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A Few Places in Gridania:
"You've a fair bit of nerve coming back here." Gerard was bad at keeping a neutral tone of voice, and preferred to sound sardonic where possible as a defense mechanism. Seeing the monk back in Quarrymill put poison in his voice, and there was nothing he could do to help it.
To his credit, the monk had the decency to hang his head. He also kept a good distance away from the other refugees, who watched him with wary eyes from the other side of the river. Not just him, Gerard knew; after the botched interrogation, and putting two other good Mhigan boys in the ground thanks to it, many of those eyes were directed at him as well.
"I know," he replied. "I have no excuse." Despite towering over Gerard by a good fulm, he seemed smaller, somehow, less defiant than when he'd been chained and railing against being set free to return to his "Young King Theodric." He did not look Gerard in the eye as he continued. "I was . . . unwell. I know the truth of things now."
Gerard did not unbend. "That why you came back? To apologize? That it?"
"Yes. And to make it right for those I have hurt."
Gerard spat on the ground, glancing between the monk and over his shoulder, at the few scattered refugees. Every moon or so a few more, those who braved an escape from Ala Mhigo and a flight past a Castrum. They were in terrible shape, ragged and beaten down.
If he told the monk to leave, he'd regain some favor, maybe. Put paid to the rumors he'd been in too deep with the Wailers, let them see an opportunity to get a few Mhigans slain. Certainly the monk hadn't earned a second chance.
But he remembered where he was a year ago, when it had been him and a few other desperate Mhigans hiding in the caves, waging a war of his own, stolen gunblades and a battered walker their only weapons. He remembered what he'd done and who he'd slain, and how he'd had no right to a second chance himself. And then a few Keepers had spoken up for him.
He snorted, and unfolded arms that had been crossed since the monk entered the fort. "Come on then," he said, stepping past the monk and clapping him on the back. "Let's get you sorted with the Hearer, see if you're allowed to stay."
---
Guerrique returned to his quarters after a shift on watch at their cave's entrance to hear sobbing down the tunnel to his chambers. Typically quiet on his feet, he made a point of cracking his boot sharply on a rock to announce his presence. He said nothing, nor called out his name, and pretended to ignore the gasp of sharp surprise before she strangled herself mute.
"All quiet tonight," he said once he entered the chamber, still poorly-appointed; neither of them had the heart yet to go on a proper raid, not after what the adventurers had done for them, and their furnishings were little more than cast-offs and rags, a cot or two swiped from an Adder outpost for a double-bed. Ursuline lay curled on one side, pretending to rouse herself to waking. Guerrique let this continue as he undressed himself. "Aurifort's on point. He's got good eyes, he'll be fine." His next question was light as possible, his tone airy. "Said he caught word of a caravan coming up soon. Wanna hit it?"
"No."Â
"I see." He paused, his tunic halfway undone. "Well, hrm. Maybe next sennight?"
"Maybe." She was good at sounding drowsy, excellent at feigning a half-asleep shrug of the shoulders.
"Yeah, that's good." He went back to undoing his vest, and he was sure, later, that the only reason the words came out so easily was because he had that momentary distraction. "How about we just swive off then, ditch the clan and light off elsewhere?"
She freezed, and as his eyes adjusted to the dark he saw her turn her body to face him through the rustling of her clothes. "What?"
"Clan's dead," he said, matter-of-fact as he could. "Old one, anyway. 'Bellies got it first, and time got the rest. What we're building, it'll be new, but not what we had. Can't get it back."
"Just abandon everything." Her eyes were worst when Guerrique couldn't see them clear. He knew the gaze was on him.
"Y-yeah, pet, just like that. You're dying here. Finishing the job got started in the dark. So let's go."
"Or?"
There had to be an or, didn't there. He wasn't a talker. He couldn't explain. He couldn't say the place was killing her, and she was killing her. That every night and in every training he could see the spark fall out and away from her face, lost in the thought she couldn't watch the Padjal end himself. He could chat, sure, but he couldn't convince her, couldn't explain. So there had to be an or.
"Or it's me," he said, at last, his mouth dry. "Or I just go on alone."
"You'd do that?"
"Mm. I would."
He fell silent. She stared.
Later in the night, Aurifort missed two shadows in the dark, creeping away together. Bereft of leadership, the nascent clan disbanded.
---
"Hearns, someone to see - shite, sorry, someone to meet with you."
Hadrian frowned, keeping his hand on his tankard. The Boar was smoky, and visibility was (hah) limited, but he could only tell through the acrid smell of stale tobacco in his nostrils. They said blindness was supposed to enhance the senseless. They were full of shite and if he ever got ahold of whoever said it he'd thump them about the ear if he could find it, which would no doubt involve some fumbling and laughter on their part as they fled out of his reach.
