Zazuka Zuka –
Children streaked through the cobblestone streets, shrieking with comingling laughter and distress as their weapons comprised of stripped branches clacked together with hollow threat. Devoid of the watchful eye of their parentage, the prepubescent churls heeded none—not even themselves, much less where they were going.
"I am Raubahn the Mighty! All fall before my mighty cleave!" boomed one stocky lad as he chased down two smaller boys, who ducked between merchant and streetfarer into one of the dim alleyways branching from Sapphire Avenue. His frenetic pace afforded him little control, and thus he had no chance of evading the Lalafell approaching from the other direction. Like a hapless pup scrambling over a pile of stones, the young hyur half-flipped over the smaller creature, crashing side-first onto the unforgiving street.
A pained cry turned to a flash of rage as he clambered to his feet, twain-snapped branch clutched tight at his side. "Hey, watch where you’re going!" the boy yelled blindly into the shade before turning and resuming his chase.
Zazuka brushed the dirt and grime from his cotton tunic and leathered breeches, subtly luminescent gaze following the retreat of the young fool that had sent him to the ground. Smoothing out a wrinkle here and there, he re-shouldered the satchel that had uprooted during the collision and continued on his way.
High were the Jewel’s walls, concealing from the world the tempest of chaos and anarchy that had been gaining potency for the past several moons. Yet if such anarchists and many refugees had their way, the Gate of Nald would tremble and collapse, shining a dust and corpse-ridden light upon just how weak and reachless the Sultana and her agents were.
The loose thread of coin and compromise that had kept the Monetarists together was beginning to fray, all by the making of their own greed and ill-informed decisions; an inevitable byproduct of the autonomy afforded—and purchased by—the various houses. This had led to the allowance of foolishly short-sighted action, such as the unsanctioned execution of Daegsatz Traggblansyn, first mate of Nero Lazarov.
‘Underestimated’ was the frail justification that Jameson Taeros had applied to the gross mis-step. And yet the well-kempt hyur had yet to be touched by the consequences of his failures. For Zazuka, every attempt to make a fist or hold one of his beloved instruments of inquiry was a ghostly reminder of the price he had paid for his own underestimation. Soon, the streets and courts would be filled with the consequential spectres of that lone act.
It was for the prevention of this grim future that he had been sent. He was the needle that would guide the wrongly-sewn threads back into accord; or the blade that would clip the extraneous stitches from the whole.
Lolorito’s First and Final Pence.
And there were many accounts to be settled.
Even in the dusk hours, as many vendors began to pack up their stations and prepare for the journey home, Ul’dah’s economy was a flurry of transactions of various magnitudes. The dark corners of the sacred Jewel held many secrets, and few of them were beyond the reach of his shadow. In one, someone was being beaten for coin, insult, or no reason at all. In another, a woman’s thighs were spread for similar reasons. In still another, clandestine folk were exchanging clandestine goods with (sometimes) clandestine intentions.
The city’s walls towered high above all, obscuring sight of such misdeeds from eyes that often preferred to look elsewhere. But as the sun crept below the Jewel’s spires, her shadows grew ever longer; and so too did Zazuka’s.
His shades were ever vigilant, dispersed into the city like so many scattered coins, lodged into the many cracks of its streets, alleys, and walls, collecting interest and sensitive value for their master. And this particular eve, dividends were being paid.
Further delving into the suspicions Taeros held concerning the lifted products from his warehouse had yielded a trail of crumbs that led to a certain Flame Sergeant. Moreover, collections had gathered that the former Sultansworn Deneith was somewhere within the city, doubtless conducting her covert affairs.
A hasty man would have rushed to cast a net and attempt to sequester the woman with forceful repercussion. Zazuka, however, had learned the value of temperance. Deneith’s presence had left crumbs, however miniscule. And for as much value was placed in the paladin’s dealings, keen was his interest at whose feet the last crumbs fell.
‘When seeking sign of rot, look first beneath the drawn sleeve.’
No, he would leave the net unfurled for the time being. Now was the hour of the snare and hot iron. He would cauterize each of the gaping wounds in Taeros’—and the Monetarists as a whole—operations, and thereby wall off the avenues of the paladin’s offenses.
He had so many questions for so many people; a prospect that nearly brought a smile to his commonly undiscernible expression.
And he knew just where to begin.
Somewhere behind him, pockets of thunder cracked with spurious frequency, limned by a familiar choir of enraged and agonized screams.
He did not take pause to consider the source, for it was already known. Rather, he quickened his pace.
