Some suns, he couldn’t help but wonder where the Spinner had gotten her sense of humor from. On this particular sun, he thought he’d finally figured it out. She’d gotten it from her older brother, of course, same as Corinna had gotten hers from Osric.
Althyk be damned.
He’d been strolling up Pearl Lane by mere happenstance, headed for the Quicksand, when he’d seen the column of smoke billowing a few blocks over. Any and all thought of refreshment fled at the sight, and no sooner could you have sworn on Nophica’s teats than the sergeant had torn off the main street for the alleyways that would take him closer to the fumes. He had no cause for caution, no reason to take his time; he reached the warehouse in a mere minute or two. The few men left standing out front directed him towards the back, where, upon turning the corner, he lifted his mask and gaped at the plume as it emerged from the loading bay.
The scene had devolved into a kind of hellhole; the loading bay doors were open, and from within he could hear the panicked calls of guards sounding out as they searched for the source of fire. A small cluster of their fellows stood just outside, bickering with one another, and the first thought that came to his mind was that the guards were, one and all... that was peculiar. Was he imagining things? Not all of them were in uniform, but even then, he still recognized a few.
This lot ain’t listed with the Flames. Unofficial storage facility?
The sergeant strolled up to them, eyes still on the chaos inside, and seized the closest man by the collar of his chestplate. “Chief Flame Sergeant. Saw the smoke. What in Azeyma’s name…?â€
“A-ah, Hewry Reeve, ser, Blades. We… we don’t know, ser! We were just inside and we heard a crash, we did, and there was a fire, but a little one, and so much smoke! It must have spread!â€
Melkire turned his gaping expression of disbelief on the Blade. “And you’re just standin’ here, ‘stead of fetchin’ buckets and soundin’ the alarm.†He released his grip and shoved the man back by the cuirass. “Get goin’!â€
Ruttin’ incompetent idiots….
The men scattered and sounded general alarum; Osric stormed further in, pulling his turban from his head and waving it about to clear the air, coughing as he went. He stepped gingerly across the warehouse floor, testing wooden planks with each step. A few guards returned with filled buckets; they threw the contents into the smoke, one at a time. The water hissed, and the smoke started dissipating at breakneck pace, leaving naught behind but a fine, sooty ash on the ground. The sergeant squinted as he peered in further, where he could just barely make out a pair of silhouettes ascending on the far side of the warehouse…
No sooner had he spotted them than one of the silhouettes fell and collapsed. A pained cry - “Go!†- prompted him to pick up the pace. He broke into a jog, then slid to a halt over the cobblestones, over the fallen figure. A quick glimpse was enough to identify the duskwight in question; there was no mistaking that face, with that expression, with that hair, with that beard, with that complexion, with that figure.
“Gods… damn it, Verad.â€
The elderly Elezen met his eyes and winced.
He wouldn’t unless he had good cause.
That single thought struck him like a bolt of lightning. He spun on his heels, his gaze darting back and forth as he scanned the warehouse interior for somewhere, anywhere, to hide the man. There were towers of crates stacked nearby, and a few scattered here and there along the warehouse floor, but for the most part…
“Check the crates,†came a hiss. “The crates, please!â€
Osric glanced back down; the duskwight’s own gaze kept flickering back and forth between the office door situated towards the front of the warehouse, and… a rope. The sergeant blinked, then glanced up to the skylight… and understood.
“You first, eh?â€
He tugged his turban back on, then circled around and bent down, taking hold of and lugging Verad, however painstakingly slowly, closer to the dangling line to freedom. A few moments more found the sergeant tying the rope around the Elezen’s midriff in a sailor’s knot; he tugged down, hard, then met Master Bellveil’s eyes again one last time.
“I’ll check the crates. Swear I will.â€
Verad nodded with some relief. “Please." A sudden jerk along the rope had the man reeling up towards the ceiling. He shot Osric a grateful look… and then he was gone.
The midlander smirked, then turned to find the last of the smoke clearing. The guards approached slowly, their expressions puzzled; there was, indeed, a flame, but it stuck to the surface of the warehouse floor, and the few wisps of smoke still emanating from it didn’t account for the massive plume earlier. “Th’hell’s that?†mumbled one man in particular as he poked at it with his sword.
Not one to delay, Osric scanned his surroundings again. Crates, crates… this is a gods-damned warehouse, the place is full o’ crates! …there. Several were in his immediate vicinity, but only one was open. He sidled up to it, then squatted down on his haunches to inspect its contents. A moment later, he froze, shoulders locking in place, his whole frame going rigid, as taut as a strained wire. He frowned, then double-tapped at the linkpearl in his left ear.
“This is Sergeant Melkire to the Flames, please respond. We have a situation down off Pearl. Warehouse, corner of Topaz and Rubellite.†He glanced up and back towards the guards for just long enough to confirm his earlier suspicions, to confirm that peculiarity. “Seems a Brass Blade establishment… and the crates are filled with milkweed.â€
He pivoted as he stood, hand falling from his ear, arms crossing as he frowned at the assembled guards, Brass Blades one and all… then he smirked wickedly.
