It took all she had to hold her tongue. Roen spun around from the scene and strode quickly back down the scaffolding. It was not so much the deaths of the bandits that bothered her; if violence did break out, the paladin knew there was a chance for lives being lost. Bandits rarely relinquished what they saw as theirs, and most were perfectly willing to run anyone through who stood in their way. She herself had fought, and in rare cases killed, thieves and bandits who did not accept her call for surrender. So killing in self-defense--or in the heat of battle--was not something she would condemn anyone for. If Nero had no choice but to attack the Brass Blades, then she would have accepted that decision.
But when she heard him joking--joking--about blowing people’s legs off, Roen could not help but doubt that killing was his last resort. She had seen the pirate snap a helpless man’s neck from behind. She would never call that self defense. It was pure brutality. Did she know this man at all? Did she agree to ally herself with a gleeful killer?
By the time the paladin reached the stables to rent a chocobo, some of her rage had given way to forced scrutiny in an attempt to reassess her anger. From the beginning, the smuggler had warned her, confessed to her, that he was a criminal, that killing was not something he would shy away from.
So why was she so shocked? Why was she so disappointed when he acted just as he said he would?
Was it Nero’s fault that she made the mistake of believing him to be a better man? Why should Roen be surprised that a pirate killed? Pirates' lives were rife with stories of violent raids, murders, and thievery--all known (and oft beloved) by even the youngest children of Limsa Lominsa. And today, Nero showed that he was no different. Why did that bother her so? Was this burning resentment aimed at him, or at herself for being so wrong?
The paladin mounted the wagon hitch to the chocobo’s harness, her fingers making quick work of the buckles and the bindings. As she hopped into the seat to spur on the bird, she could see some of the miners starting to point; they had spotted the body at the bottom of the scaffolds. She saw one of them hurrying off toward the large building, likely to seek out the other two Brass Blades. With a cluck of her tongue, Roen hastened the chocobo, ascending the hill leading up to the mines.
If they were to have any hope in getting the supplies out of the mines without trouble, things had to move quickly. Even as her stomach twisted with apprehension, Roen thrust the doubts aside for what had to be done. They needed to get the supplies to the refugees first, else all this trouble would have been for naught. Only then, could she look at Nero once more; only then, once her mind was clear of it, could she judge whether or not this alliance was something she could stomach.
Only yesterday was she convinced of the man’s good heart. That was when she told herself she would set all things vexing about him aside--because they shared the same dream. Only now...
Now she was starting to see that his dream, and perhaps his reality, was not merely filled with blood and violence. His life was not mere happenstance; Nero Lazarov was a willing, or perhaps even eager participant in the shaping of it.
As the wagon pulled up to the mouth of the cave, the paladin regarded the smuggler with much of her outrage having subsided. The look she gave him was somber, even though she tried to hide the doubt that threatened to shake her resolve.
Without a word, Roen hopped off the wagon, hurrying toward the boxes. This was not the time for the deliberation of misgivings. She only gave Nero a passing glance before beginning the task of lifting the crates onto the wagon.
But when she heard him joking--joking--about blowing people’s legs off, Roen could not help but doubt that killing was his last resort. She had seen the pirate snap a helpless man’s neck from behind. She would never call that self defense. It was pure brutality. Did she know this man at all? Did she agree to ally herself with a gleeful killer?
By the time the paladin reached the stables to rent a chocobo, some of her rage had given way to forced scrutiny in an attempt to reassess her anger. From the beginning, the smuggler had warned her, confessed to her, that he was a criminal, that killing was not something he would shy away from.
So why was she so shocked? Why was she so disappointed when he acted just as he said he would?
Was it Nero’s fault that she made the mistake of believing him to be a better man? Why should Roen be surprised that a pirate killed? Pirates' lives were rife with stories of violent raids, murders, and thievery--all known (and oft beloved) by even the youngest children of Limsa Lominsa. And today, Nero showed that he was no different. Why did that bother her so? Was this burning resentment aimed at him, or at herself for being so wrong?
The paladin mounted the wagon hitch to the chocobo’s harness, her fingers making quick work of the buckles and the bindings. As she hopped into the seat to spur on the bird, she could see some of the miners starting to point; they had spotted the body at the bottom of the scaffolds. She saw one of them hurrying off toward the large building, likely to seek out the other two Brass Blades. With a cluck of her tongue, Roen hastened the chocobo, ascending the hill leading up to the mines.
If they were to have any hope in getting the supplies out of the mines without trouble, things had to move quickly. Even as her stomach twisted with apprehension, Roen thrust the doubts aside for what had to be done. They needed to get the supplies to the refugees first, else all this trouble would have been for naught. Only then, could she look at Nero once more; only then, once her mind was clear of it, could she judge whether or not this alliance was something she could stomach.
Only yesterday was she convinced of the man’s good heart. That was when she told herself she would set all things vexing about him aside--because they shared the same dream. Only now...
Now she was starting to see that his dream, and perhaps his reality, was not merely filled with blood and violence. His life was not mere happenstance; Nero Lazarov was a willing, or perhaps even eager participant in the shaping of it.
As the wagon pulled up to the mouth of the cave, the paladin regarded the smuggler with much of her outrage having subsided. The look she gave him was somber, even though she tried to hide the doubt that threatened to shake her resolve.
Without a word, Roen hopped off the wagon, hurrying toward the boxes. This was not the time for the deliberation of misgivings. She only gave Nero a passing glance before beginning the task of lifting the crates onto the wagon.
