The feeling when he practised thaumaturgy could hardly be described. Ecstatic seemed woefully inadequate. Manipulating the aether itself was a fairly pleasurable feeling, but what brought the smuggler such inordinate joy was just seeing the results of his power. Immense satisfaction had welled up inside Nero when he saw the Brass Blade spin off the cliff, the leg dancing in the air like a firework. The hood had been pulled off by the Miqo'te's arrows, and even as his face was somewhat hidden by his fiery orange forelocks, the expression on Nero's face could only be called one of pure exultation.
One of the Midlanders, the one Nero had punched in the throat, began to struggle to get up. The bandit coughed heavily, clutching at his chest in an effort to recover his breath. Nero, bemused by the reaction, slowly sauntered over and placed his foot against the bandit's back, forcing the Midlander back to the ground. Nero moved his foot to the Midlander's neck and raised it before slamming down his jackboots hard, a sickening crack resounding from the point of impact as the bandit's flailing suddenly ceased.
It'd been a long time since Nero had personally been involved in a fight. In Limsa Lominsa, Garalt and Daegsatz were usually more than enough to quell any chance of a brawl breaking out; the quiet Highlander had a glare of death permanently affixed to his face and the Roegadyn was, well, a Roegadyn. With a battle axe. Suffice to say that that was enough to cow most would-be opponents into submission.
But even a little spat involving unskilled bandits like this provided a sense of freedom, the sense that Nero could control his own destiny, that he had the power to destroy those who opposed him. That was a tyrannical line of thinking, perhaps, but one that never stopped being immensely fulfilling to him.
The smuggler strode lazily to the crates and prepared to check their contents, and it was only when he glanced around to see if anyone else was watching did he notice the paladin at the top of the scaffolding. Nero passed her a salute with his hand as he slipped the silver sceptre into the folds of his robe.
"So I take it everything went well then," he said, wearing his trademark smirk.
One of the Midlanders, the one Nero had punched in the throat, began to struggle to get up. The bandit coughed heavily, clutching at his chest in an effort to recover his breath. Nero, bemused by the reaction, slowly sauntered over and placed his foot against the bandit's back, forcing the Midlander back to the ground. Nero moved his foot to the Midlander's neck and raised it before slamming down his jackboots hard, a sickening crack resounding from the point of impact as the bandit's flailing suddenly ceased.
It'd been a long time since Nero had personally been involved in a fight. In Limsa Lominsa, Garalt and Daegsatz were usually more than enough to quell any chance of a brawl breaking out; the quiet Highlander had a glare of death permanently affixed to his face and the Roegadyn was, well, a Roegadyn. With a battle axe. Suffice to say that that was enough to cow most would-be opponents into submission.
But even a little spat involving unskilled bandits like this provided a sense of freedom, the sense that Nero could control his own destiny, that he had the power to destroy those who opposed him. That was a tyrannical line of thinking, perhaps, but one that never stopped being immensely fulfilling to him.
The smuggler strode lazily to the crates and prepared to check their contents, and it was only when he glanced around to see if anyone else was watching did he notice the paladin at the top of the scaffolding. Nero passed her a salute with his hand as he slipped the silver sceptre into the folds of his robe.
"So I take it everything went well then," he said, wearing his trademark smirk.
