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Clearing the Lane
A thin wispy string of smoke rose lazily upward through the still and thick air of the afternoon. Ul'dah's Spring had long ago grown hot and searing; the wet cool breeze of the winter season a fading memory. The man whose teeth clenched the pipe's stem was old enough to remember the real winters of his youth. In that distant land whose high, rolling hills would awake to a crisp dust of snow and frost.
He was wiry by Highland standards, a whirl of red hair rising with tufted chaos upon his head. His eyes bore a lazy focus on the lane below the balcony. Despite the shade, the heat was enough to render anyone lethargic unless needs fully demanded otherwise. Still, it was his job to watch the lane below for any sign of trouble. One of several lookouts keeping an eye upon their small stretch of the lane.
A pair of Brass Blades strolled along below casting glances toward the pedlars and indigent who idled along either side of the road. It was just a short distance to the buzzing activity of the Sapphire Exchange Bazaar, where gil and goods readily exchanged hands. But this was where those who weren't allowed under the bazaar canopies found themselves conducting business: Pearl Lane.
Ostensibly these folk were afforded the protection of Ul'dahs City Watch: the Brass Blades. But the Blades reflected the character of the city itself, and indulged in the pursuit of gil. Buyers able to afford their services were not to be found here, and unable to meet the market cost of Brass Blade protection, the denizens of the Lane found themselves bereft.
Instead what protection they had came at the hands of Bohanon and his brethren. The scars upon his hands and forearms lent credence to his history as a knife fighter. The missing finger upon his left hand was a reminder of the price of such combat. The Brass Blades wandered along their path, offering nothing more than disdainful glances. They understood cost benefit analysis as well as the old Guild hands: this wasn't the place to make idle trouble.
The young redhead let a cocky smile cross his lips. The door to the balcony's apartment opened with a creaking groan. "How's tha mornin' Bo?" asked the brogue of a familiar voice.
"A fine morning, indeed. Despite the blasted heat." He nodded, gesturing with the hand that held his small pipe.
"I still say it beats Little Ala Mhigo."
Bohanon nodded with broader smirk, "Real pipeweed for one. And real liquor for the better."
His brother joined him in a laugh. Jericho was taller and broader, but no fighter at heart. He'd found work in Momodi's kitchen and did his due diligence to keep it.
As the laughter died down the pipe returned to Bohanon's teeth, which clenched with a worried firmness. Things were not exactly well. The name, "Scythe" was on the tongue of every rumor-monger this side of the Gold Court. Except for the fanatics it was not a pleasant thought. Trouble was on the horizon, and trouble with Scythe's name attached meant violence of the bloody sort.
His eyes returned to the watch, spotting a familiar figure approaching from the direction of the Steps of Nald. Aya, the Ishgardian barmaid of the Quick Sand, and ever the sight. He'd said it before: "When men say women are trouble, she is what they mean." And a common sight she was in the Lane, familiar and friendly to many of the street folk and peddlers who frequent it. Bohanon was concerned, though, he'd just spotted her several times in the company of a Flame Sergeant - and not just any Flame Sergeant, but one well known to the lot of them - and they knew Melkire meant even more trouble than the blonde.Â
"'Ey Jericho." he said out of the corner of his mouth, his voice raised just below a shout. "Yer princess is out 'ere."
Jericho appeared as summoned, a ragged towel wrapped around his shoulders as he patted down freshly washed cheeks while peering with sun-squinted eyes down into the lane. "And so she is..." he assented all too agreeably for Bohanon's taste-a sentiment expressed with a scoffing groan.
"'Ey," he objected, "She's a right fine lass now, and friendly too. I don't want to hear you say naught a word contrary o' her." He gestured toward the lane with a towel-wrapped hand.
Bohanon turned his agitated gaze toward his brother, "You're too trustin' o' women. I'm tellin' you, somethin' that pretty means trouble, and I mean trouble."
Jericho rolled his eyes, letting out a groan that was interrupted by something catching his eye. "'Ey, isn't that yer boss she's talkin' wi?"Â
With a scrambling start, Bohanon leapt to his feet. His hands slammed onto the banister of the balcony as he felt the hot blaze of the sun sear his suddenly exposed face. "Gods damnit!" he exclaimed with a barely cut-off shout, leaving his hands fumbling to catch the pipe as it dropped from his lips.
Bohanon stood with his arms folded across his body, his glance side-ways, with obvious frustration on his sweat-covered brow.Â
"What the hells are we doing?" he asked himself. Behind him stood two others under his command. Their block was dominated by Ala Mhigan refugees, and theirs was an Ala Mhigan gang. They were among those fortunate enough to have gained entry to, and for some, employment in the city itself. Their usual activities were those of low-level organized crime combined with the self-policing that came with the turf. They had their roots in the community. They protected it from outside trouble, kept the peace, and expected their share of the cut. They were feared, if not respected, and when orders came down from the top to get something done, Bohanon was one of those who made sure they got done.
