(( Recap of in-game session ends here ))
The sun had sunk fully beneath the horizon, and night enveloped Ul'dah. His whimsical dinner date with the paladin had taken longer than he had expected, but the smuggler counted himself lucky that he was not too delayed. What I wouldn't do for a Garlean timepiece, Nero sighed inwardly.Â
Even so, his little spat with Roen was rather amusing, now that he thought about it in retrospect. Nero had certainly been borderline infuriated with her tireless idealism at the time, but he grinned at the very recent memory now. She was certainly determined in everything she did. Determined to help the people, determined to "save" him...the uninitiated observer might have called her obsessed.
The Twelve bless her for trying, at least. Hopefully that whole argument wasn't too awkward for Aldo and Maia to deal with.
Nero stopped by his safe house to retrieve a small sack, which he slung over his shoulder, before making his way to the far end of Pearl Lane. It was with some relief that Roen didn't question who his "friends" were. He had no moral qualms about lying, but they had a nasty habit of coming back to bite the liar, so half-truths were often preferable. He stopped at a ramshackle door that had several wooden boards haphazardly nailed to it, and a small horizontal viewing slot that had been cut into it.
Glancing around, the smuggler knocked on the door. The viewing slot slid open, then slammed shut again. The sound of chains and locks rattled from the other side of the door, which swung open, revealing a thin-looking Roegadyn, armed with a crude sword. "You're late," he growled, to which Nero merely shrugged in response. With a rather spindly hand, the Roegadyn gestured further into the building.
A ragtag gang occupied the inside of the dilapidated building; a few Ala Mhigans, some Midlanders, one distinctly out of place Elezen, a pair of Hellsguard Roegadyn...an odd bunch to be seen together. A few torches illuminated the interior, but in an effort to keep things discreet, the building was still quite dim. Nero cleared his throat.Â
"Where's Scythe?" Internally the Hyur winced, his voice sounding far too loud among the quiet and stern looking individuals occupying the building.
"Thought you reneged on us. I'd have hated to have to hide another body," a gravelly voice resounded from the gloomy darkness.Â
Emerging from the back was another Highlander. It was difficult to tell from the darkness and the warm glow of the torches, but a few distinct features made themselves out. The Highlander's body looked carved out of wood with chiseled muscles and the occasional scar marking his torso. A square jaw, brushed with a sand-coloured beard, squirmed as it awkwardly alternated between a smile and a scowl. The Highlander's hair had been swept back in a fanciful style, the tips occupied with blood red highlights. His elaborate appearance contrasted heavily with the fact that he was adorned in naught but sack cloth trousers; a leather sword belt wrapped itself around his waist. Hanging off of it was a wide-bladed falchion, wicked serrations occupying the back of the weapon.
"You promised us product. Ain't good business to lie," the Highlander identified as Scythe said, stepping forward to allow his face to be seen more clearly.Â
Nero merely responded with a cool smile, his earrings jingling as the Midlander tilted his head. He knew this man. Scythe's real name was the thoroughly un-intimidating label of Ernis Randolph. It'd been nearly twenty years since he and the smuggler had seen each other; they had just been children back then. An amusing coincidence that both of them had changed their names to become something intimidating, but whereas Ernis didn't seem to recognise Nero, Nero recognised Ernis. He knew how Ernis operated.
And that was an invaluable advantage.
"There were some complications. Brass Blades confiscated them. Maybe check with the ones on your payroll," the smuggler said, shrugging. "Or don't. I know where the shipment is, and I'm retrieving the products tomorrow. I guarantee they're worth the wait. I even brought a sample to whet your appetite." Nero gestured to the sack he was holding over his shoulder.
Scythe's eyes narrowed in curiosity, and the Highlander folded his arms. "You don't expect full payment for a late delivery now, do you...pirate?" As if to illustrate the threat, he patted the falchion at his side.
Nero shrugged again. "You could try to cut my fee...or just cut me, but doing so eliminates any opportunity for us to do repeat business. And trust me, when I can get you toys like these...you'll want repeat business." He withdrew from the sack a simple-looking flintlock pistol, making some fanciful manoeuvres by spinning it with the trigger guard.
"Straight from Limsa Lominsa. Fits in your hand, packs the force of a fire spell...easy to conceal. Easy to use, and deadly. Loud, and packs a punch. I'd say it fits you perfectly. All you do is point, pull the trigger, and watch whoever is unfortunate enough to be in the way fall down." The Midlander unscrewed the long barrel from the pistol and juggled the two for a few seconds with ease, before screwing the barrel back on. He flipped the gun in his hands and held grips towards Scythe; it was an offer, and a dare.