The walls were already shaking.
Children streaked through the cobblestone streets, shrieking with comingling laughter and distress as their weapons comprised of stripped branches clacked together with hollow threat. Devoid of the watchful eye of their parentage, the prepubescent churls heeded none—not even themselves, much less where they were going.
"I am Raubahn the Mighty! All fall before my mighty cleave!" boomed one stocky lad as he chased down two smaller boys, who ducked between merchant and streetfarer into one of the dim alleyways branching from Sapphire Avenue. His frenetic pace afforded him little control, and thus he had no chance of evading the Lalafell approaching from the other direction. Like a hapless pup scrambling over a pile of stones, the young hyur half-flipped over the smaller creature, crashing side-first onto the unforgiving street.
A pained cry turned to a flash of rage as he clambered to his feet, twain-snapped branch clutched tight at his side. "Hey, watch where you’re going!" the boy yelled blindly into the shade before turning and resuming his chase.
Zazuka brushed the dirt and grime from his cotton tunic and leathered breeches, subtly luminescent gaze following the retreat of the young fool that had sent him to the ground. Smoothing out a wrinkle here and there, he re-shouldered the satchel that had uprooted during the collision and continued on his way.
High were the Jewel’s walls, concealing from the world the tempest of chaos and anarchy that had been gaining potency for the past several moons. Yet if such anarchists and many refugees had their way, the Gate of Nald would tremble and collapse, shining a dust and corpse-ridden light upon just how weak and reachless the Sultana and her agents were.
The loose thread of coin and compromise that had kept the Monetarists together was beginning to fray, all by the making of their own greed and ill-informed decisions; an inevitable byproduct of the autonomy afforded—and purchased by—the various houses. This had led to the allowance of foolishly short-sighted action, such as the unsanctioned execution of Daegsatz Traggblansyn, first mate of Nero Lazarov.
‘Underestimated’ was the frail justification that Jameson Taeros had applied to the gross mis-step. And yet the well-kempt hyur had yet to be touched by the consequences of his failures. For Zazuka, every attempt to make a fist or hold one of his beloved instruments of inquiry was a ghostly reminder of the price he had paid for his own underestimation. Soon, the streets and courts would be filled with the consequential spectres of that lone act.
It was for the prevention of this grim future that he had been sent. He was the needle that would guide the wrongly-sewn threads back into accord; or the blade that would clip the extraneous stitches from the whole.
Lolorito’s First and Final Pence.
And there were many accounts to be settled.
Even in the dusk hours, as many vendors began to pack up their stations and prepare for the journey home, Ul’dah’s economy was a flurry of transactions of various magnitudes. The dark corners of the sacred Jewel held many secrets, and few of them were beyond the reach of his shadow. In one, someone was being beaten for coin, insult, or no reason at all. In another, a woman’s thighs were spread for similar reasons. In still another, clandestine folk were exchanging clandestine goods with (sometimes) clandestine intentions.
The city’s walls towered high above all, obscuring sight of such misdeeds from eyes that often preferred to look elsewhere. But as the sun crept below the Jewel’s spires, her shadows grew ever longer; and so too did Zazuka’s.
His shades were ever vigilant, dispersed into the city like so many scattered coins, lodged into the many cracks of its streets, alleys, and walls, collecting interest and sensitive value for their master. And this particular eve, dividends were being paid.
Further delving into the suspicions Taeros held concerning the lifted products from his warehouse had yielded a trail of crumbs that led to a certain Flame Sergeant. Moreover, collections had gathered that the former Sultansworn Deneith was somewhere within the city, doubtless conducting her covert affairs.
A hasty man would have rushed to cast a net and attempt to sequester the woman with forceful repercussion. Zazuka, however, had learned the value of temperance. Deneith’s presence had left crumbs, however miniscule. And for as much value was placed in the paladin’s dealings, keen was his interest at whose feet the last crumbs fell.
‘When seeking sign of rot, look first beneath the drawn sleeve.’
No, he would leave the net unfurled for the time being. Now was the hour of the snare and hot iron. He would cauterize each of the gaping wounds in Taeros’—and the Monetarists as a whole—operations, and thereby wall off the avenues of the paladin’s offenses.
He had so many questions for so many people; a prospect that nearly brought a smile to his commonly undiscernible expression.
And he knew just where to begin.
Somewhere behind him, pockets of thunder cracked with spurious frequency, limned by a familiar choir of enraged and agonized screams.
He did not take pause to consider the source, for it was already known. Rather, he quickened his pace.
The walls were already shaking.
