
~1571 - Limsa Lominsa~
"Look 'ere, y'can't honestly expect me t'let Dirk Problemsolver onto m'crew, do you, Rings? The boys'll either have m'head or your corpse at the bottom of the sea! Mutiny, that's what ol'Â Jetsam is faced wit', if I'm t'hire you on."Â
Osric groaned as he leaned against the dock's piling and knocked his head against the wooden post a few times.
"Just a few moons, Worthy, then y'can ditch me on this same gods-damned jetty we be standin' on. Swear on Lymlaen's teats I'll play nice. Y'know I'm good for it."
The Sea Wolf - why the hells does he have a Hellsguard name, anyroad? - frowned as he stood, arms crossed, at the very end of the gangplank, barring the young midlander's passage. "Thaliak's mast are y'wantin' work from me now, anyroa'? 'snot like there's more coin in piracy than in, well...."
"M'folks want me t'sod off for a while. M'last few hits weren't gutter, or even low. Bastards might start gunnin' for me now. Me mam's worryin' that some Storm blighter's goin' t'put a hole in me with one o' them fancy muskets or somethin'." He snorted. "As if I ain't done work for the storms 'n' jacks a time or two. Buggers, all o' them."
Worthy Jetsam sat on that for what felt like an eternity as he rubbed at his chin, fingers mussing with his goatee. Osric shifted just enough to turn a curious eye on the roegadyn, that and a lifted eyebrow that asked, hells are you thinkin', eh? The old Wolf wasn't looking, though, so he spoke up instead.
"A bronze for whatever's tangled up in your riggin'?"
"Supposin' I could bring y'on, for ol' times' sake... ye'd hafta lose the fancy skins, eh? Raptor gives it away. Same fer yer knives. Y'know anythin' 'bout handlin' an axe?"
"Er... no."
The Sea Wolf barked a laugh as he pivoted on one heel and made his way back up the brow. "Piss poor marauder ye'll be makin', then."
The eldest son of Melkire scoffed. "Long as I ain't bein' shot at."
~Present Day - The Goblet~
The handle shook a few times, then the door slammed open, the frame shaking in place as the wooden mass rebounded off the wall, as the man clad in darklight stumbled through the doorway into his office. His hold on the strap in his left hand loosened, and the darklight corselet with the gaping bullet hole in it fell to the floor, the dull thud of its weight on the rug below a mere nuisance of a distraction as Osric Melkire fell against the planters. He caught himself with his arms, but only just; a few moments of pained, labored breathing later, he was hauling himself back to his feet and pushing through to the back of his chambers.
Off came the bracers, the caligae; his bandana, he threw clear across the room onto the featherbed as he turned and fell ass-first against the edge of the oasis bathtub. He panted as he slipped his breeches off, then turned and fell into the water, scrambling to pull himself up onto the bench. He grimaced for a few moments more as he cupped his palms and poured water over his chest, but at last, after a few ablutions, he eased. He wasn't relaxed, calming down was far beyond him for now, but... the tension was fading.
You're a bloody fool if you're thinkin' ladlin' some water over it is goin' to help.
He glanced down at his chest, where an ugly bruise roughly the size of an Allagan silver weighed heavily between his pectorals. He stared, then turned and reached for the breeches, fumbled through its pockets long enough to come up with the coin in question. The piece had been rather heavily dented... and the bullet in question was still there, crushed up against the silver.
The darklight must've taken most of the impact. Gods know I couldn't breathe.
From the instant that second shot had rung out, Osric had known nothing but a red haze of agony. Black tendrils of mind-numbing relief had been creeping their way in from outside when the pressure on his chest finally disappeared. The strange highlander had ripped the sergeant's pierced breastplate off as the midlander laid prone on the operating table of the Red Wings' medical bay. With the corselet off him, the small tote bag that had hung by a string from his neck had tumbled free.
Plot devices. I owe m'ruddin' life to plot devices. Master Bellveil, I could kiss you right now.Â
Their new chirurgeon, a Titor Jaraba, had offered further assistance with Osric's pain... but he couldn't be in that room right now. Couldn't stand to be. That'd been in the room where he'd seen Alexei's... that had been the very table where... and mere bells afterwards, he'd carved the "Garlean" spotter to shreds on Erik's orders, only to learn that....
The Vipers. He snarled as he chucked the silver into the corner and listened to it bounce between the tub and the wall before it slid to the floor.
The Vipers, he'd learned from reports and case files acquired mere suns after he'd been granted the clearance owed to his new position, were once what the Red Wings were now: Ul'dah's premier espionage unit. That Erik had sent him after that poor sod's neck for a cobra hood tattoo and sent Setras after the man's organs for a hidden linkpearl meant that the captain had more than a passing history with these gods-damned bastards.
I'd have been dead if it wasn't for that coin.
Lucky it was me.
Could've been another Alexei.
Could've been Askier. Or Kahn'a.
Or Kanaria.
The pulsing adrenaline that came with mounting rage surged through him again as it had not a bell prior; he bit down hard, teeth grinding against one another as he fought it down. He had demanded dossiers from the captain, demanded everything the Flames had on suspected Vipers lying low within the city limits. He was through with getting shot at, through with the Red Wings and their loved ones being targeted when rightfully no one outside the unit should've known they existed.
This is not going to happen again.
I am not letting them take my family away from me.
