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Warren Castille · **03-09-2015, 01:09 PM**

I just want you to be happy.

More than anything in the world, Warren Castille wanted to enjoy his drink in peace. The "private stock" he'd negotiated ownership of late one night speaking with a particularly prolific hostess at the Quicksand, the stuff that was older than he was - It had been a half dozen moons since he paid for it and had perhaps that many drinks in that time. Dressed in clothing befitting a farmer, Warren began to wonder if perhaps the bottle or the drink itself were cursed. Amongst the voices of the Quicksand two quickly rose to the top.

"Cheatin' sod! Yer cards're marked! Ye've got more in yer sleeves!"

"Sitcher ass down, ya dune turd! I ain't even got 'ny sleeves to pull anythin' out of!"

"Ye callin' me a liar, ye honorless - Wait, what did ye jus' call me?!"

Warren had just raised the glass to his lip as he realized this wasn't going to just flare and die off. A dunesfolk had accused a midlander of cheating at cards, that new flipping game everyone seemed to be taking part in - Even Momodi! She seemed to constantly have a deck in her hands these days - and the midlander wasn't having any of it. A quick scan revealed that there wasn't currently an active Blade waiting around for trouble, and for once the Quicksand was devoid of Sultansworn presence as well. With a resigned sigh, Warren replaced the glass on the bar counter and turned in his seat.

The lalafell was standing on his chair, motioning accusingly and with anger in his eyes. The hyur was in a socially defensive stance, arms out at his side in a nothing-to-hide perspective. Accusation, denial, accusation denial. There came a crash as the lalafell picked up a bottle and shattered it on the edge of the table, then clambered atop it. The hyur's stance changed again, his hands coming in front of his body, palms out to show he didn't mean anything by anything, no harm, no trouble friend, it was all a misunderstanding. The makeshift weapon meant involvement. Momodi was tired of the bloodstains recently.

"What's the trouble here?" Warren asked, rising. He still did look like a farmer - clad in a grey kurta and leather vambraces he looked more the part of a goat herder than any sort of peacemaker. Still, he kept a longsword at his side, and when made for someone Warren's size it was nearly the size of the dunesfolk.

The lalafell in question turned at the voice, suddenly aware that not all who wear armor wear it all of the time. The bottle lowered as his demeanor melted.

"Er, didn' see ye there, Arb'ter. This fella's tryin' ta cheat me outta my cards, an..." The lalafell motioned to point with the bottle top, became aware he was holding it and quickly changed hands. The midlander turned to face Warren as he intervened, his brow furrowed initially, then shifting slightly in recognition. He said nothing, which prompted Warren.

"What do you say to that?"

"I ain't take his cards. I ain't cheatin', neither!" The second sentence came levied to his right towards the lalafell still standing on the table.

"You could try playing for gil, like the rest of the folks do. You really want to deal with the blades after shanking someone over a kids' game?" Warren's tone was the patience-free variety.

"Er... yessir. I 'spose we..." The lalafell shot a guilty look at the midlander, and for a moment he looked like a chastised child himself. Ain't no kids' game, though. S' stratagetic..."

"Take your cards and separate. I don't want to have to come over here again." Warren looked between the two with a thousand-yalm stare. The lalafell cowed, but the midlander looked - amused? Like he was laughing at a joke only he got. He eventually recanted, moving to pick up the piles of cards that had spread out. He placed down a small pile of gil.

"Fer the bottle. And the drinks. No harm, friend."

Warren turned and went back to his seat.

Warren Castille · **03-26-2015, 02:39 PM**

But making you happy makes me happy...

Warren closed his eyes and squeezed, hoping to bite off the coming nag of a headache. His lungs held his breath as the hand not currently holding his drink pinched the bridge of his nose. He tried his best to ignore the sound of someone shuffling into the seat beside him.

"Oy, bottle'a yer best fer me and m'man here." The voice of the hyur called for attention and received it in the slow turn of Warren's head, one eye opening to look at the man. The blonde was looking at him and grinning that same knowing grin as before.

"I've got a drink, thanks." Warren raised the glass in his hand, shaking it a little for emphasis as the hand on his nose dropped heavily to the counter top. It was supposed to be a simple stop, one drink then on, and this was starting to resemble the set-up for a conversation.