The eye-slot in the door slid open, revealing a pair of fair-hued Hyur eyes. They way they suddenly grew wider at the sight before them, meant there was no doubt they took in who was at the door: the red-haired Bohanon was himself an easily recognizable adjunct. The two behind him didn't need introduction: a hulking highlander man carrying a heavy steel pipe, and a bored-looking Miqo'te woman with a look of impatience, and a length of chain wrapped around her arm.Â
"Afternoon ma'am", came the redhead's friendliest authoritative brogue. "Don't you worry, we dun mean you no trouble." He comforter her before a short pause, "'Long as ye do what we ask."
The fearful look in her eyes did not look the least bit comforted. Bohanon didn't really mind, respect was one of the perks of his position. "What do you want?" came the feminine voice from behind the door, struggling to sound firm and calm.
"Yer to clear out, gonna spend the night somewhere real nice and comfy while some trouble blows over. All of ye, make sure ye leave together. Ye can come back tomorrow sunrise. Take whatever ye want, leave the rest and we'll keep an eye on it for ye." His head moved with a confident little shake, a discomforting smirk upon his features.
"But.. leave? Why?" came the surprised, upset voice on the other side of the door.
"Its for yer own good, okay? We're expecting trouble. And because-" he tilted his head toward her, "we asked ye so nice.".
The peephole slid shut. "We'll be back in an hour. Better make sure you've cleared out." He hollered thudding his fist once more against the wood door, before turning to approach the next apartment in the building. He knew the rumors of trouble had already spread like wildfire. Word of Brass Blade raids, of Scythe, of wild revolutionaries let loose intent upon torching the city itself. Rumors of the Flames preparing to impose martial law on the Lane, before it could get out of hand. Some were already fleeing on the strength of the rumors alone. The rest, well that's what Bohanon and his brethren would take care of.
He cast a look over each shoulder, glancing back to his soldiers one at a time, before looking squarely toward the next door. He raised his hand and knocked loudly upon it.
"Afternoon sir", he greeted in the same friendly, but authoritative tone. "Don't you worry, we dun mean you no trouble..."
Bohanon took the final step down the rattling stoop. He tilted his head up toward the late afternoon sky, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. Beads of sweat poured down his cheeks, his neck, and his chest. He took a hard swallow, finding it dry. "What in the hells are we doing?" he asked himself again. The steel-pipe-carrier let himself down with a thud, sitting upon the rough paving stones of the Lane as he let out a tired groan. The Miqo'te lass yawned, but her nonchalance scarcely hid her own discomfort.
They'd cleared several buildings, though a few double-checks remained for stragglers. There were two more left to go, though they knew by now most of the residents had already left of their own accord, word traveling faster than the groups themselves could. It wasn't exactly a stream, but more of a trickle as this section of the Lane's poor denizens worked their way down the lane toward the Steps of Nald where they were being met by representatives of the Guiding Hand Trade Concern. C'kayah Polaali, a newly sanctioned Trader, had gladly taken the opportunity purchase some good will. His agents were in the process of collecting those being relocated for the night, and shuffling them off to various lodgings for the evening.
Meanwhile the entire gang had been called out, and more of their numbers now lined the block keeping a close eye on the buildings to discourage would-be-looters. Bohanon swallowed hard again, turning his attention down the lane toward the Steps of Nald. Several groups moved together, families supporting their elderly members. Some of the young and able carried legal implements as makeshift weapons: hooks and hammers in their belts. Fear and destitution were written on their features. None knew what they would come back to, if they could come back. Most had seen this all before, and the promise of charity from the GHTC wouldn't be worth an onze until the ordeal was over.
Just a block down the way, Bohanon spied the trouble he knew was responsible for it all: that blasted barmaid, wrapped in a dark cloak and looking as cool as could be. She knelt next to an older woman who sat before a threadbare blanket spread upon the ground, which was covered in various hats, shoes and broken musical instruments. He could see the friendly cheerfulness upon the barmaid's smile from here, and watched as she spoke with the pedlar-woman, before helping her begin rolling up her blanket and returning the bulkier goods to another sack: each instrument wrapped one-by-one.Â
As the young woman stood a few moments later, she swung the sack over her left shoulder, and offered her free right hand to the old woman to help her up. Together they headed down the Lane toward a representative of the GHTC, ready with a small cart for those with difficulty walking on their own.
Bohanon took another hard, dry, swallow before rallying his group with the wave of a hand. "Le's get started on the next." he said with a begrudged calmness.
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