ghh!" He recoiled, the shards of glass and wine provoking a brief, reflexive cringe. "Three YEARS, and--!" Seeing the Miqo'te bringing the claw down once more, he threw his head to the right, in a desperate attempt to protect himself--the claws raked across the left side of his face, slicing easily through his eye and cheek. He roared, in pain and anguish. The assassin hissed quietly, clearly somewhat irritated at the valet's persistent survival. He paused for just a brief moment, then twisted the claw embedded in the Hyur's shoulder, ripping the flesh--more blood, soaking the black. Almost instantly, he brought the other claw back down, shearing through the air to the man's chest, but North wrenched himself to the side in a desperate spasm, further twisting the claws in his shoulder. The man's other claws pierced him, but grazed off his ribcage, avoiding fatal damage once more. He arched on the ground, a ragged whimper of pain escaping him--incongruously feeble for the depth of the wound. "HALT!" Through the haze of pain and adrenaline, North heard the voice of Roen, of all people, cut through the fray. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a redhead figure in the uniform of the Blades charge towards the chaos, and the masked man's gaze rose to her for just a moment... before ripping both claws from North's body with a sickening sound of severance. He darted up from the crumpled valet, dashing towards the Blade as if in attack... then, at the last moment, he leapt and flipped over the Blade in an adroit flip, landing on his feet just behind her. Without another moment's hesitation, he bolted down the hill, out towards the plains. Roen seemed to hesitate, her gaze darting from the fleeing assassin to the valet, bleeding out on the ground. "Gyaaghk--" North arched again, panting in pain, and fumbled for the remains of his book. A mangled roar of fury rose within him as his fingers closed in a claw over the page, crumpling the paper--his other hand blindly firing out Ruinous bolts, green tinges of Bio, sickly green Virus--anything requiring no more than a second's thought. Roen ducked the aetheric onslaught, hastily rushing to the side, but not a single spell connected--the masked man sprinted away, not looking back. "YOU FINISH... YOUR JOB!" North roared out, choking on more than just his words. "DON'T YOU... RUN... N-Nnghh..." As the assassin vanished from view, the bloodied servant devolved into wordless howling and gasping. Roen's eyes followed the last crackling Ruin as it blurred down the path alongside her... but she rushed toward the fallen man instead, the assassin no longer in sight. She fell to her knees next to him. "Mister North!" Pulling off her turban to survey his wounds, she tried desperately to number the injuries. A gash in his shoulder... jaw badly bruised... both cloth and flesh shredded... one side of his face all but sheared through... "Gideon!" The valet did not respond, hands remaining where they were--clawing at paper and casting out in furious aetheric stabs at the air, though the spells no longer came. She grabbed onto one wrist, as if to bring him to the present from wherever his mind was at. "Gideon!" She leaned forward, wide eyes going from his face to the growing crimson stain upon his shoulder. Then inevitably, it returned back to his... wounded eye and face. She grimaced. Gideon writhed feebly, hand twisting in her grip. "M-Master, they're... here. Run, please... please..." Seeing his distress, she pressed him down a bit more forcefully, her tone firm despite the alarm upon her expression. "Gideon. Stop. Let me heal you... You are..." She swallowed. "You are injured badly..." North twisted his head from side to side, the frantic tears mingling with the fresh blood. "Master, you cannot stay!" Hurriedly, she fumbled her gauntlet off, to lay her hand upon his... shoulder? Face? Eye? There was so much blood. She swallowed to steady herself. "Gideon. Please. Calm. I am going to stop the bleeding first..." She put a steady pressure upon his shoulder, glancing warily over her shoulder to where the assailant had disappeared. Facing Gideon, she frowned. "He ran. I am not letting you bleed to death." "Master, they could return... at any moment! Think of... your parents! I promised them I would... I would look after..." North hissed out in pain, staring blindly up at the sky, the tears not stopping. After a moment, fully registering his words, Roen exhaled. She did not budge, holding him still as best she could as she summoned the aether onto his shoulder wound. Throughout, she remained silent, closing her eyes as the aether flooded his injuries. "Stop... stop, please..." Though he shook, jolting one way and then another, his movements gradually slowed--his hand falling to the ground, and the paper tearing with a slow rip as his other hand closed into a fist. Seeing the flesh closing, Roen breathed out in relief. "Gideon... you did everything you could..." she murmured. "I knew he would come back, Master... but he knew I'd be looking for poison this time, so he... he chose another means..." North muttered indistinctly, still panting with effort and pain. Roen's expression saddened as she met Gideon's unseeing eye. "Do not blame yourself..." she said softly, moving to treat the wounds on his chest. The severity of the damage made her falter for one brief moment before the aether rose within her once more. "They always come, master... wherever I go... they're always there, you can't escape them. No servants, only masters. Never servants, only masters." North whispered in horror, staring blindly skyward. "Him, her, her, him, her, him, her..." He shuddered, shaking uncontrollably. "I have to, I have..." Her shoulders slumped, the treatment having drained her somewhat. She laid a hand upon the man's jawline, turning his face towards her. "Gideon," she said softly. "Please. Come back." The valet swallowed, hard, and went completely still. Her gaze darted from his jaw to the long gash ripped across his eye, face twisting in worry. "...Miss Deneith." North opened his eyes, speaking with