It was only with a great deal of effort that Nero managed to repress a scowl at being dragged through the headquarters of the Brass Blades. Nothing sunk his mood more than forced exposure to Ul'dah's thugs in slipshod armour. They were little more than paid enforcers for the Monetarists, conscripted to be cannon fodder against the Amal'jaa, all the while administering their employers' generous policies to anyone who didn't have enough gil to purchase some respite. Outside of the city, they may have different stories, but within these walls the only thing that separated the Blades from the bandits were the uniforms.
How many of his friends vanished into the gaols, never to be seen again? How often did he see them dealing with the bandit gangs they were supposed to be arresting, their eyes gleaming with greed at the prospect of gil and the warm touch of a few prostitutes? How many times did they witness a refugee being beaten, only to turn their heads away from the beleaguered cries for mercy? How many times had they blackened his eyes and kicked in his ribs, just because he tried to feed himself?
Within these walls, in the presence of the Monetarist's gangsters, Nero considered himself to be a righteous citizen in comparison to these criminals.
Upon meeting the Hellsguard, Nero gave a stiff bow of his head. While he would have ordinarily loved to engage in his usual quips and sarcasm, the Roegadyn was a fair ways larger than Nero had expected, and the smuggler wasn't interested in getting an arm broken today, and simply looking at the Brass Blades had soured the Hyur's mood enough to guarantee that no mordant remarks would emerge from him for now.
"My name is Sebastian Redgrave, ser. I am a trader just in from Limsa Lominsa." The casual observer might have called Nero's ability to change demeanors intimidating. Naught but a few hours ago, his grin had been plastered across his face like a child browsing an infinite selection of sweets, and he had been aggressively passing out bad jokes in the same way a philanthropist might have tossed out gil at a banquet.
But now, his eyes were dull and flat. His tone was metallic; it rang hollow, cold and steely. Nero's words were polite, but within his voice there was no warmth to be found. He knew he should let Roen explain the situation; leaving the talking to the paladin might have been the more pragmatic idea, even if she lacked the ability to lie. Even so, she knew these people and would be able to explain the situation in such a way that would allow them to obtain what they needed.
And yet, in what could only be described as an emotional impulse, Nero's mouth continued running, his tone becoming more and more caustic as he did.
"I will get straight to the point, for I am sure a man of your stature is not interested in suffering the presence of one such as I." It took every ounce of self-control the smuggler had to keep his words from being doused in venom right from the get-go; as it stood, they were only laced with it.Â
"Your compatriots within the Blades have confiscated a wagon of my goods. These goods were legal; the manifests were accurate, as was my merchant's seal, in addition to an affidavit vowing to the authenticity of the items." That last part wasn't true, but let the Roegadyn think it was. It was something that could possibly appeal to whatever passed for a sense of justice in this city.
Nero folded his arms, further indulging in his acrimonious behaviour. His voice remained quiet, so as to not draw attention, but his words remained fiery. Â "Now, I realise that Ul'dah doesn't have laws so much as it has gil-enforced suggestions," Despite his best efforts, Nero failed to repress his sardonicism. "but in the interest of at least maintaining the illusion of order and honesty within this godsforsaken city, I would like to ask that the Brass Blades investigate as to the whereabouts of my stolen goods--and stolen they were, by criminals in uniform--and secure them. Failing that, providing their location will be enough for me to retrieve my property on my own, seeing as how competence is in such short supply in Ul'dah."
What was he doing? He was better than this. He knew better. He had more than enough self-control, and there was nothing he detested more than losing that self-control to emotional impulse. Nero felt as if he were an outside observer to his own body, unable to stop himself from spewing his scarcely-contained vitriol, like a ship that could not help but be shaken by violent waves. All he needed was to explain his situation simply and politely, and let Roen handle the rest. Broken Nose would help them retrieve what they needed, and they could carry out their plan without a hitch.
And so, why did he apparently choose now of all times to lose himself to contempt, to anger? His memories of the Brass Blades were...unpleasant didn't even begin to describe it, but they were in the past. Nero had conquered Ul'dah's hold over him. The smuggler had come to this city to change its future, not to become mired in his own melodramatic past.
At last, after a few seconds of silence that felt like hours, Nero felt he had some measure of control over his body--and more importantly, his words. He didn't notice that his hands had tightened enough to cast a pale pallor over his knuckles, but he turned away from the Hellsguard to stare at the wall, his earrings chiming as he did. The pirate breathed in deeply before exhaling.