"So finish that one and drink this one! Ah, there we are love. Thanks." The hyur handed over a small pile of gil and graciously accepted a bottle of Momodi's home special, then nodded with a point to the one placed before Warren. "S'good gil ya costin' me. Drink up."

Warren was ahead of him. The glass was already tilted back, emptying the contents into Warren's belly. A waste of a fine shot. Warren briefly considered if he was humoring the stranger or just trying to get out sooner. He set the glass down and picked up the cold bottle, glancing it over.

"So, 'Arb'ter.' Tha's a funny name." The hyur's tone was delighted and amused, the tone of someone far too interested. Another glance at him showed bright eyes and a near-laughing grin.

"Not a name. It's a title. I help organize the Grindstone." There was a period of silence as Warren took a drag from the bottle. "It's a fighting tournament near Fesca's Wash. A show of martial prowess."

"So ya gone from fightin' fights to watchin' 'em?"

Again Warren turned to look at the hyur, his gaze penetrating and looking for familiarity. "You've seen me fight, then?"

The hyur huffed, looking away with a grin. He exhaled lazily, half sputtering repeatedly. "Pfffhph. Chuh. Fff. I mean, well, yeah I've been on the receivin' end'a them. You always was a bully, Warren!"

The hyur looked on with an expectant smile. His eyebrows went up, his head nodded and turned slightly to the side. All at once memories long lodged away came rushing back.

"...Kolin?!" Warren's expression went to surprise, then amusement and back to surprise. "Kolin Coblyn, ugly as a Goblin?!"

The hyur took a drink and spun a finger around in a wheel motion. "Yah, yah, shoulda known the first thing ya'd 'member was that damnable rhyme." The words spoke of umbrage but there was humor in the tone, and he smiled down at the bar for a moment before turning back to face Warren.

"Twelve above, it's been years Kolin! I haven't heard from anyone for so long! After Dalamud, I feared the worst, but..."

The hyur - Kolin, while not any particular prize, certainly did not look like either a coblyn or a goblin - smiled along. "Ayup, ayup. As custom, they say. No connections back once ye step out. Surprised to see ye still in the city, Warren. Never took ye for the settlin' type."

"Yeah, me neither. It just sort of... happened." His thoughts touched in flashes on the years gone by. "It's good, though."

"Lissen ta you! All grown up! Still fightin', though. Weren't fair when we was lads, Warren. Swingin' sticks as big around as we were and as tall as the rest'a us!"

"They were never that big. And! And I couldn't help it your piddly noodle limbs were only good for running. Damnable coblyn!" Warren laughed at the thought, the memories of lazy afternoons in La Noscea while the adults peddled their wares and conducted their business.

"Yeah, yeah, drink it in while ya can, ya damnable auroch. Was always lucky we never got many roegadyn, else ya'd've lost the name to the biggest kids. An' 'member who's payin' fer yer drink!"

"What're you doing here, Kolin? I thought the caravan never went close to the biggest cities." The glow of childhood faded in the face of questions.

"S'what I wanted ta' talk to ya' 'bout." Kolin took another drink and turned to look back at Warren, but the smile on his face had changed. Instead of amusement or childish recollection, the hyur bore the mask of someone about to break bad news.

Warren Castille · **04-13-2015, 01:18 PM**

No. This isn't about me. What makes you happy, without including me?

The breeze brushed against the pack of children as if it was involved in the games itself. Overgrown grass swayed on the hill as the boys laughed and shrieked. It was a mild summer and the hills near Summerford were home to the best mountain outside of, well, the mountains. It was a ritual that they all took part in when work was done and the elders permitted them to run free - barring, of course, those most fit for helping with packing up.

"Do you miss it, Coblyn?" The brown-haired boy looked on from his task of stacking crates of unsold supplies. He'd already put up the heavy sacks of flour and beans, staples in any pantry around the world. There was a wistful longing in his voice.

"Wha', playin' on that muddy hill?" The other lad, not yet old enough to be much more than a lad, really, was packing away cloths and various bits and baubles. "Nope, not at'all. I ain't never won anyway."

