Far from the comforting song of the Horde, far from the arms and camaraderie of the brethren, and, most damningly, far from anything resembling a good Ishgardian wine, Fraideoux Morelz found himself considering, with ever-increasing frequency, when and how to call off the hunt.
When word had reached the brethren of the relics scattered among Ul'dah, traded out amongst the stalls like so many cheap trinkets, his rage had been as great as any other man's. When he had been chosen as part of the force to retake them and punish the offenders who dared let them reach heretical hands, his joy had been just as great. And when he had been chosen to lead one half of their forces? His pride had swelled at the chance to serve the chorus.
And now? Now, after moons of stalking and surveillance, he found himself seated at a cheap cafe in the late evening and, in-between mouthfuls of an anonymous and sour local vintage, the bottle already half-empty, staring out of the corner of his eye at a box placed against a wall across the street.
There were no guards around the box, though the way the Blades patrolled so close to it suggested that they had been asked to give it a watchful eye. There was nothing about it that implied that items of great value were within, or even that the box itself looked especially valuable; indeed, it was downright cheap, barely a crate taken from the scraps in the city's poor districts and forced open at the top. There should have been nothing at all about the box that mattered to him in the slightest.
And yet, every so often, somebody would approach in a furtive manner (everything about this city was furtive, he thought, as if every soul in the city was born as part of a scheme and with a scheme of their own) and drop some anonymous item therein. At times they were in pouches, and at times dropped in without any coverings, allowing a viewer to get a glimpse of crudely etched draconic imagery, of rosaries that might, maybe, have been of Dravanian make.
In his heart, he knew they weren't. The No-Eyed Man's declaration of paying for the delivery of relics, whatever his goals, had led to little more than the appearance of cheap fakes from his own observations and those of his agents. Where the markets had briefly been devoid of their quarry, now they were flooded with what was worse than nothing, worse because they could not afford to overlook the prospect of such thing being genuine.
And where were they concentrating? At the boxes. And so here he sat, as did his other people, across the city, and here he drank.
It hadn't started this way, of course. The two cells had come with more aggressive plans - his, Greenwing, to find the relics and reclaim them, and the other, Redscale, to find and punish the thieves. They had followed protocols and engaged in their purviews well.
Then Sylvetrel of Redscale had been captured following the righteous execution of local bearing a rosary. By rights he should have been silent, accepted his execution, but his cell had attempted a rescue - baited, he was told by the sole survivors, by the presence of a dragoon near his cells. They were slaughtered, and Fraideoux forced to incorporate the survivors into his own forces and attempt to do twice the work with half the men.
Worse, security had been compromised, passphrases and meeting placess divulged. He knew not if Sylvetrel had succumbed to torture or proved weak in spirit, but Fraideoux found himself entertaining offers of compromise and peace from fools, a local who did not understand that some peace could only be obtained in blood. He had made her an offer - she did not accept it, left with threats on her tongue that had, to date, proven empty. Refugees had followed next, confused initiates going south rather than north.
Fools, but he had taken pity, and made an offer to them - the death of the thief of the relics in exchange for succor. Here Fraideoux allowed himself a bitter smile as he drained his glass. Finding Bellveil's identity had been the only triumph, however small. But he was well-guarded at his estate, and rarely left the premises. Getting to him, let alone punishing him, was near-impossible with the forces they had remaining.
That, and the sense of the empty, the lingering absence of the chorus singing bright and strong, propelled his thoughts. The matter was settled, he thought to himself. The thief was dead, some anonymous interloper, easy enough to take from the streets, and most of the relics restored. The loss of the Tears was a problem, of course, and for that someone would be punished. Most likely Fraideoux. But it would not deserve death with Redscale's mistakes to blame. Yes. this could work.
Another glass and another bell's slowly simmering bitterness might have made him call his agents, but the shifting of a chair in front of him and the appearance of a shadow over his wineglass, one made by hands knitted together over elbows resting on his table, gave him pause. "You don't mind the interruption, do you?" The voice was polite, pensive, a little mocking. "You seemed lost in your thoughts. Spiritual matters, I'd say."
Fraideoux considered telling the man to leave in some of the more colorful language he'd been hearing in the south, and his mouth opened to voice the first of many volatile syllables. Careful study of the intruder's face, however, made his eyes narrow. "You."
He received only a smile and a tilt of the head in return. "Me. Plans going well?" Fraideoux found himself reaching for a sword he didn't have; bad enough to be watching a box, and far worse to be armed and watching a box. There was obvious suspicion of the No-Eyed Man's appearances, and then there was regular, everyday, attract-the-attention of guards suspicion. He had chosen to avoid the latter.
