"Did you set me up?"
![[Image: MeCDwIZ.png]](http://i.imgur.com/MeCDwIZ.png)
It would have been a stretch to say it sounded innocent. A poker game at the Mandercrown Manse, with Miss Crofte, Master Bellveil, Miss Shaelen Stormchild, and North himself - at the specific request of the evening's orchestrator and hostess... the ever-smiling Brynnalia Callae. Certainly, North had anticipated that she had other intentions for the game, but not that it would devolve into an armed standoff in the manse's sitting room. Thugs and vigilantes staring each other down, Miss Shaelen shot and wounded, and Mistress Callae furiously demanding to know North's true allegiance... to know whether Miss Stormchild had, in bringing North to Master Taeros's service, raised the blade over Mistress Callae's neck.
"Did you set me up?"
North had to wrinkle his nose at THAT particular memory; less so for the unpleasance of the moment, and more for the slapstick of it, in hindsight. It was something directly out of the young master's 1-gil thrillers (despite his admonishments, the young master Aerstorn had always been rather indiscriminate in his literature tastes. North treated them as he did fish left out in the sun). It was the sort of thing one imagined a burly thug in a suit saying; furiously gesturing with a cigar while their adversary was slowly lowered into a shark tank. But nevertheless, Brynnalia Callae had been the one to say it; demanding an answer from Miss Stormchild, desperately and viciously as her carefully-planned trap fell to pieces.
"Did you set me up"... Ah, but specifically - he recalled, stirring the pot with a smug sort of flourish - had he ever been set up specifically as an agent of Lazarov? Impossible. He hadn't even known the man's name until nearly a full season into his employment; both Miss Deneith and Master Taeros had danced around it like a peiste trap in a ballroom.
Miss Stormchild had been... anxious, after the chaos had settled and the aftermath cleaned up. She warned North that saying the wrong thing might result in harm for a great many people. However, he was armed only with the truth - no extravagant gambits required against one who had played the wrong defense. Mistress Callae had certainly been in control of the situation when the poker game devolved into a standoff - indeed, she had orchestrated it from the start - but regardless of the reason, she had failed to ask the correct question to eliminate him.
![[Image: VulAPEm.png]](http://i.imgur.com/VulAPEm.png)
Indeed, their encounter outside the manor afterwards, if anything, had given him a long-missed advantage over her. Assuming that he worked on behalf of Lazarov had initially been only a logistics concern, but as the aftermath of the clash had faded away, he had focused on it more and more until it had festered into an infernal rage. If he was going to clumsily express his own emotions, amplified or not, it would at least have to be in a way that proved useful... and it certainly had.
The venom in his words and the fire in his eyes as he spat his hatred of Lazarov had been genuine; omissive, but quite genuine. For the first time since the young master's death, he had stopped planning ahead, speaking only what came immediately to heart and masking neither his words nor his intentions. Mistress Callae seemed shaken by his words, and unless his eyes had mistaken him, she had darted a quick glance to the chasm directly beside them... either wary of his intentions, or questioning her own. The night had thankfully ended with both of them walking away in the snow, rather than still at the bottom of a canyon. But he had scared her off.
He stared vindictively into the pot, accusing gaze leveled at the marinara.
It was vexing to see that Mistress Callae's boundaries lay beyond his initial estimation. It was impossible to know how much, if any, of her previous talks with him had been genuine... and thus, it had been troubling when she waltzed up Ul'dah's plush red stairs to corner North and ask for... what? She had refused to clarify. Forgiveness? Acceptance? The whole thing had been a bit of a surprise, but even her expression had barely matched up with her words. It was impossible to divine which of them betrayed what.
He had sent her away in the end, but... something had made him hand over a Starlight gift for her, intended for a better occasion before the ill-fated Poker Night. That, more than anything, had shaken her, and she had left immediately after. It had been a moment of whim... or perhaps just formality and obligation, to deliver a gift intended at a better time. North had to wonder precisely what effect it had had.
Nevertheless, the truth was out, such as it was. Gideon North was not, and would never be, the man of Nero Lazarov. Satisfied, he adroitly shifted between pots, three different ones on the verge of boil.
...So why, then, had nothing changed?
North was still in charge of Taeros's shipments... and indeed, there had still been some minor switches. Certainly nothing overly drastic, or notable enough for the families to bring to Taeros's attention; besides, most of the articles and gifts had been small enough for it to be a simple error in delivery. Master Taeros certainly knew his own power, but even he wouldn't dare to try punishing a Delivery Moogle. And yet, he had seen the subtle ripples.