Things were all settled then. The Serpents had been placated, most of his crew had received appropriate compensation for their work, and souls had been saved. A bully good time for all involved. And Hearns? He got to be blind as a deaf bat and possessed of a pair of scabrous and scarred pits in place of eyesockets.
Still, not being tortured for all eternity was a benefit. And his position was secure; he'd squirreled away his part of the horn powder sales, and swiped Pelderain's share since he had no need for it. His room and board were frugal but stable, so he couldn't gripe too severe. He was now just another battered old Wailer telling stories around the bar with a few battered old Wailers doing the same, clinging to the mask on his face like it was the only thing left that mattered about it.
Gods, how he despised it.Â
"Hearns?" His griping was interrupted by the repeated insistence of one of the boys. He couldn't tell which - hoarse laughter and voices ruined by smoke and strong drink all sounded the damn same when there was no face to tell them apart.
"Hm? Yeah, sure, bring him to the table. First one's on me." He smiled, and took a long pull of ale to hide the scowl that followed thereafter.
He was allowed a moment in relative peace before, amongst the background chatter of the Boar's clientele, he heard the waddling patter of tiny feet and the scrape of a chair, the grunt of someone small struggling to use it. Some things were clearer, and he knew a Lalafell's gait when he heard it.
"You're Hadrian Hearns?" The voice was a little high and nasal, a bit too formal. Ul'dahn accent. Hearns could hear the gil clinking behind every syllable. That wasn't improved hearing, mind, just plain xenophobia, even if it was true.
"That's me. You with the Ossuary or something? Man at the bar get you a drink?"
"No, I am quite fine, thank you. I wanted to ask you about the possibility of employment."
"Who, me? Not really in the security business anymore, ser, eh . . . " He gestured with his other hand.
"Jeresu Resu, ser Hearns. And no, I don't require you for a bodyguard. I understand there's some bad blood between you and a certain Mr. Bellveil?"
Hearns recoiled as if struck, his lips thinning below his mask. After the moment's surprise, they split into a broad and sharp grin, and he leaned forward to rest one elbow on his table
"Really now. If it's that's kind of work, then please, go on."
"You've a fair bit of nerve coming back here." Gerard was bad at keeping a neutral tone of voice, and preferred to sound sardonic where possible as a defense mechanism. Seeing the monk back in Quarrymill put poison in his voice, and there was nothing he could do to help it.
To his credit, the monk had the decency to hang his head. He also kept a good distance away from the other refugees, who watched him with wary eyes from the other side of the river. Not just him, Gerard knew; after the botched interrogation, and putting two other good Mhigan boys in the ground thanks to it, many of those eyes were directed at him as well.
"I know," he replied. "I have no excuse." Despite towering over Gerard by a good fulm, he seemed smaller, somehow, less defiant than when he'd been chained and railing against being set free to return to his "Young King Theodric." He did not look Gerard in the eye as he continued. "I was . . . unwell. I know the truth of things now."
Gerard did not unbend. "That why you came back? To apologize? That it?"
"Yes. And to make it right for those I have hurt."
Gerard spat on the ground, glancing between the monk and over his shoulder, at the few scattered refugees. Every moon or so a few more, those who braved an escape from Ala Mhigo and a flight past a Castrum. They were in terrible shape, ragged and beaten down.
If he told the monk to leave, he'd regain some favor, maybe. Put paid to the rumors he'd been in too deep with the Wailers, let them see an opportunity to get a few Mhigans slain. Certainly the monk hadn't earned a second chance.
But he remembered where he was a year ago, when it had been him and a few other desperate Mhigans hiding in the caves, waging a war of his own, stolen gunblades and a battered walker their only weapons. He remembered what he'd done and who he'd slain, and how he'd had no right to a second chance himself. And then a few Keepers had spoken up for him.
He snorted, and unfolded arms that had been crossed since the monk entered the fort. "Come on then," he said, stepping past the monk and clapping him on the back. "Let's get you sorted with the Hearer, see if you're allowed to stay."
---
Guerrique returned to his quarters after a shift on watch at their cave's entrance to hear sobbing down the tunnel to his chambers. Typically quiet on his feet, he made a point of cracking his boot sharply on a rock to announce his presence. He said nothing, nor called out his name, and pretended to ignore the gasp of sharp surprise before she strangled herself mute.