The Highlander eyed the device, before gingerly reaching a hand out to clasp it. Scythe pointed the pistol this way and that--towards the ceiling, at the wall, at the floor. His face scrunched in contemplation as he tested the weapon's weight. Then he pointed the weapon at Nero's forehead.
Even staring down the barrel of the pistol, the smuggler's cool smile remained. It evolved into his trademark smirk. Nero was taunting the Highlander, and Scythe knew it. The Highlander's face took on an expression of what could only be called impressed anger, before he turned the pistol to the side if the Midlander's head and pulled the trigger.
Click went the mechanism as the hammer shot forward, the flint striking the steel. A spark shot out, but the expected explosion did not emerge.
The Midlander shrugged, his earrings chiming as he tilted his head at Scythe. "Sorry. You have to buy the shot and powder separately. I had some in that confiscated shipment. Still, it's a neat little thing, isn't it?"
"It's...light," Scythe commented warily, lowering the pistol. He knew he was being toyed with, but his tone held some measure of grudging respect. "I admit, you pirates know what you're doing with weapons."
Nero's smirk widened. "I like to pretend that weapons are one of the three things Limsa Lominsa's good at, the other two being drunken violence and violent drunkenness." He held out his hand towards Scythe, an expectant twinkle in his eye. "I do apologise for the delay, but I assume...we are still in business?"
Scythe eyed Nero's hand, as if judging whether to clasp it or cut it off, before reaching a muscular hand out and grabbing the smuggler's, giving it a brief shake. "We are still in business." Nero felt his hand being squeezed with sudden crushing force, and it took all of his effort not to wince in reflex. "Try not to be late in the future. I am expecting our goods...on time," Scythe growled with a barely veiled threat.
"It's all part of the business," the smuggler said lightly in order to keep a gasp from escaping his throat. The Highlander's vice grip was unrelenting. "Sometimes it happens."
Scythe grunted, releasing the Midlander's hand, before turning around and making a gesture to the door. "Get out," was the terse command, one which Nero followed without much hesitation.
Exposing himself into the cool night air of Thanalan, Nero's wince of pain reverted into a sly grin as he began to shuffle off back to his safe house. Hopefully no lasting damage was done that would interfere with his rendezvous with Roen on the morrow.
The Highlander might think himself as the one who held the power, but dear old Ernis would be an excellent pawn, indeed.
The sun had sunk fully beneath the horizon, and night enveloped Ul'dah. His whimsical dinner date with the paladin had taken longer than he had expected, but the smuggler counted himself lucky that he was not too delayed. What I wouldn't do for a Garlean timepiece, Nero sighed inwardly.Â
Even so, his little spat with Roen was rather amusing, now that he thought about it in retrospect. Nero had certainly been borderline infuriated with her tireless idealism at the time, but he grinned at the very recent memory now. She was certainly determined in everything she did. Determined to help the people, determined to "save" him...the uninitiated observer might have called her obsessed.
The Twelve bless her for trying, at least. Hopefully that whole argument wasn't too awkward for Aldo and Maia to deal with.
Nero stopped by his safe house to retrieve a small sack, which he slung over his shoulder, before making his way to the far end of Pearl Lane. It was with some relief that Roen didn't question who his "friends" were. He had no moral qualms about lying, but they had a nasty habit of coming back to bite the liar, so half-truths were often preferable. He stopped at a ramshackle door that had several wooden boards haphazardly nailed to it, and a small horizontal viewing slot that had been cut into it.
Glancing around, the smuggler knocked on the door. The viewing slot slid open, then slammed shut again. The sound of chains and locks rattled from the other side of the door, which swung open, revealing a thin-looking Roegadyn, armed with a crude sword. "You're late," he growled, to which Nero merely shrugged in response. With a rather spindly hand, the Roegadyn gestured further into the building.
A ragtag gang occupied the inside of the dilapidated building; a few Ala Mhigans, some Midlanders, one distinctly out of place Elezen, a pair of Hellsguard Roegadyn...an odd bunch to be seen together. A few torches illuminated the interior, but in an effort to keep things discreet, the building was still quite dim. Nero cleared his throat.Â
"Where's Scythe?" Internally the Hyur winced, his voice sounding far too loud among the quiet and stern looking individuals occupying the building.
"Thought you reneged on us. I'd have hated to have to hide another body," a gravelly voice resounded from the gloomy darkness.Â
Emerging from the back was another Highlander. It was difficult to tell from the darkness and the warm glow of the torches, but a few distinct features made themselves out. The Highlander's body looked carved out of wood with chiseled muscles and the occasional scar marking his torso. A square jaw, brushed with a sand-coloured beard, squirmed as it awkwardly alternated between a smile and a scowl. The Highlander's hair had been swept back in a fanciful style, the tips occupied with blood red highlights. His elaborate appearance contrasted heavily with the fact that he was adorned in naught but sack cloth trousers; a leather sword belt wrapped itself around his waist. Hanging off of it was a wide-bladed falchion, wicked serrations occupying the back of the weapon.