Lord Rezhenne had been something of an experiment - an Elezen, and Gridanian expatriate, North estimated that he already faced some prejudices and exclusion as he tried to fit his family into Ul'dahn life. Besides, most of Master Taeros's gifts and exchanges to him were obligations of his position moreso than his schema. At the operetta all those weeks ago, Gideon had only been forced to scan a single expression, and he was rewarded with a slight glassiness to the angular smile.
In shortchanging the Elezen, North was soon able to oversupply the Quillburns; academic Highlanders whose candid opinions had earned them few friends among the Monetarists. Taeros would not find himself short on praise, but coming from those with such stringent personal standards (and grudging enemies), who knows what effect it could have? A spoon in each hand, he stirred multiple pots at a time - keeping an eye on both, careful to ensure everything was prepared according to the exact recipe.
Finally, there was House Mumuqaru. Ul'dahn through and through, they had suffered quite a financial loss in the past couple moons, by falling out of favor with the mining concerns... and so North had included one, two, three grimy chunks of iron ore in the supplied gifts. A calculated insult, or a mistake in shipment? Certainly, nobody would know. Regardless of the true reason, however, he knew that damage would be done. The relationship would be soured, even if it had been a genuine, honest accident. Nobles did not like to be reminded of their mistakes.
But he was not doing it for Lazarov. He held onto that above all else. He would say he was doing it for Miss Deneith, but... her faith had always been less in the plan, and moreso in the fact that her lover had been devising it. Thick gloves slipped on, he carried his work to cooler placements, face bathed in steam.
Perhaps he had been more truthful than he thought to Mistress Callae regarding his own intentions. Using the nobles' allegiances and petty grudges against them, even if it would not reveal his young master's murderer, felt grimly satisfying. There was something poetically just about it. A pawn moves in subtle, barely noticeable motions compared to other players on the board.
Only three questions remained, as the pinch of spices fluttered down from his fingers. One: at what point would his efforts no longer be required? Two: Would both Miss Deneith and Mistress Callae remain safe to and beyond that point?
He hesitated, hand stopping just short of the near-scalding pot handle.
Three: Who was the woman in black on Scholar's Walk?
It would have been a stretch to say it sounded innocent. A poker game at the Mandercrown Manse, with Miss Crofte, Master Bellveil, Miss Shaelen Stormchild, and North himself - at the specific request of the evening's orchestrator and hostess... the ever-smiling Brynnalia Callae. Certainly, North had anticipated that she had other intentions for the game, but not that it would devolve into an armed standoff in the manse's sitting room. Thugs and vigilantes staring each other down, Miss Shaelen shot and wounded, and Mistress Callae furiously demanding to know North's true allegiance... to know whether Miss Stormchild had, in bringing North to Master Taeros's service, raised the blade over Mistress Callae's neck.
"Did you set me up?"
North had to wrinkle his nose at THAT particular memory; less so for the unpleasance of the moment, and more for the slapstick of it, in hindsight. It was something directly out of the young master's 1-gil thrillers (despite his admonishments, the young master Aerstorn had always been rather indiscriminate in his literature tastes. North treated them as he did fish left out in the sun). It was the sort of thing one imagined a burly thug in a suit saying; furiously gesturing with a cigar while their adversary was slowly lowered into a shark tank. But nevertheless, Brynnalia Callae had been the one to say it; demanding an answer from Miss Stormchild, desperately and viciously as her carefully-planned trap fell to pieces.
"Did you set me up"... Ah, but specifically - he recalled, stirring the pot with a smug sort of flourish - had he ever been set up specifically as an agent of Lazarov? Impossible. He hadn't even known the man's name until nearly a full season into his employment; both Miss Deneith and Master Taeros had danced around it like a peiste trap in a ballroom.
Miss Stormchild had been... anxious, after the chaos had settled and the aftermath cleaned up. She warned North that saying the wrong thing might result in harm for a great many people. However, he was armed only with the truth - no extravagant gambits required against one who had played the wrong defense. Mistress Callae had certainly been in control of the situation when the poker game devolved into a standoff - indeed, she had orchestrated it from the start - but regardless of the reason, she had failed to ask the correct question to eliminate him.