"The point isn't to win, Kolin." Elder Gillem was minding them both - the trader was an old hand and had been with the caravan longer than either of the boys knew. Wise eyes turned away from the books he'd been keeping - sometimes Gillem would help the younger boys learn their letters and arithmetic when they were easier to process - and looked up at and beyond Warren and Kolin. "Looksee now." Withered and calloused hands pointed towards the hill yonder.

"Normally you look at the size of someone like Blackmast and you think 'how could I ever throw him from the top?' And you'd be right to wonder." The boy that was being pointed out, or "Blackmast" because of his love of pirate stories, was a truly gigantic child of perhaps a dozen years. Hellsguard, far as anyone knew, and he was still growing. He was currently positioned on top of the hill, shoving and throwing anyone who attempted to overpower him tumbling back down to the bottom of the mountain.

"One at a time, none of them kids got a chance." As Gillem spoke, he gestured to the boys collected at the bottom of the hill. "But if you get the right minds together... Come up with a plan?" The trader set his hands on his hips with a smile. Both of the children standing with him were watching now as the defeated children charged at once. Blackmast managed to pull off one or two of them but the crowd was upon him then, and he was helpless to throw them all off. The roegadyn went tumbling down the hill and the cheer of success echoed loud enough for the caravan to hear them.

"See that? No matter how big your foe looks, or how hopeless it might seem... Enough like-minded people can vanquish even the toughest of foes." There was a hint of pride in the old man's voice.

"Wha' 'bout the kids he threw off? They ain't cheerin' at the top'a no hill." Kolin knew all too well what that fall felt like.

"Well, they're not as lucky, I'll give you that one. But they shouldn't be any less proud. They couldn't do it alone, you see? They all knew the risks when they banded as one, and the whole is greater than the parts."

"Elder Gillem, that don't make no sense! There's - there's... There's less whole now! The kids at the bottom ain't gonna be cheered on, they're forgotten!" Kolin gestured frantically at how unfair the situation seemed.

"Will they be, Kolin? Have you forgotten?"

Warren Castille · **04-22-2015, 11:14 AM**

I...

"Times is changed, Warren. You and me both know that, all ya' gots ta' do is look aroun' and you can see it ain' the same place anymore." The bottle in front of him drained, Kolin set the empty down and waved wordlessly for another one.

"...you left, didn't you?" The question was largely rhetorical; If he was sitting in the Quicksand having a drink with a childhood friend, Warren knew the answer. "I had you pegged for a lifer, Kol. What happened?"

"Could be askin' ye' the same thing, you know." There was a small look of incredibility from the Midlander as he received a new bottle of drink. His features belayed a brief window of vulnerability. "We all figgered ya'd end up runnin' ta catch up with us 'fore we got outta Thanalan. Ye never did."

"We weren't talking about me leaving, Kolin. Gods, that was years ago now. Lifetimes, even." The realization landed on the Highlander's shoulders all at once and he again let his mind wander over the years that had passed. Thinking about growing up felt like remembering someone else's life.

"Was it 'caus'a th' fight you an' Rowlin had?"

"We're not talking about this, Kol."

The casual tone of the conversation shifted. Kolin set his bottle down hard and was momentarily threatened by the sudden rise of foam his drink made in response. Without words, though, the question lingered between them.

"...it wasn't because of the fight. Rowlin had his points." Truthfully, the details of the argument were lost to the ages. The feelings behind them remained, but the words weren't important. "In the end I flipped a coin."

There was another long silence between them for a moment. Warren remembered the chill of the air that night, and how beautiful the sky had been. Back when the second moon was but a speck amongst the stars...

"...ye left the mos' importan' decision of yer life to a coin flip?"

Warren Castille · **05-01-2015, 08:36 AM**

You can't just anchor yourself to others, Warren.

It took a long moment for the laughter to subside. Twice Kolin seemed to be over it before a giggle fit would overtake him again and Warren waited out the development by staring into his refreshed drink.

"You ain't ever been one to just... risk things, Warren!" Kolin choked out the sentence as the humor finally slipped out of him. "What the hells made you put a decision like that on a bleedin' coin flip?!"

Warren shrugged a little. "Had a gut feeling? Didn't feel like my decision at all."

"Yeah, yeah. Divine innerven'on an' all that rot." The midlander shook his head and took another long drink. "An' whaddid ya get fer yer faith in the Twelve, Warren?"