Lacking weapons, he hissed in irritation and drew his bottle closer to his side of the table. "Of course you would come to this city, of all places. What better home for the corrupt than corruption's heart?"
"A little predictable, I admit," said the man with a shrug of his shoulders. "But it could have been anywhere; I merely saw the opportunity here. And surely not so predictable as yourself, hm? Tell me, how many of our brethren will I find watching these?" He glanced over his shoulder towards the box. As he watched, a man stumbled forward along the street, drunk, clutching an empty bottle. This, in a spirit of local civic-minded compromise, he deigned to dump in the relic-receiving crate. "And such important work, too," he continued, turning back to Fraideoux.
The Dravanian's grip tightened on his glass. "Are you only here to mock the faithful? You are not part of our mission, Gerchon, but I will gladly - "
The man held up both hands in defense. "No! No, nothing like that. Happened to espy you and yours scouting out these boxes, guessed your purpose, and, wouldn't you know it, it suits my own. You're looking for relics and thieves, correct? Don't answer, of course you are. Blasphemy must be punished, the righteous must be reclaimed. I know the song and all its notes the same as yourself."
Fraideoux poured himself another glass, shaking the bottle upside-down to eke out a few more drops. "Spare me. Tell me what you want and go, ere the guards take too much notice of the talk."
"Well, it's just I have this unconscious thief on my hands, you see. The one you're looking for. Bellveil, isn't it? The merchant?"
Fraideoux gripped the table with both hands. "You have Bellveil."
"Mm. And his accomplice. You're not going to drink the wine?"
"Why ought I do that?"
"Well, it just seemed the sort of thing which ought to cause you to spit something out of your mouth upon hearing."
"In a farce, perhaps. You fancy yourself a mummer, Gerchon?"
The man shook his head. "Hardly, but things rub off. Look, do you want Bellveil or not? I have him trussed up with his accomplice for delivery. Take him somewhere scenic and cut his head off, honor the chorus, have a very solemn moment with your kin, and then you can leave." The slight forward lean of his upper torso made him seem to loom over Fraideoux. "That's what you want, isn't it? To leave? We've both heard what's coming. Surely you want to be there."
There was a frown, a scowl, a clenching of the fists and the grinding of the teeth. And then submission. "What must I do?"
Gerchon's smile widened. "Well now. How many of your men do you actually need?"
When word had reached the brethren of the relics scattered among Ul'dah, traded out amongst the stalls like so many cheap trinkets, his rage had been as great as any other man's. When he had been chosen as part of the force to retake them and punish the offenders who dared let them reach heretical hands, his joy had been just as great. And when he had been chosen to lead one half of their forces? His pride had swelled at the chance to serve the chorus.
And now? Now, after moons of stalking and surveillance, he found himself seated at a cheap cafe in the late evening and, in-between mouthfuls of an anonymous and sour local vintage, the bottle already half-empty, staring out of the corner of his eye at a box placed against a wall across the street.
There were no guards around the box, though the way the Blades patrolled so close to it suggested that they had been asked to give it a watchful eye. There was nothing about it that implied that items of great value were within, or even that the box itself looked especially valuable; indeed, it was downright cheap, barely a crate taken from the scraps in the city's poor districts and forced open at the top. There should have been nothing at all about the box that mattered to him in the slightest.
And yet, every so often, somebody would approach in a furtive manner (everything about this city was furtive, he thought, as if every soul in the city was born as part of a scheme and with a scheme of their own) and drop some anonymous item therein. At times they were in pouches, and at times dropped in without any coverings, allowing a viewer to get a glimpse of crudely etched draconic imagery, of rosaries that might, maybe, have been of Dravanian make.
In his heart, he knew they weren't. The No-Eyed Man's declaration of paying for the delivery of relics, whatever his goals, had led to little more than the appearance of cheap fakes from his own observations and those of his agents. Where the markets had briefly been devoid of their quarry, now they were flooded with what was worse than nothing, worse because they could not afford to overlook the prospect of such thing being genuine.
And where were they concentrating? At the boxes. And so here he sat, as did his other people, across the city, and here he drank.
It hadn't started this way, of course. The two cells had come with more aggressive plans - his, Greenwing, to find the relics and reclaim them, and the other, Redscale, to find and punish the thieves. They had followed protocols and engaged in their purviews well.
Then Sylvetrel of Redscale had been captured following the righteous execution of local bearing a rosary. By rights he should have been silent, accepted his execution, but his cell had attempted a rescue - baited, he was told by the sole survivors, by the presence of a dragoon near his cells. They were slaughtered, and Fraideoux forced to incorporate the survivors into his own forces and attempt to do twice the work with half the men.
