A day went by. And then another. The bells rang every hour on the hour, and yet the passage of time offered Nero no respite from his grief.
Days that should have spent working, on furthering his plan, had been abandoned in favour of him collapsed in his bed, the door to his cabin locked. He refused water or food, bidding that his crew leave him be. Garalt, ever the crutch that he was, had been courteous enough to shoo away anyone who attempted to disturb him. The storm had lapsed the previous day but had returned in full force, the sound of lightning cracking open the sky with the boom of thunder resounding in the horizon.
His thoughts were as turbulent as the weather. Every now and then he caught himself thinking of Daegsatz; a fond memory, an amusing anecdote, an embarrassing moment. Every time one of those grieved musings floated to the top of his consciousness, it felt as if his despair would tear him apart, and the more he tried to force his thoughts away, the more they came back to haunt him.
Was it worth it? Nero wasn't foolish. He knew that a risk always existed that his plans could harm his crew; if he wasn't certain of it before, then the the deaths of Liam and Martin during the raid on the Silver Bazaar was absolute proof. Daegsatz, though...he had never expected to lose Daegsatz. The smuggler had taken it upon himself to keep his crew out of his plans. The Forte would be involved, but the crew themselves never took to Thanalan. They didn't know of his plans, of what he intended to do. And yet, that attempt to shield the men under his command...had gotten Daegsatz killed. Because the Roegadyn did not know anything useful for his captors.
Why? Why was Daegsatz punished? No...no, Daegsatz' death was Nero being punished. Or was that his egotism speaking? He felt confused, lost, drowning in a whirlpool of turmoil that threatened to pull his head beneath black waters, to allow him no rest, no respite.
For two days his mind cycled through these thoughts. A memory would bring itself to the fore, only to be suppressed by Nero's haphazard attempts to control his emotions. Grief, followed by guilt, followed by numbing amounts of self-pity...when suddenly, after what felt like years, his anger flared.
No. The fault was not his. Daegsatz was just something else that Ul'dah had taken from him.
The city was corrupt.
Something had to change.
Lethargically, Nero willed himself to raise his head. Then he managed to sit up. After a few minutes, he managed to stand, and by that point, his rage had quelled itself. It was no longer a blazing flame, but had frozen itself into frigid ice.
That's right; Daegsatz died because he had been too slow. He'd been naive enough to allow Ul'dah's justice to murder his first mate. From this point forward, his plans would not be stopped. The city would bend to his will, or he would destroy it and bury the ashes. He'd spent far too much time as it was wallowing in his grief. Daegsatz was dead and gone, but fortunately, Nero had someone to blame. He had a clear enemy, and his resolve was unwavering, for if he gave up now, then Daegsatz' death would have meant nothing.
Even so, Nero would not let his plans devolve into petty vengeance. This was far more than simple revenge. For Daegsatz' sake, he had to go through with the full entirety of his plan, now more than ever. A new, steely sense of purpose reinforced him as he pushed the doors to his cabin open. Garalt had been standing guard outside, resolutely. Nero's gaze softened slightly, as the Highlander was now the only true confidante that the smuggler had left.
"I apologise for the trouble," Nero croaked. He had gone without food or water for two days, and it must have showed in his haggard conditions; he became acutely aware of his dried and parched throat, of his stomach loudly protesting the absence of sustenance. The smuggler leaned against the door frame.Â
Garalt nodded. "I'll bring something up to you," he said gruffly, quickly striding away.
Nero slowly sauntered over to his desk and collapsed in his chair. To anyone entering the room, he would have looked tired and lost, like he had given up. But that sentiment was far from the truth. His icy blue eyes bore holes into the wall.
He would not be stopped, not now, not ever.Â
Lightning split the sky and thunder roared.
A storm was coming.
Days that should have spent working, on furthering his plan, had been abandoned in favour of him collapsed in his bed, the door to his cabin locked. He refused water or food, bidding that his crew leave him be. Garalt, ever the crutch that he was, had been courteous enough to shoo away anyone who attempted to disturb him. The storm had lapsed the previous day but had returned in full force, the sound of lightning cracking open the sky with the boom of thunder resounding in the horizon.
His thoughts were as turbulent as the weather. Every now and then he caught himself thinking of Daegsatz; a fond memory, an amusing anecdote, an embarrassing moment. Every time one of those grieved musings floated to the top of his consciousness, it felt as if his despair would tear him apart, and the more he tried to force his thoughts away, the more they came back to haunt him.
Was it worth it? Nero wasn't foolish. He knew that a risk always existed that his plans could harm his crew; if he wasn't certain of it before, then the the deaths of Liam and Martin during the raid on the Silver Bazaar was absolute proof. Daegsatz, though...he had never expected to lose Daegsatz. The smuggler had taken it upon himself to keep his crew out of his plans. The Forte would be involved, but the crew themselves never took to Thanalan. They didn't know of his plans, of what he intended to do. And yet, that attempt to shield the men under his command...had gotten Daegsatz killed. Because the Roegadyn did not know anything useful for his captors.
Why? Why was Daegsatz punished? No...no, Daegsatz' death was Nero being punished. Or was that his egotism speaking? He felt confused, lost, drowning in a whirlpool of turmoil that threatened to pull his head beneath black waters, to allow him no rest, no respite.
For two days his mind cycled through these thoughts. A memory would bring itself to the fore, only to be suppressed by Nero's haphazard attempts to control his emotions. Grief, followed by guilt, followed by numbing amounts of self-pity...when suddenly, after what felt like years, his anger flared.
No. The fault was not his. Daegsatz was just something else that Ul'dah had taken from him.
The city was corrupt.
Something had to change.
Lethargically, Nero willed himself to raise his head. Then he managed to sit up. After a few minutes, he managed to stand, and by that point, his rage had quelled itself. It was no longer a blazing flame, but had frozen itself into frigid ice.
That's right; Daegsatz died because he had been too slow. He'd been naive enough to allow Ul'dah's justice to murder his first mate. From this point forward, his plans would not be stopped. The city would bend to his will, or he would destroy it and bury the ashes. He'd spent far too much time as it was wallowing in his grief. Daegsatz was dead and gone, but fortunately, Nero had someone to blame. He had a clear enemy, and his resolve was unwavering, for if he gave up now, then Daegsatz' death would have meant nothing.
Even so, Nero would not let his plans devolve into petty vengeance. This was far more than simple revenge. For Daegsatz' sake, he had to go through with the full entirety of his plan, now more than ever. A new, steely sense of purpose reinforced him as he pushed the doors to his cabin open. Garalt had been standing guard outside, resolutely. Nero's gaze softened slightly, as the Highlander was now the only true confidante that the smuggler had left.
"I apologise for the trouble," Nero croaked. He had gone without food or water for two days, and it must have showed in his haggard conditions; he became acutely aware of his dried and parched throat, of his stomach loudly protesting the absence of sustenance. The smuggler leaned against the door frame.Â
Garalt nodded. "I'll bring something up to you," he said gruffly, quickly striding away.
Nero slowly sauntered over to his desk and collapsed in his chair. To anyone entering the room, he would have looked tired and lost, like he had given up. But that sentiment was far from the truth. His icy blue eyes bore holes into the wall.
He would not be stopped, not now, not ever.Â
Lightning split the sky and thunder roared.
A storm was coming.