"You promised us product. Ain't good business to lie," the Highlander identified as Scythe said, stepping forward to allow his face to be seen more clearly.Â
Nero merely responded with a cool smile, his earrings jingling as the Midlander tilted his head. He knew this man. Scythe's real name was the thoroughly un-intimidating label of Ernis Randolph. It'd been nearly twenty years since he and the smuggler had seen each other; they had just been children back then. An amusing coincidence that both of them had changed their names to become something intimidating, but whereas Ernis didn't seem to recognise Nero, Nero recognised Ernis. He knew how Ernis operated.
And that was an invaluable advantage.
"There were some complications. Brass Blades confiscated them. Maybe check with the ones on your payroll," the smuggler said, shrugging. "Or don't. I know where the shipment is, and I'm retrieving the products tomorrow. I guarantee they're worth the wait. I even brought a sample to whet your appetite." Nero gestured to the sack he was holding over his shoulder.
Scythe's eyes narrowed in curiosity, and the Highlander folded his arms. "You don't expect full payment for a late delivery now, do you...pirate?" As if to illustrate the threat, he patted the falchion at his side.
Nero shrugged again. "You could try to cut my fee...or just cut me, but doing so eliminates any opportunity for us to do repeat business. And trust me, when I can get you toys like these...you'll want repeat business." He withdrew from the sack a simple-looking flintlock pistol, making some fanciful manoeuvres by spinning it with the trigger guard.
"Straight from Limsa Lominsa. Fits in your hand, packs the force of a fire spell...easy to conceal. Easy to use, and deadly. Loud, and packs a punch. I'd say it fits you perfectly. All you do is point, pull the trigger, and watch whoever is unfortunate enough to be in the way fall down." The Midlander unscrewed the long barrel from the pistol and juggled the two for a few seconds with ease, before screwing the barrel back on. He flipped the gun in his hands and held grips towards Scythe; it was an offer, and a dare.
The Highlander eyed the device, before gingerly reaching a hand out to clasp it. Scythe pointed the pistol this way and that--towards the ceiling, at the wall, at the floor. His face scrunched in contemplation as he tested the weapon's weight. Then he pointed the weapon at Nero's forehead.
Even staring down the barrel of the pistol, the smuggler's cool smile remained. It evolved into his trademark smirk. Nero was taunting the Highlander, and Scythe knew it. The Highlander's face took on an expression of what could only be called impressed anger, before he turned the pistol to the side if the Midlander's head and pulled the trigger.
Click went the mechanism as the hammer shot forward, the flint striking the steel. A spark shot out, but the expected explosion did not emerge.
The Midlander shrugged, his earrings chiming as he tilted his head at Scythe. "Sorry. You have to buy the shot and powder separately. I had some in that confiscated shipment. Still, it's a neat little thing, isn't it?"
"It's...light," Scythe commented warily, lowering the pistol. He knew he was being toyed with, but his tone held some measure of grudging respect. "I admit, you pirates know what you're doing with weapons."
Nero's smirk widened. "I like to pretend that weapons are one of the three things Limsa Lominsa's good at, the other two being drunken violence and violent drunkenness." He held out his hand towards Scythe, an expectant twinkle in his eye. "I do apologise for the delay, but I assume...we are still in business?"
Scythe eyed Nero's hand, as if judging whether to clasp it or cut it off, before reaching a muscular hand out and grabbing the smuggler's, giving it a brief shake. "We are still in business." Nero felt his hand being squeezed with sudden crushing force, and it took all of his effort not to wince in reflex. "Try not to be late in the future. I am expecting our goods...on time," Scythe growled with a barely veiled threat.
"It's all part of the business," the smuggler said lightly in order to keep a gasp from escaping his throat. The Highlander's vice grip was unrelenting. "Sometimes it happens."
Scythe grunted, releasing the Midlander's hand, before turning around and making a gesture to the door. "Get out," was the terse command, one which Nero followed without much hesitation.
Exposing himself into the cool night air of Thanalan, Nero's wince of pain reverted into a sly grin as he began to shuffle off back to his safe house. Hopefully no lasting damage was done that would interfere with his rendezvous with Roen on the morrow.
The Highlander might think himself as the one who held the power, but dear old Ernis would be an excellent pawn, indeed.