Kolin's tone had changed a touch - Warren couldn't be sure if he was imagining the derision or if he was being leered at by someone who stayed on with the caravan for a few more seasons. "I've made a life here, Kol. I've got a home. Got a solid career. Fell in love a couple of times. I don't have any regrets about deciding to leave."

"Oh, ya think bein' Arbiter means sumthin' to the ressa' the worl'?" There wasn't any mistaking it at that; Kolin's temper had reached a boiling point and was no doubt spurred on by the potent ale the Quicksand peddled. "Gone like a thief inna' night wifout even tellin' nobody."

"Look, Kolin... It was spur of the moment, alright? You were there to here those fights. Things were changing and it was either him or me and you know that. Leaving without making a big deal was the best option."

"Don't preach at me, Warren!" There came a pause. Kolin stood up from his seat, swayed once, then shook his head. "Look, ferget it. M'glad that life turned out so grand fer ya after ya ran away. M'sure people think yer real great for stannin' up agains' what ye knew was the wrong choice."

"Kolin..." The highlander looked towards the other hyur but was met by his back as the man turned to walk away, in the direction of the Hourglass' entrance. The tipsy midlander didn't pause or offer a reply, but he didn't need to. The few words he'd spoken in anger or hurt or frustration left Warren with a wealth of questions and decisions to examine.

Warren Castille · **06-17-2015, 09:49 PM**

You're what gives me strength.

Warren Castille sat alone upon a rock nestled beside the stream at Fesca's Wash. Ul'dah stood opposite him, just along a road that is longer than it looks, the paved stones lying in the shadow of the nation that smoothed them over eons ago. What had once been nothing more than roughly hewn rock torn from the earth had been changed into something beneficial. Something more useful to those who had need of it. Warren had propped his forearms on his knees, his feet drawn up beneath him in a slightly relaxed pose. From it, he lazily lifted a hand and framed the nation between his thumb and forefinger. Perspective made all the difference sometimes.

There were too many conversations that echoed and lingered in his ears and conscience. It wasn't just the accusation that he'd abandoned those in need previously, though the taste of that had stayed with him despite the long nights between the now and the last time he'd seen Kolin. He'd turned those events over and over in his mind but couldn't come up with a satisfactory answer, and the weight of his perceived truth didn't need one. The many seasons since his exodus away from his makeshift home had impacted more than just himself, even if he didn't realize it at the time. Not one for philosophy, he didn't think much about the imagined ripple effect of those standing in the stream of time. Instead, Warren kept thinking of the rocks that made up the road.

Time and mastery had taken them and formed them into what they were; Artisans long with long forgotten names had built upon the ground with their means, and the flow of time did the rest. Trade routes once followed by memory beaten into the ground, made permanent by wear and rock. Tension had been rising in Ul'dah for what felt like a lifetime, and his discussion with the Monetarist had thrown his perspective wider than he'd let it grow himself. All sides had a feeling of where the road into the future should be paved. All sides had a feeling of what was the best course of action.

There was a new question dwelling in the back of his mind now. Ul'dah, its stylized domes glistening in the sun, seemed so small between his fingers. A mighty nation that had withstood war and the test of time enclosed in the hand of a simple man, though the future might be - could be - dictated by those so much smaller than the nation.

"So," the words whispered in places just below recognition. "So, are you the artisan? Or are you the stone?"

Warren Castille · **07-17-2015, 11:32 PM**

Warren listened as the man poured his story out, rough trappings and all. She was a good girl, meant well and resisted the family inheritance - near nothing, as anyone had to offer in Ul'dah - but she wasn't the sort to set out on her own. Too timid on her own was Arla, too quiet and too bashful. The girl might resent being resigned to open a stall to peddle wares, but she weren't the type to run off without a word. So spoke Master Armistahl, and so listened Warren Castille.

"She's not that kinda lass, I swears, sir," begged the trader. Bald before his normal years and beckoning with large, strong hands the trader looking to the Free Paladin for assistance. He'd heard of the knight prior to someone's little girl gone missing and sought the name out. It wasn't too hard to find in Ul'dah, not with the Grindstone as it was.

