"This needs to go through Captain Longhaft." It was the third time Sergeant Malin had said it. She repeated the statement, slowly, as if the private in front of her had only recently come to the realm and only learned fragments of the common tongue. "Something this big, it needs to go through Longhaft."
"Captain Longhaft's getting his lever oiled," said the private, the half-mask over his face concealing the amused expression in his eyes, if not his smirk. "You want to break into his quarters and pull his girls off him, be my guest." Remembering himself, he cleared his throat and stood a little straighter. "Er, respectfully, Sergeant. But you take my meaning."
Malin pressed her hand to her temples and sighed, looking out over the road through Highbridge and into the Sunway. "It's that big? It can't wait?" A little further in the distance she could see the last of the cargo being loaded up onto a caravan, otherwise packed. One seat remained empty, a gap amidst chattering passengers, eager to be in Drybone before dawn.
"I wish it could, Sergeant, but the 'venturers made it seem pretty important. And then, well, there's the trophy they brought back. Ought to do something about it, don't you think? Our due diligence?"
Malin rubbed her chin in thought, wrinkling her nose. It wasn't her problem in terms of general authority, which belonged to Longhaft, or in terms of personal responsibility, her leave having started some few bells ago. But the Captain was known to be less than diligent, foisting responsibilities onto inferiors, then taking the credit and busying himself with his "staff." If it got back that she'd left work to him, it might well have been the last leave she'd have for moons on end.
She sighed. Donnell was going to be cross; she wouldn't be back in the city for another sun or so. But there was nothing to be done about it. "Show me the prisoner first, then."
---
The man didn't look like much - a caricature of a Highlander, thin and dour and conspicuously devoid of eyebrows. Muscular, but only because there was no fat left on his body for muscles to hide behind. A refugee once, she guessed, although from the private's report he'd gone so far into despair he'd taken up banditry. Mayhaps it was the noose for him - or mayhaps not. From the account of the adventurers and the privates sent to investigate the site of their former camp, there were some inconsistencies.
He was asleep in his cell, but fitfully so, curling up on the blanket reserved for non-violent captives and moaning in his sleep. It didn't sound like the pleasant kind of moan, by Malin's estimation, watching him from a stool just outside the bars. Best to wake him gently.
Taking her sword from her belt, she held it by the sheath and rattled the hilt between two irons. The captive was quick to be roused by the clanging, half-rising and half-stumbling from slumber into a wary seated position, limbs scrabbling on chipped stone, his expression first confused, then wary, thick brow furrowing as he examined Malin from the other side of the cell.
She smiled as bright as she was able in the circumstances, giving a candle's dim glow of a look while she brought her sword back to her side. "Good evening!" she said, her voice chipper if nothing else. "Doing well? Housing's to your liking, I trust?"
The confused look remained, but Malin continued on, apparently oblivious. "I know, I know, it's not where you want to sleep, is it? You were brought in unconscious, so I'm told. I'm told a number of things, but we'll get to them." She cleared her throat. "Anyroad, are you hungr - no, my apologies, we haven't food for you yet, but thirsty? Certainly you must be." She nudged a tin cup through the bars with her foot. Even this did not get an immediate reaction. Malin would have taken some small pleasure in watching him leap towards the bars to drink, but this seemed to be denied her, the man creeping towards the cell's entrance, as if expecting a trap, before snatching up the cup and remaining in place, taking a few cautious sips.
"Now, don't worry, this is just a temporary hospitality," she said. "The situation will change once we know a little bit more about you. Your name, for instance?" She lifted her eyebrows, folding her hands together in her lap and giving the man an expectant look.
Silence. He opened his mouth to speak, and a dry sound came out. He took a few more sips. "Gustavus," he replied.
"Gustavus!" She clapped her fingers together. "Excellent. You don't mind Gus, do you? Not as formal, but simpler. And you're from where, exactly?"
He flinched, and Malin noticed a slight tensing of the shoulders in the gesture. "Th-the camps," he said, before draining the cup of the last of its contents. "Outside the city."
She clucked her tongue. "That's a bit of a problem, I think. Mayhaps you are, but you were taken quite far afield, weren't you? I'm not sure why bandits in the Shroud would be keeping a refugee in their camp." Gustavus seemed to start where he stood, taking a few steps away from the cell doors, and Malin rose from her seat, offering a reassuring hand. "No, no, it's fine. You're safe. Some adventurers took a leve a little more, ah, aggressively than they should, and wiped out the lot. That's the report I've received, anyway."
Gustavus' eyes widened. Brown, she noted. Or perhaps grey? It was hard to tell in the light. "They're . . . gone? All of them?" She offered a confirming nod.