Indeed, their encounter outside the manor afterwards, if anything, had given him a long-missed advantage over her. Assuming that he worked on behalf of Lazarov had initially been only a logistics concern, but as the aftermath of the clash had faded away, he had focused on it more and more until it had festered into an infernal rage. If he was going to clumsily express his own emotions, amplified or not, it would at least have to be in a way that proved useful... and it certainly had.
The venom in his words and the fire in his eyes as he spat his hatred of Lazarov had been genuine; omissive, but quite genuine. For the first time since the young master's death, he had stopped planning ahead, speaking only what came immediately to heart and masking neither his words nor his intentions. Mistress Callae seemed shaken by his words, and unless his eyes had mistaken him, she had darted a quick glance to the chasm directly beside them... either wary of his intentions, or questioning her own. The night had thankfully ended with both of them walking away in the snow, rather than still at the bottom of a canyon. But he had scared her off.
He stared vindictively into the pot, accusing gaze leveled at the marinara.
It was vexing to see that Mistress Callae's boundaries lay beyond his initial estimation. It was impossible to know how much, if any, of her previous talks with him had been genuine... and thus, it had been troubling when she waltzed up Ul'dah's plush red stairs to corner North and ask for... what? She had refused to clarify. Forgiveness? Acceptance? The whole thing had been a bit of a surprise, but even her expression had barely matched up with her words. It was impossible to divine which of them betrayed what.
He had sent her away in the end, but... something had made him hand over a Starlight gift for her, intended for a better occasion before the ill-fated Poker Night. That, more than anything, had shaken her, and she had left immediately after. It had been a moment of whim... or perhaps just formality and obligation, to deliver a gift intended at a better time. North had to wonder precisely what effect it had had.
Nevertheless, the truth was out, such as it was. Gideon North was not, and would never be, the man of Nero Lazarov. Satisfied, he adroitly shifted between pots, three different ones on the verge of boil.
...So why, then, had nothing changed?
North was still in charge of Taeros's shipments... and indeed, there had still been some minor switches. Certainly nothing overly drastic, or notable enough for the families to bring to Taeros's attention; besides, most of the articles and gifts had been small enough for it to be a simple error in delivery. Master Taeros certainly knew his own power, but even he wouldn't dare to try punishing a Delivery Moogle. And yet, he had seen the subtle ripples.
Lord Rezhenne had been something of an experiment - an Elezen, and Gridanian expatriate, North estimated that he already faced some prejudices and exclusion as he tried to fit his family into Ul'dahn life. Besides, most of Master Taeros's gifts and exchanges to him were obligations of his position moreso than his schema. At the operetta all those weeks ago, Gideon had only been forced to scan a single expression, and he was rewarded with a slight glassiness to the angular smile.
In shortchanging the Elezen, North was soon able to oversupply the Quillburns; academic Highlanders whose candid opinions had earned them few friends among the Monetarists. Taeros would not find himself short on praise, but coming from those with such stringent personal standards (and grudging enemies), who knows what effect it could have? A spoon in each hand, he stirred multiple pots at a time - keeping an eye on both, careful to ensure everything was prepared according to the exact recipe.
Finally, there was House Mumuqaru. Ul'dahn through and through, they had suffered quite a financial loss in the past couple moons, by falling out of favor with the mining concerns... and so North had included one, two, three grimy chunks of iron ore in the supplied gifts. A calculated insult, or a mistake in shipment? Certainly, nobody would know. Regardless of the true reason, however, he knew that damage would be done. The relationship would be soured, even if it had been a genuine, honest accident. Nobles did not like to be reminded of their mistakes.
But he was not doing it for Lazarov. He held onto that above all else. He would say he was doing it for Miss Deneith, but... her faith had always been less in the plan, and moreso in the fact that her lover had been devising it. Thick gloves slipped on, he carried his work to cooler placements, face bathed in steam.
Perhaps he had been more truthful than he thought to Mistress Callae regarding his own intentions. Using the nobles' allegiances and petty grudges against them, even if it would not reveal his young master's murderer, felt grimly satisfying. There was something poetically just about it. A pawn moves in subtle, barely noticeable motions compared to other players on the board.
Only three questions remained, as the pinch of spices fluttered down from his fingers. One: at what point would his efforts no longer be required? Two: Would both Miss Deneith and Mistress Callae remain safe to and beyond that point?
He hesitated, hand stopping just short of the near-scalding pot handle.
Three: Who was the woman in black on Scholar's Walk?
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Skype: wordsmithrefl[/sub]
Skype: wordsmithrefl[/sub]