Warren had listened to the plea - A woman missing, young but not a child, yet not a matron, and it was unlike her to set out on her own. Something had gone wrong, and she'd gone missing, he was sure of it. A description didn't yield much - a fair haired, peasant maiden by the sounds of it - but Warren couldn't well ignore it. The Brass Blades would hear out a report of a missing person, but they'd only press it if a fairly sum were attached and in the case of Miss Arla Armistahl there was no wage, no price, no pay. This was a person who'd up and turned out, and there was no one else willing to look beyond her immediate family.

"Exploitation, sir," Warren offered as a despondent father poured out his guts. "You've some worth, and she is worth more to you yet. We'll see her home safe and sound, even if I've got to pay the difference to lure them out." Warren couldn't refuse a beckoning so personal, and he felt for the father's grievance; He was hardly worth blackmailing and the scandal wasn't worth of even the worse-off papers.

"Please, sir..." The elder Armistahl was barely able to keep his head up, his eyes heavy weights inside of his whites. "Please help my daughter..."

"I'll see her home," the paladin offered. He believed it at the time.

Warren Castille · **08-14-2015, 03:05 PM**

You can't live for other people.

The ferry rolled along the bounding surface of the Merlthor. Storms further out to sea had made the semi-annual passage a rollicking affair for any yet to find their sea legs. Several of the adults had taken refuge away from prying eyes to come to terms with their stomachs while those who'd spent time on ships grinned and joked knowingly. As ever when there wasn't trade to be done or chores to be handled, the younger folks of the odd community had taken to entertaining themselves.

"It's not even that far! I did it, so you have to too! Unless you're scared!" A boy who looked like he'd only had his first shave was calling to a beanpole of a child, younger but not by much.

"I'm not scared! I'm not scared of anything!" The flush in the boy's face was a mix of embarrassment and anger, though not necessarily in equal amounts.

"Y'are too! Scared like always!" Another voice from the crowd of a half-dozen mixed aged kids rallied on in favor of cowardice, but the big roegadyn child - hardly a child, if size and bulk accounted for anything, but still without many seasons gone by - shook his head.

"It's scary." There was a quiet murmur. Blackmast was a giant for his age, and the words sounded like support for the scrawny scrap of a person but there was a smug smile on his face, eyes gleaming like a predator. "It's okay if he's scared."

The beanpole glared back and the color in his cheeks maintained by the other emotion. "I ain't scared!" With a start the boy broke from the pack towards the deck rail of the ferry. Choppy, brackish seawater continued to sway the ship and the boy perhaps didn't look as daring as he had hoped when his arms went out to steady himself. He pretended not to hear the snickering laugh.

"You don't have to do this." Another voice spoke up, not as deep as the roegadyn but with the faint signs of maturity. The hyur looked at the roe with a set expression, but the younger child had already made up his mind.

"Shut up! I'm gon' walk the whole way 'roun' and that'll shut you up!" The skinny child didn't even look for an Elder or a shiphand that would yell before springing up onto the wooden rail. Moments prior to the argument, the youngest amongst them had walked a full ten fulms on the rail before hopping down. As young boys are wont to do, though, he immediately wheeled on the perceived weakest in the group. By tearing down another, children often think they can elevate themselves.

The hyur steadied himself with braced hands and feet before rising to a standing position, arms out for support when another rising swell rocked the boat. For a moment his arms pinwheeled, trying to keep himself from falling off of either side. The boys on the deck started to call out - If he fell and hurt himself, they'd be in trouble, and if he fell off of the ferry, they'd all be dead - but he righted himself. A self-indulgent grin flashed on his face before it twisted to a sneer aimed at the roegadyn.

He managed to take two careful steps before his footing slipped and he tumbled over the rail into the sputtering wake of the ferry.

A cry of genuine panic sounded from the port deck. Only one of them knew that he truthfully couldn't swim, and the taller hyur took crossed to the rail and bounded off the side after him. The roegadyn was yelling something but it was indiscernible before the boy hit the surface of the sea.

Warren Castille · **09-08-2015, 10:27 AM**

As he had done nearly every morning since establishing the Duskbreak, since before he had made it known and given it a name, Warren Castille sat at the sturdily built table and took a small breakfast before beginning the day. He used to think of it as hist table, just as he had thought of it as his house. Known to only himself initially, then only to three, then five, and now... The thought was interrupted as the coalition of miners set out for their day. They paid him a respectable enough greeting, all bowing their heads as they moved by wordlessly, and Warren took a deep breath as he reminded himself that yes, they were making use of both the airship hangars in the Goblet and one of the rooms he'd furnished.