"Mmhm. We did have a few questions though. We can get you in touch with family after that. Agreeable?" She didn't wait for him to respond. "For example, I'm getting reports - excuse me." Taking out a sheaf of parchment from her belt, she unrolled it, squinting to read it in the torchlight. "A number of them, really - if you could recall which caravans they hit for insurers, for example, But what we're interested in is why so many of them had cast-off Ishgardian armor. So the report says." She looked at him from over the paper, eyebrows raised. "There were a few elezen, to be sure, in the bodies, but it was a mixed lot. Not exactly knights of the houses. And if they were - well, all the stranger, don't you think? Did they say anything about that?"
It wasn't the question she wanted to ask. There was one she found far more pressing. But she had no idea yet if the two problems were related. Better to talk about what he was likely to know than what she couldn't yet ascertain. She had her suspicions, but if what she thought was correct, then getting Gustavus to admit to them would be a far more vexing task than she sought this eve, and -Â
"Damn that Berold, it's all his fault! I've nothing to do with it, with any of it! You can put it all on him!" Gustavus cursed, throwing the cup on the ground.
Or not. Some days, Malin had to remind herself that not every bandit in Ul'dah was a criminal mastermind. "What? What can I put on him?"
He paced along the cell now, hand clutching the side of his head. Malin had seen this kind of thing before - no caged predator, this one. Just a man gathering his thoughts. "Look - we never did much before, all right? Caravans, yes. Kill a guard or two here or there, take the valuables. That was business."
So it was to be the noose for the man after all, then. A pity. Malin's voice was a little more sympathetic when next she spoke. "Of course. Please, go on."
"So that was fine, of course. But Berold - he knew a little alchemy, made our potions and the like - he comes back from getting supplies out of the city, right?" Gustavus paused, turning towards Malin and clutching the bars of his cell. This close, she could confirm his eyes were definitely brown. Frightened. "He comes back saying he got hold of dragon's blood."
Her snort was immediate. "And I've the deed to Black Brush for you for a pauper's sum."
"We did that too! We laughed, we did. Thought he'd been swindled, given beastkin's blood done up to look a little thicker." Stepping back from the bars, he clutched his hands to his head. "But then a few weeks back, he put it in a potion, and he tried it - wouldn't let anyone but him do it first. Thought it'd make him stronger."
"And? Did it?" She knew the answer from the hollow look on his face. Her two problems were connected after all.
"I remember the scream," he said. "Sort of deep and - and sharp like an axe in the brain. Blacked out from it, I think. We all did. Berold was naught to be found, and the rest . . . they were different. Going on about the glory of the horde, passing up fat caravans to hit anything that looked like it was coming out of Ishgard, stealing their armor." He swallowed, looking down at the overturned cup on the floor, finding nothing to be had. "I played along at first, you understand, but blood for blood's sake - that was too much. I don't know why they didn't just kill me."
"I see." Malin had a thoughtful look on her face as she processed the information, before rising on her seat. "Well, thank you for answering honest. Mayhaps it'll be in your favor, spare you from the hangman," she lied. "Just - one more thing. Berold ever say where he got the blood?"
Gustavus gave a quick shake of his head. "No, not a word. Could've been anybody in the Lane."
Damn. Well, one part of this had to be difficult, if nothing else. "Of course," she said, making her way to the jail doors. "I'll see one of the privates gets you some food, then. Twelve watch over you and all that."
Once out of the room, Malin bowed her head and scratched the side of her temple, face scrunched in thought. That was her part done. All it would take would be to write a report and pass it off to Longhaft, hoping he'd pull away from (and out of) his work long enough to take a look. Due diligence complete.
She crossed the hall of the Blades office in Highbridge to the small corner that served as her own, and paused. The storeroom wasn't too far off. She could chance a look, see what the fuss was all about.
The head was placed on top of a crate, a few thick pieces of linen set beneath it to keep blood and gore from spilling onto the food supplies. A casual observer might think it had been set out as a trophy, but it was simply there for sheer lack of knowing what else to do with it. What were the proper procedures for storing a severed dragon head? Would anyone in Highbridge even know? Malin thought not.
Even in death, and perhaps partly because of it, it was a grotesque-looking thing, a snub-nosed head as tall as her waist, she supposed, all mottled-brown scales and tiny, hateful black eyes. Its teeth were fully on display, as if it had no lips to cover them, and might snarl and leap out at any time.
"Poor Berold," she muttered to herself, before turning away from the door. That was it, then. Not exactly a mystery. Just write the report and move on.
But, she thought, infuriated with herself even as she considered it, she might as well follow up with the ones that killed it as well. Do her due diligence.