"I...do not expect you to accept my apologies, ser, but I offer them nonetheless." Nero's tone remained steely but at least somewhat more cordial than it had been previously. "It has been a trying time for me, and I have not adapted to the city as well as I had liked. Please...listen to what Miss Deneith has to say."
How many of his friends vanished into the gaols, never to be seen again? How often did he see them dealing with the bandit gangs they were supposed to be arresting, their eyes gleaming with greed at the prospect of gil and the warm touch of a few prostitutes? How many times did they witness a refugee being beaten, only to turn their heads away from the beleaguered cries for mercy? How many times had they blackened his eyes and kicked in his ribs, just because he tried to feed himself?
Within these walls, in the presence of the Monetarist's gangsters, Nero considered himself to be a righteous citizen in comparison to these criminals.
Upon meeting the Hellsguard, Nero gave a stiff bow of his head. While he would have ordinarily loved to engage in his usual quips and sarcasm, the Roegadyn was a fair ways larger than Nero had expected, and the smuggler wasn't interested in getting an arm broken today, and simply looking at the Brass Blades had soured the Hyur's mood enough to guarantee that no mordant remarks would emerge from him for now.
"My name is Sebastian Redgrave, ser. I am a trader just in from Limsa Lominsa." The casual observer might have called Nero's ability to change demeanors intimidating. Naught but a few hours ago, his grin had been plastered across his face like a child browsing an infinite selection of sweets, and he had been aggressively passing out bad jokes in the same way a philanthropist might have tossed out gil at a banquet.
But now, his eyes were dull and flat. His tone was metallic; it rang hollow, cold and steely. Nero's words were polite, but within his voice there was no warmth to be found. He knew he should let Roen explain the situation; leaving the talking to the paladin might have been the more pragmatic idea, even if she lacked the ability to lie. Even so, she knew these people and would be able to explain the situation in such a way that would allow them to obtain what they needed.
And yet, in what could only be described as an emotional impulse, Nero's mouth continued running, his tone becoming more and more caustic as he did.
"I will get straight to the point, for I am sure a man of your stature is not interested in suffering the presence of one such as I." It took every ounce of self-control the smuggler had to keep his words from being doused in venom right from the get-go; as it stood, they were only laced with it.Â
"Your compatriots within the Blades have confiscated a wagon of my goods. These goods were legal; the manifests were accurate, as was my merchant's seal, in addition to an affidavit vowing to the authenticity of the items." That last part wasn't true, but let the Roegadyn think it was. It was something that could possibly appeal to whatever passed for a sense of justice in this city.
Nero folded his arms, further indulging in his acrimonious behaviour. His voice remained quiet, so as to not draw attention, but his words remained fiery. Â "Now, I realise that Ul'dah doesn't have laws so much as it has gil-enforced suggestions," Despite his best efforts, Nero failed to repress his sardonicism. "but in the interest of at least maintaining the illusion of order and honesty within this godsforsaken city, I would like to ask that the Brass Blades investigate as to the whereabouts of my stolen goods--and stolen they were, by criminals in uniform--and secure them. Failing that, providing their location will be enough for me to retrieve my property on my own, seeing as how competence is in such short supply in Ul'dah."
What was he doing? He was better than this. He knew better. He had more than enough self-control, and there was nothing he detested more than losing that self-control to emotional impulse. Nero felt as if he were an outside observer to his own body, unable to stop himself from spewing his scarcely-contained vitriol, like a ship that could not help but be shaken by violent waves. All he needed was to explain his situation simply and politely, and let Roen handle the rest. Broken Nose would help them retrieve what they needed, and they could carry out their plan without a hitch.
And so, why did he apparently choose now of all times to lose himself to contempt, to anger? His memories of the Brass Blades were...unpleasant didn't even begin to describe it, but they were in the past. Nero had conquered Ul'dah's hold over him. The smuggler had come to this city to change its future, not to become mired in his own melodramatic past.
At last, after a few seconds of silence that felt like hours, Nero felt he had some measure of control over his body--and more importantly, his words. He didn't notice that his hands had tightened enough to cast a pale pallor over his knuckles, but he turned away from the Hellsguard to stare at the wall, his earrings chiming as he did. The pirate breathed in deeply before exhaling.
"I...do not expect you to accept my apologies, ser, but I offer them nonetheless." Nero's tone remained steely but at least somewhat more cordial than it had been previously. "It has been a trying time for me, and I have not adapted to the city as well as I had liked. Please...listen to what Miss Deneith has to say."