The Duskbreak began as a safe house of sorts, intended to look the part of a small inn or humble bed and breakfast, just one that never truly opened to the outside world. It had been used as one, briefly, before being turned to a makeshift home for himself and Howl and Sei. He knew that it wasn't a closely guarded secret, but they seldom had guests and few ever came calling. There was the pink-haired lalafell and her grey miqo'te fiance, of course. She had come with gil, playing the part the papers had declared for her, but Warren had seen her at work, and knew she was accepting punishment for someone else's sins. He'd spent a night drinking with the miqo'te, the pair of them speaking without talking about the subject, and while there was a lot of pain and faith there was also certainty on behalf of the withered storyteller. Warren kept the pantry stocked with fine wines as means of some solidarity, having been in a situation similar himself once before, long ago.

Duskbreak found itself acting as a safe house again at the strong recommendation of the Judge, and Warren had offered sanctuary to Marisae without a second thought. It was clear the woman truly needed it, having become embroiled in some Ishgardian heresy plot. Bounty hunters had come out of the woodwork suddenly, at the declaration from a noblewoman that had given Sei no small trouble upon a chance meeting in the Quicksand. The white-haired hyur who seemed to be leading the charge made two glaring mistakes in as many days. The first was a package of descriptions detailing nearly everyone who had come to or departed from the Duskbreak since the trouble had started, and Warren Castille did not respond to poorly-veiled threats. The second mistake was arriving at the Grindstone with several of the others who had staged an attempted kidnapping on Mari, and speaking openly about their intentions. Warren had acted rashly when they stuck around, calling attention to the hyur and making it known in front of nearly three score of devoted fighters that should anything happen, or any rumor stir, about the Grindstone overseers or healers, that the white-haired man was responsible, and that Warren wouldn't hold anyone accountable should action warrant reaction.

There was also the small issue of the ghost reappearing. Warren hadn't been sure at first she was real, but after speaking and sharing a meal it was made clear that she had been through very much, and that sometimes rumors are only that. She, too, had taken refuge in the Duskbreak - though she would never refer to it as such - and she had brought hired help. They had brought assistance in the form of wards and additional security; All of Warren's devices were for the purpose of collecting information, not deterring entry, but recent events had made it clear he could not afford to seek shelter in obscurity.

Her return had been the acting herald of the rest of the changes that followed suit, and what had been designed as a secret safe space was now becoming a fortified base of operations. Majority of the Grindstone's overseeing staff all lived under a shared roof, or visited frequently enough to count. There were plainly-declared threats against him and his own. It had been suggested to him that Warren officially claim themselves as a Free Company, and while he was resistant to making any sort of pledge of allegiance to anyone but his family he could not deny the benefits of having the affiliations.

It was an awful lot to think on.

Warren Castille · **03-03-2016, 11:20 AM**

Paperwork and ledgers, inventory and numbers. They weren't strangers, not exactly. More like old friends from a life left behind, only now visiting. Not the friendly kind of visitors, the ones who come bearing gifts and pies and then go about their business. These were the kind of friends you've forgotten some of the details of, the sort who swing by and outlast their welcome, the kind you wouldn't mind leaving. Work that had to be done.

It was one of those changes he hadn't expected, the devious sort that you didn't realize was growing until someone pointed out that you had an auroch in the room. Originally the Duskbreak only had need for emergency stores of food and supplies; Preserved foods that would last, the kind that wouldn't mind if no one visited in a long while. Eventually the building became less of a stash and more of a home, and actual foodstuffs and day-to-day necessities became staples. Drinks, alcohols, stocks of bottles and a surplus of wines added to regular shopping trips. Then came the rest: Ores and metals for upkeep, cloth and leather for repairs, raw ingredients for cooking and baking - even if that last one wasn't on the list any longer - and the sort of duties, tasks and deeds that went with owning and operating a functional housing unit. It became almost mechanical in exercise as the occupants didn't vary much. Plus one here, minus one there, the required stocks didn't fluctuate terribly much. Inventory was something he hated doing as a boy, but the requirements didn't go away anymore than his disdain for the process did.

