A thousand thousand threads of smoke rose in the evening sky over Ul'dah. The air was bitingly cold, unseasonably so, and each of the city's inhabitants burned fires to stave it off. No breeze stirred the cold air, and the city's smokes mixed into a stale lens that drove people indoors and led those who ventured into the streets to don makeshift masks to try to filter out the corruption and ash.
Further in from the Gold Court, past the Path of Coin and angling off from Fish Street was a cramped alley. In the back, a lone Miqo'te curled around a tiny brazier, feeding pellets of charcoal into the fierce, bright fire in an attempt to stay warm. His clothes were good, but worn, and a well-loved lance leaned against the wall. He cursed softly as his fingers found nothing more in the little box he'd bought. It was going to get cold before the night was over.
What drove him out of his bed? Away from the company of the white-haired woman who shared his life. What spurred him to trade comfort for the chill of this alley, the tiny flame of this brazier? Was he dissatisfied with his life? Had it always been so? He remembered pain on the sands as he fought the other Wolf-tribe Tias for the title and priviledge he sought for his own. He remembered the warm touch of the females after he'd won. Why had he left that? Left them? For this sandy city? For the wine and the stories and the smokes? For a Hyur? Why, then, had he left her as well?
He remembered stories of men who always sought what they didn't have. They would gain lives that other men would be happy to live, and they would forsake them in the hunt for what could be. Those stories almost never ended well, and he knew it. Yet here he was, in this alley, staring at the last pellet of charcoal as it slowly grew darker, cooler. He could return right now. Return to his Hyur, to his bed, to warmth and comfort. Instead, he prodded at the pellet with the sharp point of a dagger, stirring it to a last flicker of heat. He closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth, pretending for a moment he was somewhere else.
The pellet went out. He looked up into the chill of the sky. The red, baleful eye of Moraig had just surmounted the sharp spire of Teleg Than. It was time. Rising to his feet, he took his lance and walked out of the alley into the broad street beyond. Facing him stood a small knot of people: A richly dressed Lalafell surrounded by men in browned-iron bearing swords. The Lalafell was young, looking almost childlike with his lack of beard, his soft limbs. Yet the Miqo'te knew that others had paid dearly for their mistake in thinking him weak. This was Benetua Ruranua, representative of Lolorito himself. The Lalafell covered his nose with a finely embroidered silk handkerchief and sniffed diffidently, an obvious affectation.
"Val Nunh", Benetua's voice was soft and quiet, and the Miqo'te had to strain to hear it. "Thank you for coming to speak with me tonight. I think you'll find my proposition... *interesting*..."
Further in from the Gold Court, past the Path of Coin and angling off from Fish Street was a cramped alley. In the back, a lone Miqo'te curled around a tiny brazier, feeding pellets of charcoal into the fierce, bright fire in an attempt to stay warm. His clothes were good, but worn, and a well-loved lance leaned against the wall. He cursed softly as his fingers found nothing more in the little box he'd bought. It was going to get cold before the night was over.
What drove him out of his bed? Away from the company of the white-haired woman who shared his life. What spurred him to trade comfort for the chill of this alley, the tiny flame of this brazier? Was he dissatisfied with his life? Had it always been so? He remembered pain on the sands as he fought the other Wolf-tribe Tias for the title and priviledge he sought for his own. He remembered the warm touch of the females after he'd won. Why had he left that? Left them? For this sandy city? For the wine and the stories and the smokes? For a Hyur? Why, then, had he left her as well?
He remembered stories of men who always sought what they didn't have. They would gain lives that other men would be happy to live, and they would forsake them in the hunt for what could be. Those stories almost never ended well, and he knew it. Yet here he was, in this alley, staring at the last pellet of charcoal as it slowly grew darker, cooler. He could return right now. Return to his Hyur, to his bed, to warmth and comfort. Instead, he prodded at the pellet with the sharp point of a dagger, stirring it to a last flicker of heat. He closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth, pretending for a moment he was somewhere else.
The pellet went out. He looked up into the chill of the sky. The red, baleful eye of Moraig had just surmounted the sharp spire of Teleg Than. It was time. Rising to his feet, he took his lance and walked out of the alley into the broad street beyond. Facing him stood a small knot of people: A richly dressed Lalafell surrounded by men in browned-iron bearing swords. The Lalafell was young, looking almost childlike with his lack of beard, his soft limbs. Yet the Miqo'te knew that others had paid dearly for their mistake in thinking him weak. This was Benetua Ruranua, representative of Lolorito himself. The Lalafell covered his nose with a finely embroidered silk handkerchief and sniffed diffidently, an obvious affectation.
"Val Nunh", Benetua's voice was soft and quiet, and the Miqo'te had to strain to hear it. "Thank you for coming to speak with me tonight. I think you'll find my proposition... *interesting*..."