Worse, security had been compromised, passphrases and meeting placess divulged. He knew not if Sylvetrel had succumbed to torture or proved weak in spirit, but Fraideoux found himself entertaining offers of compromise and peace from fools, a local who did not understand that some peace could only be obtained in blood. He had made her an offer - she did not accept it, left with threats on her tongue that had, to date, proven empty. Refugees had followed next, confused initiates going south rather than north.
Fools, but he had taken pity, and made an offer to them - the death of the thief of the relics in exchange for succor. Here Fraideoux allowed himself a bitter smile as he drained his glass. Finding Bellveil's identity had been the only triumph, however small. But he was well-guarded at his estate, and rarely left the premises. Getting to him, let alone punishing him, was near-impossible with the forces they had remaining.
That, and the sense of the empty, the lingering absence of the chorus singing bright and strong, propelled his thoughts. The matter was settled, he thought to himself. The thief was dead, some anonymous interloper, easy enough to take from the streets, and most of the relics restored. The loss of the Tears was a problem, of course, and for that someone would be punished. Most likely Fraideoux. But it would not deserve death with Redscale's mistakes to blame. Yes. this could work.
Another glass and another bell's slowly simmering bitterness might have made him call his agents, but the shifting of a chair in front of him and the appearance of a shadow over his wineglass, one made by hands knitted together over elbows resting on his table, gave him pause. "You don't mind the interruption, do you?" The voice was polite, pensive, a little mocking. "You seemed lost in your thoughts. Spiritual matters, I'd say."
Fraideoux considered telling the man to leave in some of the more colorful language he'd been hearing in the south, and his mouth opened to voice the first of many volatile syllables. Careful study of the intruder's face, however, made his eyes narrow. "You."
He received only a smile and a tilt of the head in return. "Me. Plans going well?" Fraideoux found himself reaching for a sword he didn't have; bad enough to be watching a box, and far worse to be armed and watching a box. There was obvious suspicion of the No-Eyed Man's appearances, and then there was regular, everyday, attract-the-attention of guards suspicion. He had chosen to avoid the latter.
Lacking weapons, he hissed in irritation and drew his bottle closer to his side of the table. "Of course you would come to this city, of all places. What better home for the corrupt than corruption's heart?"
"A little predictable, I admit," said the man with a shrug of his shoulders. "But it could have been anywhere; I merely saw the opportunity here. And surely not so predictable as yourself, hm? Tell me, how many of our brethren will I find watching these?" He glanced over his shoulder towards the box. As he watched, a man stumbled forward along the street, drunk, clutching an empty bottle. This, in a spirit of local civic-minded compromise, he deigned to dump in the relic-receiving crate. "And such important work, too," he continued, turning back to Fraideoux.
The Dravanian's grip tightened on his glass. "Are you only here to mock the faithful? You are not part of our mission, Gerchon, but I will gladly - "
The man held up both hands in defense. "No! No, nothing like that. Happened to espy you and yours scouting out these boxes, guessed your purpose, and, wouldn't you know it, it suits my own. You're looking for relics and thieves, correct? Don't answer, of course you are. Blasphemy must be punished, the righteous must be reclaimed. I know the song and all its notes the same as yourself."
Fraideoux poured himself another glass, shaking the bottle upside-down to eke out a few more drops. "Spare me. Tell me what you want and go, ere the guards take too much notice of the talk."
"Well, it's just I have this unconscious thief on my hands, you see. The one you're looking for. Bellveil, isn't it? The merchant?"
Fraideoux gripped the table with both hands. "You have Bellveil."
"Mm. And his accomplice. You're not going to drink the wine?"
"Why ought I do that?"
"Well, it just seemed the sort of thing which ought to cause you to spit something out of your mouth upon hearing."
"In a farce, perhaps. You fancy yourself a mummer, Gerchon?"
The man shook his head. "Hardly, but things rub off. Look, do you want Bellveil or not? I have him trussed up with his accomplice for delivery. Take him somewhere scenic and cut his head off, honor the chorus, have a very solemn moment with your kin, and then you can leave." The slight forward lean of his upper torso made him seem to loom over Fraideoux. "That's what you want, isn't it? To leave? We've both heard what's coming. Surely you want to be there."
There was a frown, a scowl, a clenching of the fists and the grinding of the teeth. And then submission. "What must I do?"
Gerchon's smile widened. "Well now. How many of your men do you actually need?"
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