A Day Or Two Later:
They came for him later in the evening, as he'd suspected. It took longer for them to arrive than Verad had supposed, despite going out of his way to make it easy for them. Lurking around Pearl Lane for as long as he did, he was sure that even if they did not take him, somebody would, whether that be some of the dirtier Blades or a few disgruntled refugees. But he was lucky, and the right people waylaid him before anyone else had the chance, waiting until his back was conspicuously turned to the main street before striking him a hard blow against the back of the head. They were well-practiced, and unconsciousness came mercifully quickly; he only had the vaguest impression that he was being secured and placed out of sight as darkness overtook his vision.
He awoke to find himself in a muddy, blurry kind of darkness, the presence of heavy burlap over his eyes, bindings around his his hands and feet, and a gag in his mouth suggesting that they would very much appreciate it if he did not say anything that might attract the rare honest Blade, and if he could do that then things would be much simpler for all parties so involved. Nothing if not an obliging guest, Verad complied, and, save for all the bumps, the trip was much smoother for it.
After a time, they pulled the sack away from Verad's face and splashed lukewarm, tepid water in his eyes. Why they did that, he had no idea. To wake him up, he supposed, but between the stinging pain in the back of his head from where he'd been struck and the jostling and rattling of the wagon over every last bump in Thanalan (he assumed it was a wagon, and a poorly-maintained one, given the prevalence of splinters strong enough to laugh at burlap and plunge right through his clothing), there'd been no chance of him being unconscious outside of his initial abduction. Surely, he thought, they could at least have the decency to check before subjecting a person to immersion, but that was routine for you: bringing about sloppy work as much as in kidnapping as it could in retail.
Regardless, he found himself wet where he hadn't been, his beard dampened and giving him a look more like a particularly virile rodent than his usual winning features. He had very little time to protest however, being able to do little more before a harsh voice grated against his ear. "He's awake! Unload him."
Verad scarcely had time to consider his cover story before he felt hands pulling out his gag, unbinding him, gripping his shoulders and, with what he considered very little delicacy given his reputation and prominence within the city, thrown from what felt like a very high place to collapse into the dirt. "Come on, on your feet. Didn't hit you that hard."
This took a bit of doing; Verad found his legs a little weak from sitting in an awkward position for Twelve-knew-how-long, and he could feel dirt caking into his now-wet beard, turning it into a patch of bristled mud. He was torn between wiping this off and rising up, and did poorly at both. Only once he was upright did he finally get the chance to examine his surroundings.
They were desert. This much he suspected, but he also found himself in front of a substantial barricade, behind which stood a number of buildings in various states of disrepair. Behind it, a number of what appeared to be workers loitered in the outdoors, giving him no particular notice outside of the occasional bored glances.Â
The guards bore immediate attention, standing between he and the barricade, hands at their belts and, by coincidence, near the hilts of their swords, bemused looks upon their faces as if about to hear their favorite joke. Between them, a slightly ill-looking Lalafell flipped through a set of freshly-inked papers. Not Jeresu, by Verad's estimation. He had trouble telling the Dunesfolk apart, but Jeresu's hair wasn't so green, nor were his cheeks. "Verad Bellveil?" he asked, plucking one parchment free of the mass.
Verad nodded, but, midway through doing so, seemed to hesitate. He had, after all, just been abducted from the streets of Ul'dah. A greater deal of confusion seemed appropriate, and so what had started as a pleased smile at the sound of his own name shifted into rapid blinking and a confused look, coupled with multiple panicked-seeming glances to his left and right, as if seeking escape. If the guards or the Lalafell noticed the shift, they didn't comment.
"Just to confirm," he went on, proffering the document up for Verad's perusal. "This is your signature, correct?" Puzzled, or near to it, he dropped down to his knees to examine the paper. Sure enough, there was his signature, exaggerated flourish at the V, extra loops at the final L and all. It was exactly as he'd left it on the informational slip he'd provided to Jeresu the night or nights before. "That's . . . yes, that's mine," he said, feigning confusion. "How did - "Â
"Because you signed it, sir," replied the Lalafell, peering up at Verad with the annoyed look of someone explaining the obvious. "Your contract with the company, in order to work off your debts. You'll find your trader's authorization here - " he pointed to a small scribble Verad could only assume belonged to Jeresu, "And here. Ten year contract, very favorable terms, according to your trader. Should be worked off in half that time if you're diligent."