sudden, unshakable calm and composure, despite his wounds and the situation. Roen Deneith finally released a long sigh, her shoulders slumping and relief washing over her face. "....Mister North." She curled a faint smile, although it was still tinged with worry. "Please hold still, let me at least... close these wounds. Your jaw and... your eye..." "Very good, Miss. Please do as you see fit." The valet stared politely forward, his injured eye slightly rolling. Surveying the damage, Roen winced. His jaw appeared to have suffered the least of the damage, but his eye... "We should get you to the infirmary." North appeared unconcerned, speaking while gazing blankly ahead. "Pardon me, Miss, but would you possess any insight into the identity and purpose of that man?" Roen Deneith glanced past him to where the assailant had disappeared. "He wore a mask. I did not recognize him." He watched the fireflies, seemingly entranced. "Of course. Of course that would be the case. Thank you, Miss." "We should get you to the infirmary, Mister North. You have been injured badly." Roen swallowed. "I mended what I could but..." "The infirmary? My goodness, I AM in Drybone again, aren't I? You'd think I would have learned!" North burst out laughing, his good eye somewhat wider than usual. Roen blinked, a bit incredulous. "Ah. But you have survived. Yet again." "Yes, Miss, indeed! It is just my luck!" He laughed merrily, closing his eye with a broad smile... then grunted in quiet pain, hauling himself to his own feet. She blinked again, looking to her hand, then back to Gideon. "I take it you did not recognize the attacker." "No indeed, Miss. I'm afraid not. A bit of a waste, isn't it?" She watched him cautiously, then picked up her gauntlets, redonning them as she rose as well. She gave him an odd look at the words. "What do you mean..?" "I yet live, and I have not the means to find my assailant, nor keep it from happening again! I daresay nobody has gotten what they wished for tonight!" He shrugged good-naturedly, chuckling with uncharacteristic mirth. Roen frowned instantly. "You are wrong. You live. At least that was my wish when I came upon the scene." Pausing, she stepped forward, lowering her voice. "This was the second time you were attacked. Perhaps we can find a pattern. A rhyme or reason..." "I suppose if one wishes for constants to remain the same, Miss, then one can be thusly satisfied. But this... why, nothing really changed, did it? Nothing changes." North stared at the fireflies for a moment. At his words, Roen blinked again, her movements slower. Her gaze quietly fell to the ground. A moment of silence passed... before North turned to her, smiling politely. "...Miss, I believe it would be unwise to remain here for much longer." Roen pressed her lips into a thin line, then nodded in agreement. "Aye. Let us at least get you to a more skilled healer than I." "If it is needed, Miss. I daresay I feel... fine." He chuckled faintly, striding forward. She regarded him again, her eyes narrowing. "I would feel better if you were checked. And your eye, Mister North..." "Please, Miss. What do I have to worry about with one eye less? Certainly, if tonight is any evidence, I should have been making better use of them in the first place!" He laughed heartily again, making his way down the path without looking back at her. She watched him oddly, following silently behind him. North sat on the bed, smiling blankly as he stared forward. They had even placed him in the same room as the last incident. Perhaps they were coming to recognize him. Roen glanced around, standing by the bedside--clearly remembering similar circumstances. Seeing the healers bustling to and fro, she sighed, relaxing somewhat. She took an uncertain step forward, towards the wounded valet. "Please, let them help you in however way they can, Mister North." "Of course! Familiar comforts indeed, Miss, familiar enough." North nodded vaguely. She parted her lips as if to say something, then stopped. Instead, she lightly placed her hand upon his shoulder, her voice softening. "I am glad you are alright." She studied his face. "And even if nothing changes, does not mean we should stop trying," she murmured. "Miss need not worry. I know precisely what I must do." He nodded, smiling--still staring into the middle distance. "Nothing foolish... I hope?" Roen stared at him, unsure. "Do I seem a fool, Miss Deneith?" North stared back at her. For a brief moment, his eyelid twitched. She slowly shook her head. "Nay. Anything but." Her voice lowered. "Then I shall leave you in peace." North smiled, the expression apparently fixed in place. "Now. I believe it is time I rested!" She shook her head again, just slightly. "Do get your rest, Mister North." "I shall endeavor to." At last, she stepped back, but paused once more. "I will check on you soon." She smiled almost meekly at him, as if in reassurance. North stared, smiling, at the wooden screen. "Thank you, Miss. Goodbye." Roen paused at the doorway, giving the man another strange look, then made her way out of the infirmary, steps slow on the worn stone. For a long while after, while the chirurgeons and healers attended to him, North remained staring blankly forward. He could not fail them--fail those who had stood alongside him--as he had failed his Masters. Though faith remained beyond his reach, now moreso than ever before, he would always have loyalty.

I did an original take of this, but decided the last three words didn't have enough smarm. So I added more. Flynt Reddard

ON IT BOSS Awh! So kind. It wouldn't sound half as good if my audio-savvy friend hadn't shimmied around with it for a while. Tone, casual, light, any specifics you wanna toss? Or should I just full steam ahead?

So I was messing around with the character randomizer, and it turned out something that really inspired me. See, he's a wandering sage of the paranormal who investigates sightings of voidsent with his three friends and dog.

If she's ever worked through a placement agency or any sort of organized guild, Banquo might have (or have had) a mission or two for her.