"Look 'ere, y'can't honestly expect me t'let Dirk Problemsolver onto m'crew, do you, Rings? The boys'll either have m'head or your corpse at the bottom of the sea! Mutiny, that's what ol'Â Jetsam is faced wit', if I'm t'hire you on."Â
Osric groaned as he leaned against the dock's piling and knocked his head against the wooden post a few times.
"Just a few moons, Worthy, then y'can ditch me on this same gods-damned jetty we be standin' on. Swear on Lymlaen's teats I'll play nice. Y'know I'm good for it."
The Sea Wolf - why the hells does he have a Hellsguard name, anyroad? - frowned as he stood, arms crossed, at the very end of the gangplank, barring the young midlander's passage. "Thaliak's mast are y'wantin' work from me now, anyroa'? 'snot like there's more coin in piracy than in, well...."
"M'folks want me t'sod off for a while. M'last few hits weren't gutter, or even low. Bastards might start gunnin' for me now. Me mam's worryin' that some Storm blighter's goin' t'put a hole in me with one o' them fancy muskets or somethin'." He snorted. "As if I ain't done work for the storms 'n' jacks a time or two. Buggers, all o' them."
Worthy Jetsam sat on that for what felt like an eternity as he rubbed at his chin, fingers mussing with his goatee. Osric shifted just enough to turn a curious eye on the roegadyn, that and a lifted eyebrow that asked, hells are you thinkin', eh? The old Wolf wasn't looking, though, so he spoke up instead.
"A bronze for whatever's tangled up in your riggin'?"
"Supposin' I could bring y'on, for ol' times' sake... ye'd hafta lose the fancy skins, eh? Raptor gives it away. Same fer yer knives. Y'know anythin' 'bout handlin' an axe?"
"Er... no."
The Sea Wolf barked a laugh as he pivoted on one heel and made his way back up the brow. "Piss poor marauder ye'll be makin', then."
The eldest son of Melkire scoffed. "Long as I ain't bein' shot at."
~Present Day - The Goblet~
The handle shook a few times, then the door slammed open, the frame shaking in place as the wooden mass rebounded off the wall, as the man clad in darklight stumbled through the doorway into his office. His hold on the strap in his left hand loosened, and the darklight corselet with the gaping bullet hole in it fell to the floor, the dull thud of its weight on the rug below a mere nuisance of a distraction as Osric Melkire fell against the planters. He caught himself with his arms, but only just; a few moments of pained, labored breathing later, he was hauling himself back to his feet and pushing through to the back of his chambers.
Off came the bracers, the caligae; his bandana, he threw clear across the room onto the featherbed as he turned and fell ass-first against the edge of the oasis bathtub. He panted as he slipped his breeches off, then turned and fell into the water, scrambling to pull himself up onto the bench. He grimaced for a few moments more as he cupped his palms and poured water over his chest, but at last, after a few ablutions, he eased. He wasn't relaxed, calming down was far beyond him for now, but... the tension was fading.
You're a bloody fool if you're thinkin' ladlin' some water over it is goin' to help.
He glanced down at his chest, where an ugly bruise roughly the size of an Allagan silver weighed heavily between his pectorals. He stared, then turned and reached for the breeches, fumbled through its pockets long enough to come up with the coin in question. The piece had been rather heavily dented... and the bullet in question was still there, crushed up against the silver.
The darklight must've taken most of the impact. Gods know I couldn't breathe.
From the instant that second shot had rung out, Osric had known nothing but a red haze of agony. Black tendrils of mind-numbing relief had been creeping their way in from outside when the pressure on his chest finally disappeared. The strange highlander had ripped the sergeant's pierced breastplate off as the midlander laid prone on the operating table of the Red Wings' medical bay. With the corselet off him, the small tote bag that had hung by a string from his neck had tumbled free.
Plot devices. I owe m'ruddin' life to plot devices. Master Bellveil, I could kiss you right now.Â
Their new chirurgeon, a Titor Jaraba, had offered further assistance with Osric's pain... but he couldn't be in that room right now. Couldn't stand to be. That'd been in the room where he'd seen Alexei's... that had been the very table where... and mere bells afterwards, he'd carved the "Garlean" spotter to shreds on Erik's orders, only to learn that....
The Vipers. He snarled as he chucked the silver into the corner and listened to it bounce between the tub and the wall before it slid to the floor.
The Vipers, he'd learned from reports and case files acquired mere suns after he'd been granted the clearance owed to his new position, were once what the Red Wings were now: Ul'dah's premier espionage unit. That Erik had sent him after that poor sod's neck for a cobra hood tattoo and sent Setras after the man's organs for a hidden linkpearl meant that the captain had more than a passing history with these gods-damned bastards.
I'd have been dead if it wasn't for that coin.
Lucky it was me.
Could've been another Alexei.
Could've been Askier. Or Kahn'a.
Or Kanaria.
The pulsing adrenaline that came with mounting rage surged through him again as it had not a bell prior; he bit down hard, teeth grinding against one another as he fought it down. He had demanded dossiers from the captain, demanded everything the Flames had on suspected Vipers lying low within the city limits. He was through with getting shot at, through with the Red Wings and their loved ones being targeted when rightfully no one outside the unit should've known they existed.
This is not going to happen again.
I am not letting them take my family away from me.
![[Image: 1qVSsTp.png]](http://i.imgur.com/1qVSsTp.png)