When he came across the anomaly he had to doublecheck; The number of things he needed to buy on the regular was so unwavering that at first he suspected he'd zoned out and merely missed the count. A second perusal showed there was no error, however: Despite no additional meals or gatherings, he was missing a suspiciously high number of dried foodstuffs. There wasn't a mistake about it, and not even extra snacking or hungry cravings could account for the fact that the Duskbreak was missing enough food to feed two or three extra people.

Old friends you didn't prefer to see, indeed.

Warren Castille · **03-08-2016, 01:27 PM**

The more Warren turned over the oddities in the inventory lists, the stranger the case seemed to be. Speaking about it with Sei hadn't done much to clarify anything, far from it - Now he was more wary of a list of explanations.

The first and most readily discarded was that the Duskbreak was no longer a secure location. That wasn't an option, as the building was always intended to be someplace to rest weary heads, and the prospect that someone was able to slip in and out undetected multiple times... Unlikely, implausible. He couldn't accept that.

Who, then? The heiress? Her cover story was known to Warren, and she would presume then it extended to both Howl and Sei. Warren trusted her to the extent that he did only because they were both aware of one another, and her acting in a way to undermine that would go exceptionally bad for her and her interests. While he didn't trust her partner one bit, he didn't think she would cross Warren's trust to supply him. Besides, crystals and food? Nonsensical, given her own connections.

The only other candidate he had in mind was the one he didn't have a solid plan to approach. The details around the baker's disappearance were minimal - if they existed at all - and all came on hearsay from the seer. She considered herself a "replacement" and wasn't forthcoming about many details except what she found relevant. Could she be siphoning off supplies to route elsewhere? Her tribe was also an unknown; Perhaps her entire endeavor to the Jewel was to play up her small connections inside of it, to slip away necessities to those she left behind...

But that didn't jive either. The amount taken wouldn't sustain a village, it would only be enough for one person for a short while, or a few people for a day. The crystals didn't fit into anything, though, and that was what bothered Warren the most. Someone was stealing them away for some reason, and the longer Warren was unable to piece together a connection, the worse things were likely to be. Without a solid lead, his only option for now was to resupply. Tipping his hand that he was aware of the thefts was not in his best interests. The necessity of it ate at him.

Warren Castille · **03-22-2016, 11:58 AM**

Warren couldn't shake the feeling that storm clouds were gathering. No, scratch that: They had been gathering for far longer than he paid mind to, and now the weight of them and the thickness of the air were finally pressing down on him.

Brief words with the doorman seemed more prescient than ever as he considered the traces of evidence. If he'd've just asked first, he would have been keyed in much sooner and things might have gone differently. Too often he found himself thinking on how things might have been. There wasn't any solace in the fact that he couldn't have known by himself, since his lack of communication stared in his face whenever his thoughts attempted to shift blame.

No, scratch that: It wasn't blame, just responsibility. No one had ever asked the highlander for these things. He took it upon himself to try and provide. The very founding of the Duskbreak was done with an eye towards sheltering others. Any of the myriad personalities dwelling within had been offered solace there; Even if they had come seeking it the words came from Warren first. The weight of it was his, as no one had ever offered it to him.

That was true of majority of his world now. A long line of following instincts or doing what he considered right had given him numerous mantles, titles, and masks. His feelings were always slow to accept them, but he couldn't deny any longer that the decision was always his. It went a long way to explain why his failures plagued him as much as they did; What good was a gesture if you offer it and then cannot deliver? His best intentions had let down the most important people in his life before, and even with those gaps bridged and reinforced there always seemed more when he looked behind himself. Two, now, specifically.

The missing food had been located. All it took was a simple question, and he would have known that it was entirely unrelated to the missing supplies and crystals. With that part of the equation removed, and the history of the Duskbreak's inhabitants considered, there really seemed only two possibilities with one far less likely than the other. Failures left on their own to fester seldom healed. He should have known that. He should have done something about it.

Deep in his bones, he thought he felt thunder.