"Captain Longhaft's getting his lever oiled," said the private, the half-mask over his face concealing the amused expression in his eyes, if not his smirk. "You want to break into his quarters and pull his girls off him, be my guest." Remembering himself, he cleared his throat and stood a little straighter. "Er, respectfully, Sergeant. But you take my meaning."
Malin pressed her hand to her temples and sighed, looking out over the road through Highbridge and into the Sunway. "It's that big? It can't wait?" A little further in the distance she could see the last of the cargo being loaded up onto a caravan, otherwise packed. One seat remained empty, a gap amidst chattering passengers, eager to be in Drybone before dawn.
"I wish it could, Sergeant, but the 'venturers made it seem pretty important. And then, well, there's the trophy they brought back. Ought to do something about it, don't you think? Our due diligence?"
Malin rubbed her chin in thought, wrinkling her nose. It wasn't her problem in terms of general authority, which belonged to Longhaft, or in terms of personal responsibility, her leave having started some few bells ago. But the Captain was known to be less than diligent, foisting responsibilities onto inferiors, then taking the credit and busying himself with his "staff." If it got back that she'd left work to him, it might well have been the last leave she'd have for moons on end.
She sighed. Donnell was going to be cross; she wouldn't be back in the city for another sun or so. But there was nothing to be done about it. "Show me the prisoner first, then."
---
The man didn't look like much - a caricature of a Highlander, thin and dour and conspicuously devoid of eyebrows. Muscular, but only because there was no fat left on his body for muscles to hide behind. A refugee once, she guessed, although from the private's report he'd gone so far into despair he'd taken up banditry. Mayhaps it was the noose for him - or mayhaps not. From the account of the adventurers and the privates sent to investigate the site of their former camp, there were some inconsistencies.
He was asleep in his cell, but fitfully so, curling up on the blanket reserved for non-violent captives and moaning in his sleep. It didn't sound like the pleasant kind of moan, by Malin's estimation, watching him from a stool just outside the bars. Best to wake him gently.
Taking her sword from her belt, she held it by the sheath and rattled the hilt between two irons. The captive was quick to be roused by the clanging, half-rising and half-stumbling from slumber into a wary seated position, limbs scrabbling on chipped stone, his expression first confused, then wary, thick brow furrowing as he examined Malin from the other side of the cell.
She smiled as bright as she was able in the circumstances, giving a candle's dim glow of a look while she brought her sword back to her side. "Good evening!" she said, her voice chipper if nothing else. "Doing well? Housing's to your liking, I trust?"
The confused look remained, but Malin continued on, apparently oblivious. "I know, I know, it's not where you want to sleep, is it? You were brought in unconscious, so I'm told. I'm told a number of things, but we'll get to them." She cleared her throat. "Anyroad, are you hungr - no, my apologies, we haven't food for you yet, but thirsty? Certainly you must be." She nudged a tin cup through the bars with her foot. Even this did not get an immediate reaction. Malin would have taken some small pleasure in watching him leap towards the bars to drink, but this seemed to be denied her, the man creeping towards the cell's entrance, as if expecting a trap, before snatching up the cup and remaining in place, taking a few cautious sips.
"Now, don't worry, this is just a temporary hospitality," she said. "The situation will change once we know a little bit more about you. Your name, for instance?" She lifted her eyebrows, folding her hands together in her lap and giving the man an expectant look.
Silence. He opened his mouth to speak, and a dry sound came out. He took a few more sips. "Gustavus," he replied.
"Gustavus!" She clapped her fingers together. "Excellent. You don't mind Gus, do you? Not as formal, but simpler. And you're from where, exactly?"
He flinched, and Malin noticed a slight tensing of the shoulders in the gesture. "Th-the camps," he said, before draining the cup of the last of its contents. "Outside the city."
She clucked her tongue. "That's a bit of a problem, I think. Mayhaps you are, but you were taken quite far afield, weren't you? I'm not sure why bandits in the Shroud would be keeping a refugee in their camp." Gustavus seemed to start where he stood, taking a few steps away from the cell doors, and Malin rose from her seat, offering a reassuring hand. "No, no, it's fine. You're safe. Some adventurers took a leve a little more, ah, aggressively than they should, and wiped out the lot. That's the report I've received, anyway."
Gustavus' eyes widened. Brown, she noted. Or perhaps grey? It was hard to tell in the light. "They're . . . gone? All of them?" She offered a confirming nod.