He couldn't stop his face from falling at the mere thought of ten years, and he heard the guards chuckle, approaching their desired punchline. "But - I mean," Verad stammered, looking around the desert and rubbing the back of his head. "The blow - "
"Traders may, if they are concerned that their debtors are a flight risk, employ force within reasonable limits to ensure the safe delivery of their laborers to third parties." The Lalafell's voice had the bored tone of recitation. "If you feel the force was unreasonable, you can speak with management regarding a complaint later. For now we need to get you sorted, set you up with your uniform, establish your company account, assign sleeping quarters and work shifts, and perform the necessary medical examinations. Are you ready?"
Verad glanced between he and the guards, whose grins only seemed to widen. What shift in his stance, he wondered, would make them think him a "flight risk?" A bending of the knees? Perhaps a squaring of the jaw? And what force would they think reasonable to employ?
He hung his head. "I am."
"Very good, then. Just step through the barricade and they'll get you sorted. And welcome to the Coblyn's Fancy Mining Company." The Lalafell waved a hand vaguely behind him before swinging on his heel to march to the west. Verad followed his path for a moment to see other buildings in the distance; company offices, no doubt, and at a far remove from the worker camp. Offering a resigned sigh, he stepped forward.
He was stopped by a hand at his chest, the guard in front of him giving him a curious look. "I've seen you somewhere," he said, frowning, and for an instant Verad felt his heart hammer against his ribs. "Sir, I - I assure you that it must be - "
"No, no, I have. You're Bellveil, aren't you? Merchant? Always wandering around selling 'dubious goods'?" He snorted. "How'd that business work out for you, then?"
"Ah, so you have heard of me!" His grin was bright and grateful. "Then let me assure you that this is only a temporary setback. Once my debts are paid, I shall be back in my office - "
"Heard it was just a rug," said the other guard. "Wasn't it just a rug."
The grin turned to grimace very quickly. "Yes," he sighed, stepping past them and into the camp. "It always comes back to the damned rug."
They came for him later in the evening, as he'd suspected. It took longer for them to arrive than Verad had supposed, despite going out of his way to make it easy for them. Lurking around Pearl Lane for as long as he did, he was sure that even if they did not take him, somebody would, whether that be some of the dirtier Blades or a few disgruntled refugees. But he was lucky, and the right people waylaid him before anyone else had the chance, waiting until his back was conspicuously turned to the main street before striking him a hard blow against the back of the head. They were well-practiced, and unconsciousness came mercifully quickly; he only had the vaguest impression that he was being secured and placed out of sight as darkness overtook his vision.
He awoke to find himself in a muddy, blurry kind of darkness, the presence of heavy burlap over his eyes, bindings around his his hands and feet, and a gag in his mouth suggesting that they would very much appreciate it if he did not say anything that might attract the rare honest Blade, and if he could do that then things would be much simpler for all parties so involved. Nothing if not an obliging guest, Verad complied, and, save for all the bumps, the trip was much smoother for it.
After a time, they pulled the sack away from Verad's face and splashed lukewarm, tepid water in his eyes. Why they did that, he had no idea. To wake him up, he supposed, but between the stinging pain in the back of his head from where he'd been struck and the jostling and rattling of the wagon over every last bump in Thanalan (he assumed it was a wagon, and a poorly-maintained one, given the prevalence of splinters strong enough to laugh at burlap and plunge right through his clothing), there'd been no chance of him being unconscious outside of his initial abduction. Surely, he thought, they could at least have the decency to check before subjecting a person to immersion, but that was routine for you: bringing about sloppy work as much as in kidnapping as it could in retail.
Regardless, he found himself wet where he hadn't been, his beard dampened and giving him a look more like a particularly virile rodent than his usual winning features. He had very little time to protest however, being able to do little more before a harsh voice grated against his ear. "He's awake! Unload him."
Verad scarcely had time to consider his cover story before he felt hands pulling out his gag, unbinding him, gripping his shoulders and, with what he considered very little delicacy given his reputation and prominence within the city, thrown from what felt like a very high place to collapse into the dirt. "Come on, on your feet. Didn't hit you that hard."