"All quiet tonight," he said once he entered the chamber, still poorly-appointed; neither of them had the heart yet to go on a proper raid, not after what the adventurers had done for them, and their furnishings were little more than cast-offs and rags, a cot or two swiped from an Adder outpost for a double-bed. Ursuline lay curled on one side, pretending to rouse herself to waking. Guerrique let this continue as he undressed himself. "Aurifort's on point. He's got good eyes, he'll be fine." His next question was light as possible, his tone airy. "Said he caught word of a caravan coming up soon. Wanna hit it?"
"No."Â
"I see." He paused, his tunic halfway undone. "Well, hrm. Maybe next sennight?"
"Maybe." She was good at sounding drowsy, excellent at feigning a half-asleep shrug of the shoulders.
"Yeah, that's good." He went back to undoing his vest, and he was sure, later, that the only reason the words came out so easily was because he had that momentary distraction. "How about we just swive off then, ditch the clan and light off elsewhere?"
She freezed, and as his eyes adjusted to the dark he saw her turn her body to face him through the rustling of her clothes. "What?"
"Clan's dead," he said, matter-of-fact as he could. "Old one, anyway. 'Bellies got it first, and time got the rest. What we're building, it'll be new, but not what we had. Can't get it back."
"Just abandon everything." Her eyes were worst when Guerrique couldn't see them clear. He knew the gaze was on him.
"Y-yeah, pet, just like that. You're dying here. Finishing the job got started in the dark. So let's go."
"Or?"
There had to be an or, didn't there. He wasn't a talker. He couldn't explain. He couldn't say the place was killing her, and she was killing her. That every night and in every training he could see the spark fall out and away from her face, lost in the thought she couldn't watch the Padjal end himself. He could chat, sure, but he couldn't convince her, couldn't explain. So there had to be an or.
"Or it's me," he said, at last, his mouth dry. "Or I just go on alone."
"You'd do that?"
"Mm. I would."
He fell silent. She stared.
Later in the night, Aurifort missed two shadows in the dark, creeping away together. Bereft of leadership, the nascent clan disbanded.
---
"Hearns, someone to see - shite, sorry, someone to meet with you."
Hadrian frowned, keeping his hand on his tankard. The Boar was smoky, and visibility was (hah) limited, but he could only tell through the acrid smell of stale tobacco in his nostrils. They said blindness was supposed to enhance the senseless. They were full of shite and if he ever got ahold of whoever said it he'd thump them about the ear if he could find it, which would no doubt involve some fumbling and laughter on their part as they fled out of his reach.
Things were all settled then. The Serpents had been placated, most of his crew had received appropriate compensation for their work, and souls had been saved. A bully good time for all involved. And Hearns? He got to be blind as a deaf bat and possessed of a pair of scabrous and scarred pits in place of eyesockets.
Still, not being tortured for all eternity was a benefit. And his position was secure; he'd squirreled away his part of the horn powder sales, and swiped Pelderain's share since he had no need for it. His room and board were frugal but stable, so he couldn't gripe too severe. He was now just another battered old Wailer telling stories around the bar with a few battered old Wailers doing the same, clinging to the mask on his face like it was the only thing left that mattered about it.
Gods, how he despised it.Â
"Hearns?" His griping was interrupted by the repeated insistence of one of the boys. He couldn't tell which - hoarse laughter and voices ruined by smoke and strong drink all sounded the damn same when there was no face to tell them apart.
"Hm? Yeah, sure, bring him to the table. First one's on me." He smiled, and took a long pull of ale to hide the scowl that followed thereafter.
He was allowed a moment in relative peace before, amongst the background chatter of the Boar's clientele, he heard the waddling patter of tiny feet and the scrape of a chair, the grunt of someone small struggling to use it. Some things were clearer, and he knew a Lalafell's gait when he heard it.
"You're Hadrian Hearns?" The voice was a little high and nasal, a bit too formal. Ul'dahn accent. Hearns could hear the gil clinking behind every syllable. That wasn't improved hearing, mind, just plain xenophobia, even if it was true.
"That's me. You with the Ossuary or something? Man at the bar get you a drink?"
"No, I am quite fine, thank you. I wanted to ask you about the possibility of employment."
"Who, me? Not really in the security business anymore, ser, eh . . . " He gestured with his other hand.
"Jeresu Resu, ser Hearns. And no, I don't require you for a bodyguard. I understand there's some bad blood between you and a certain Mr. Bellveil?"
Hearns recoiled as if struck, his lips thinning below his mask. After the moment's surprise, they split into a broad and sharp grin, and he leaned forward to rest one elbow on his table
"Really now. If it's that's kind of work, then please, go on."
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Current Fate-14 Storyline:Â Merchant, Marine
Current Fate-14 Storyline:Â Merchant, Marine