Warren Castille · **03-24-2016, 11:17 AM**

The conversation with the monetarist and her companion stuck with him through the night and into the morning. Titles and honorifics, the sorts of things tacked onto a name to give it sanction and station and importance. The monetarist had argued that those things were what defined a person, but Warren had never subscribed to that convention. Titles and honorifics were the sorts of things, to him, that other people affixed. That was all. He'd introduced himself as Warren Castille and allowed the others present to play up his rank and station; Rank and station that didn't exist in the upper or lower echelons of Ul'dahn society proper, yet ones that enough people seemed to treat as if they were real. As far as Warren stated, he was just a man. The monetarist posited that nobody is just their name.

That position echoed in the Duskbreak. Warren had made it a priority to keep his sword and armor in pristine condition, but that priority had slipped somewhat. The rack of armor that held the armor he'd associated with as a free paladin remained polished, but the lack of use had permitted a small coating of dust to settle on it. Beside it, the black and red scale and chain remained in immaculate condition, polished and oiled and mended as necessary. He reasoned away that it was merely due to time, and other things requiring his attention, but the blow had been struck nonetheless.

His wardrobe added voice to the choir as well. Warren considered himself a simple man of relatively simple taste; No need for vibrant color or precise, fanciful design when sturdy, comfortable clothing would suffice. Yet the collection of things to wear about his home varied; There were the simple brown and greys of the tunics and kurtas he'd once worn outside of his armor, and the well-worn boots remained aside in the event he'd need them. Added to the mix were the fashioned and trim coats and and tabards, with shined boots and immaculate gloves that spoke of someone beyond a simple man. He'd been sold on the idea that as someone of some tiny bit of regional renown, he should look the part. The clothes came as a gift, but he'd worn them initially as a costume. Now, he found himself using the look more and more.

The thought troubled him more than it should have. When had he stopped seeing those tokens as merely tokens? When had those bits of rank and station slipped inside of his barriers? Rejecting them as nonsense felt invalid in the face of accepting them elsewhere. All the same, he pulled the tabard free and began to dress in the blue and black pattern. He had places to be that evening.

Warren Castille · **04-01-2016, 10:39 AM**

A sliver of the moon waned in the sky above the Goblet, a clear night that covered Thanalan under a blanket of twinkling stars. The lights of the main pathways helped to down out the sight of the heavens but away from them, or as away as one could get without falling over a railing, helped Warren stare off at them. The kick of the alcohol had done its worse by then, though he wasn't in much headspace to rush home.

The subjects of destiny and fate had come up more often in recent time than he thought they had ever previously. The sorceress was fatalistic to the point of nihilism at times, the seeress believed fate was guaranteed unless it wasn't, and now someone else added to the idea that regardless of what he had chosen, Warren would have wound up in the same place. The world was a large place, larger than he thought anyone realized - including himself - and there were forces in play he felt operated on a level that no one could understand. Still, he couldn't bring himself to consider that his choices were not his own.

Tensions had driven him to the breaking point all those years ago; Arguments about what was best for the caravan. Already groups had splintered off to find their own headings, and what Warren remembered as a traveling colony of well-meaning folks seemed more and more to be fracturing away from each other. It would have been more difficult to leave in the first place if not for the anger that only young men seem to possess, but he made his choice in the morning.

...except that wasn't quite how it happened. It was a coin flip, not a decision to leave. In a moment of clarity he chose to figure it out in the morning, going to sleep angry and knowing that a mistake like this could leave him dead in the road within a few days. Was the choice truly his own, then? A turn of the gil in the air could have shifted his life in dramatic ways. She had said that he may have found his way eventually, regardless, but was that possible? He'd been in Ul'dah for only a short while before running into the woman who would change his life, and that couldn't have happened if he hadn't

run away

left when he did. But was that even true? Finnegar had found his way to an axe, after all, despite growing up a bit of a troublemaker. He'd stayed behind to protect what he believed in and he caught an arrow in the back for it. Warren remembered him as a skirt-chasing free spirit, but in the years that transpired he'd become a family man, and he left behind a safe, protected trading group and a wife he had longed to provide for.

And so Warren sat, gazing up into the stars and contemplating what came before, what came now and what would come. How did those he'd left behind remembered him? He and Finnegar had been thick as thieves. What would he have made of the way their lives turned out? If destiny was truly an inescapable path, why did it wait until the man was dead to let Warren find out he had a brother-in-law?

Only Fools Rush In

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