This took a bit of doing; Verad found his legs a little weak from sitting in an awkward position for Twelve-knew-how-long, and he could feel dirt caking into his now-wet beard, turning it into a patch of bristled mud. He was torn between wiping this off and rising up, and did poorly at both. Only once he was upright did he finally get the chance to examine his surroundings.
They were desert. This much he suspected, but he also found himself in front of a substantial barricade, behind which stood a number of buildings in various states of disrepair. Behind it, a number of what appeared to be workers loitered in the outdoors, giving him no particular notice outside of the occasional bored glances.Â
The guards bore immediate attention, standing between he and the barricade, hands at their belts and, by coincidence, near the hilts of their swords, bemused looks upon their faces as if about to hear their favorite joke. Between them, a slightly ill-looking Lalafell flipped through a set of freshly-inked papers. Not Jeresu, by Verad's estimation. He had trouble telling the Dunesfolk apart, but Jeresu's hair wasn't so green, nor were his cheeks. "Verad Bellveil?" he asked, plucking one parchment free of the mass.
Verad nodded, but, midway through doing so, seemed to hesitate. He had, after all, just been abducted from the streets of Ul'dah. A greater deal of confusion seemed appropriate, and so what had started as a pleased smile at the sound of his own name shifted into rapid blinking and a confused look, coupled with multiple panicked-seeming glances to his left and right, as if seeking escape. If the guards or the Lalafell noticed the shift, they didn't comment.
"Just to confirm," he went on, proffering the document up for Verad's perusal. "This is your signature, correct?" Puzzled, or near to it, he dropped down to his knees to examine the paper. Sure enough, there was his signature, exaggerated flourish at the V, extra loops at the final L and all. It was exactly as he'd left it on the informational slip he'd provided to Jeresu the night or nights before. "That's . . . yes, that's mine," he said, feigning confusion. "How did - "Â
"Because you signed it, sir," replied the Lalafell, peering up at Verad with the annoyed look of someone explaining the obvious. "Your contract with the company, in order to work off your debts. You'll find your trader's authorization here - " he pointed to a small scribble Verad could only assume belonged to Jeresu, "And here. Ten year contract, very favorable terms, according to your trader. Should be worked off in half that time if you're diligent."
He couldn't stop his face from falling at the mere thought of ten years, and he heard the guards chuckle, approaching their desired punchline. "But - I mean," Verad stammered, looking around the desert and rubbing the back of his head. "The blow - "
"Traders may, if they are concerned that their debtors are a flight risk, employ force within reasonable limits to ensure the safe delivery of their laborers to third parties." The Lalafell's voice had the bored tone of recitation. "If you feel the force was unreasonable, you can speak with management regarding a complaint later. For now we need to get you sorted, set you up with your uniform, establish your company account, assign sleeping quarters and work shifts, and perform the necessary medical examinations. Are you ready?"
Verad glanced between he and the guards, whose grins only seemed to widen. What shift in his stance, he wondered, would make them think him a "flight risk?" A bending of the knees? Perhaps a squaring of the jaw? And what force would they think reasonable to employ?
He hung his head. "I am."
"Very good, then. Just step through the barricade and they'll get you sorted. And welcome to the Coblyn's Fancy Mining Company." The Lalafell waved a hand vaguely behind him before swinging on his heel to march to the west. Verad followed his path for a moment to see other buildings in the distance; company offices, no doubt, and at a far remove from the worker camp. Offering a resigned sigh, he stepped forward.
He was stopped by a hand at his chest, the guard in front of him giving him a curious look. "I've seen you somewhere," he said, frowning, and for an instant Verad felt his heart hammer against his ribs. "Sir, I - I assure you that it must be - "
"No, no, I have. You're Bellveil, aren't you? Merchant? Always wandering around selling 'dubious goods'?" He snorted. "How'd that business work out for you, then?"
"Ah, so you have heard of me!" His grin was bright and grateful. "Then let me assure you that this is only a temporary setback. Once my debts are paid, I shall be back in my office - "
"Heard it was just a rug," said the other guard. "Wasn't it just a rug."
The grin turned to grimace very quickly. "Yes," he sighed, stepping past them and into the camp. "It always comes back to the damned rug."
Verad Bellveil's Profile | The Case of the Ransacked Rug | Verad's Fate Sheet
Current Fate-14 Storyline:Â Merchant, Marine
Current Fate-14 Storyline:Â Merchant, Marine