"Mmhm. We did have a few questions though. We can get you in touch with family after that. Agreeable?" She didn't wait for him to respond. "For example, I'm getting reports - excuse me." Taking out a sheaf of parchment from her belt, she unrolled it, squinting to read it in the torchlight. "A number of them, really - if you could recall which caravans they hit for insurers, for example, But what we're interested in is why so many of them had cast-off Ishgardian armor. So the report says." She looked at him from over the paper, eyebrows raised. "There were a few elezen, to be sure, in the bodies, but it was a mixed lot. Not exactly knights of the houses. And if they were - well, all the stranger, don't you think? Did they say anything about that?"
It wasn't the question she wanted to ask. There was one she found far more pressing. But she had no idea yet if the two problems were related. Better to talk about what he was likely to know than what she couldn't yet ascertain. She had her suspicions, but if what she thought was correct, then getting Gustavus to admit to them would be a far more vexing task than she sought this eve, and -Â
"Damn that Berold, it's all his fault! I've nothing to do with it, with any of it! You can put it all on him!" Gustavus cursed, throwing the cup on the ground.
Or not. Some days, Malin had to remind herself that not every bandit in Ul'dah was a criminal mastermind. "What? What can I put on him?"
He paced along the cell now, hand clutching the side of his head. Malin had seen this kind of thing before - no caged predator, this one. Just a man gathering his thoughts. "Look - we never did much before, all right? Caravans, yes. Kill a guard or two here or there, take the valuables. That was business."
So it was to be the noose for the man after all, then. A pity. Malin's voice was a little more sympathetic when next she spoke. "Of course. Please, go on."
"So that was fine, of course. But Berold - he knew a little alchemy, made our potions and the like - he comes back from getting supplies out of the city, right?" Gustavus paused, turning towards Malin and clutching the bars of his cell. This close, she could confirm his eyes were definitely brown. Frightened. "He comes back saying he got hold of dragon's blood."
Her snort was immediate. "And I've the deed to Black Brush for you for a pauper's sum."
"We did that too! We laughed, we did. Thought he'd been swindled, given beastkin's blood done up to look a little thicker." Stepping back from the bars, he clutched his hands to his head. "But then a few weeks back, he put it in a potion, and he tried it - wouldn't let anyone but him do it first. Thought it'd make him stronger."
"And? Did it?" She knew the answer from the hollow look on his face. Her two problems were connected after all.
"I remember the scream," he said. "Sort of deep and - and sharp like an axe in the brain. Blacked out from it, I think. We all did. Berold was naught to be found, and the rest . . . they were different. Going on about the glory of the horde, passing up fat caravans to hit anything that looked like it was coming out of Ishgard, stealing their armor." He swallowed, looking down at the overturned cup on the floor, finding nothing to be had. "I played along at first, you understand, but blood for blood's sake - that was too much. I don't know why they didn't just kill me."
"I see." Malin had a thoughtful look on her face as she processed the information, before rising on her seat. "Well, thank you for answering honest. Mayhaps it'll be in your favor, spare you from the hangman," she lied. "Just - one more thing. Berold ever say where he got the blood?"
Gustavus gave a quick shake of his head. "No, not a word. Could've been anybody in the Lane."
Damn. Well, one part of this had to be difficult, if nothing else. "Of course," she said, making her way to the jail doors. "I'll see one of the privates gets you some food, then. Twelve watch over you and all that."
Once out of the room, Malin bowed her head and scratched the side of her temple, face scrunched in thought. That was her part done. All it would take would be to write a report and pass it off to Longhaft, hoping he'd pull away from (and out of) his work long enough to take a look. Due diligence complete.
She crossed the hall of the Blades office in Highbridge to the small corner that served as her own, and paused. The storeroom wasn't too far off. She could chance a look, see what the fuss was all about.
The head was placed on top of a crate, a few thick pieces of linen set beneath it to keep blood and gore from spilling onto the food supplies. A casual observer might think it had been set out as a trophy, but it was simply there for sheer lack of knowing what else to do with it. What were the proper procedures for storing a severed dragon head? Would anyone in Highbridge even know? Malin thought not.
Even in death, and perhaps partly because of it, it was a grotesque-looking thing, a snub-nosed head as tall as her waist, she supposed, all mottled-brown scales and tiny, hateful black eyes. Its teeth were fully on display, as if it had no lips to cover them, and might snarl and leap out at any time.
"Poor Berold," she muttered to herself, before turning away from the door. That was it, then. Not exactly a mystery. Just write the report and move on.
But, she thought, infuriated with herself even as she considered it, she might as well follow up with the ones that killed it as well. Do her due diligence.
Verad Bellveil's Profile | The Case of the Ransacked Rug | Verad's Fate Sheet
Current Fate-14 Storyline:Â Merchant, Marine
Current Fate-14 Storyline:Â Merchant, Marine