Gotcha.
Nymeia be blessed.
Althyk be damned.
He’d been strolling up Pearl Lane by mere happenstance, headed for the Quicksand, when he’d seen the column of smoke billowing a few blocks over. Any and all thought of refreshment fled at the sight, and no sooner could you have sworn on Nophica’s teats than the sergeant had torn off the main street for the alleyways that would take him closer to the fumes. He had no cause for caution, no reason to take his time; he reached the warehouse in a mere minute or two. The few men left standing out front directed him towards the back, where, upon turning the corner, he lifted his mask and gaped at the plume as it emerged from the loading bay.
The scene had devolved into a kind of hellhole; the loading bay doors were open, and from within he could hear the panicked calls of guards sounding out as they searched for the source of fire. A small cluster of their fellows stood just outside, bickering with one another, and the first thought that came to his mind was that the guards were, one and all... that was peculiar. Was he imagining things? Not all of them were in uniform, but even then, he still recognized a few.
This lot ain’t listed with the Flames. Unofficial storage facility?
The sergeant strolled up to them, eyes still on the chaos inside, and seized the closest man by the collar of his chestplate. “Chief Flame Sergeant. Saw the smoke. What in Azeyma’s name…?â€
“A-ah, Hewry Reeve, ser, Blades. We… we don’t know, ser! We were just inside and we heard a crash, we did, and there was a fire, but a little one, and so much smoke! It must have spread!â€
Melkire turned his gaping expression of disbelief on the Blade. “And you’re just standin’ here, ‘stead of fetchin’ buckets and soundin’ the alarm.†He released his grip and shoved the man back by the cuirass. “Get goin’!â€
Ruttin’ incompetent idiots….
The men scattered and sounded general alarum; Osric stormed further in, pulling his turban from his head and waving it about to clear the air, coughing as he went. He stepped gingerly across the warehouse floor, testing wooden planks with each step. A few guards returned with filled buckets; they threw the contents into the smoke, one at a time. The water hissed, and the smoke started dissipating at breakneck pace, leaving naught behind but a fine, sooty ash on the ground. The sergeant squinted as he peered in further, where he could just barely make out a pair of silhouettes ascending on the far side of the warehouse…
No sooner had he spotted them than one of the silhouettes fell and collapsed. A pained cry - “Go!†- prompted him to pick up the pace. He broke into a jog, then slid to a halt over the cobblestones, over the fallen figure. A quick glimpse was enough to identify the duskwight in question; there was no mistaking that face, with that expression, with that hair, with that beard, with that complexion, with that figure.
“Gods… damn it, Verad.â€
The elderly Elezen met his eyes and winced.
He wouldn’t unless he had good cause.
That single thought struck him like a bolt of lightning. He spun on his heels, his gaze darting back and forth as he scanned the warehouse interior for somewhere, anywhere, to hide the man. There were towers of crates stacked nearby, and a few scattered here and there along the warehouse floor, but for the most part…
“Check the crates,†came a hiss. “The crates, please!â€
Osric glanced back down; the duskwight’s own gaze kept flickering back and forth between the office door situated towards the front of the warehouse, and… a rope. The sergeant blinked, then glanced up to the skylight… and understood.
“You first, eh?â€
He tugged his turban back on, then circled around and bent down, taking hold of and lugging Verad, however painstakingly slowly, closer to the dangling line to freedom. A few moments more found the sergeant tying the rope around the Elezen’s midriff in a sailor’s knot; he tugged down, hard, then met Master Bellveil’s eyes again one last time.
“I’ll check the crates. Swear I will.â€
Verad nodded with some relief. “Please." A sudden jerk along the rope had the man reeling up towards the ceiling. He shot Osric a grateful look… and then he was gone.
The midlander smirked, then turned to find the last of the smoke clearing. The guards approached slowly, their expressions puzzled; there was, indeed, a flame, but it stuck to the surface of the warehouse floor, and the few wisps of smoke still emanating from it didn’t account for the massive plume earlier. “Th’hell’s that?†mumbled one man in particular as he poked at it with his sword.
Not one to delay, Osric scanned his surroundings again. Crates, crates… this is a gods-damned warehouse, the place is full o’ crates! …there. Several were in his immediate vicinity, but only one was open. He sidled up to it, then squatted down on his haunches to inspect its contents. A moment later, he froze, shoulders locking in place, his whole frame going rigid, as taut as a strained wire. He frowned, then double-tapped at the linkpearl in his left ear.
“This is Sergeant Melkire to the Flames, please respond. We have a situation down off Pearl. Warehouse, corner of Topaz and Rubellite.†He glanced up and back towards the guards for just long enough to confirm his earlier suspicions, to confirm that peculiarity. “Seems a Brass Blade establishment… and the crates are filled with milkweed.â€
He pivoted as he stood, hand falling from his ear, arms crossing as he frowned at the assembled guards, Brass Blades one and all… then he smirked wickedly.
Gotcha.
Nymeia be blessed.
![[Image: 1qVSsTp.png]](http://i.imgur.com/1qVSsTp.png)
