She tasted blood.
Unsurprising. A backhand from a hand nearly the size of one’s own head tended to have that effect.
A streamer of crimson jettisoned from her mouth, landing at her current mentor’s feet.
“Ye quick, an’ strong fuh sich a lil’ bird. But, tuh mich weight in ye movemen’s. Keep ye arms an’ feet light. Attack an’ defense in one, ‘membah?†Bergonier’s daggers—alive with steel—sparked off of each other, ending in reverse grips.
The hyuran child took the measure of her opponent. Bergonier held the presentation of a lowly sailor, sleeveless tunic and slops of linen, and often barefoot, same as she. Yet to assume that his appearance was his whole invited a quick, perforated death. His advantages were clear: each arm was a scant few ilms short of the full length of her own body, his height nearly three times—she was diminutive, even by eighth nameday standards—her own, his strength, experience and speed were renown amongst the fleet. Yet she remained undaunted, recalling the steps of their last round:
A feinted lunge. A mid-stride backstep to bait a parry followed by another lunge. She bypassed his downward cross-parry with a monopedal twirl to the side, using the spinning force to launch a kick for the outer rim of his knee. He simply lifted his leg above the attempt— a possibility which she had not accounted for—sending her spinning. Then the world was limned with white as the back of his hand met her cheek, stopping her cold.Â
She sucked the remnant of copper through her teeth and slowly spread her footing, weighted iron daggers secured with opposing grips.Â
Small feet pattered on the water-slick deck as she dashed forward. The blades held close until she was within proper striking range. An upward jab for his lower abdomen and a backhand slash for his inner thigh were checked by a pendulous swipe and downward parry, respectively. Her arms briefly numbed from the vibration of the force of his denials, but she re-affirmed her grip and pressed on. Her shoulder ratcheted back to spur her astride the straight knee he shot for her face, spinning and ducking between his legs to escape the inbound stab meant for her shoulder blade.Â
With her now poised behind him, Bergonier promptly leapt forward, wheeling about upon his small and wily opponent. To his steadily dwindling surprise—and rapidly realised chagrin—the little girl was already upon him. The first and second blow he managed to curb aside, but the falsified third in the form of a low slash to the ankle led into a stopping elbow to his inner thigh, clinched by a bone-wrought pommel slamming into his manhood.Â
All of the breath left him, and he dropped to a knee, nearly eye-level with the small girl that had managed to fell him. Through the tears, he could glean her smile. Frigid iron pat his chin gently.
“Tae much weight in ye movemen’s, Berger.â€
“Not… movin’ fuh a bit,†he rasped.
With girlish triumph she tittered, leaning up to kiss his chin.
She tasted blood.
The air was inundated with an unholy congregation of filth, flooding the senses with the irrefutable presence of death, piss, vomit and disease; a bouquet any woman would be delighted to bottle. Fondness in dream was violently supplanted by disgust in waking, the myriad horrors assaulting her nose—paired with the pounding in her skull—prompted a retch. Metal screeched on metal as she lurched forward, and she realised her arms were fettered to the wall above her.
She spat as lucidity returned to her, the haze of the world falling away to reveal a dank, dimly lit chamber. Bone and other unidentifiable detritus littered the ground, presently being explored by a bilge rat.Â
Gulls sounded in the near distance, and through the impregnable wall of malodorous hideousness she detected the ever-comforting roar and spray of the sea.
She was still somewhere in La Noscea.
A gradual scan of her environs revealed the source of the light, a single tallow candle—relatively fresh by the scant few tears—in the furthest corner to her right. The edge of its globe of luminescence revealed a grime-encrusted barred gate, though little else could be seen beyond the cage.
She then chanced a glance over her own person. Stripped of her prior leathers and linens, she was now garbed in a simple tan slip of cotton and naught else, though it shared in the quality of her surroundings; now complimented by her own vomit. She didn’t appear to be bleeding anywhere visible, suggesting her wounds had been bound or healed outright, albeit the itching wetness at the back of her head suggested otherwise.
Careful  twisting of her wrists and a few hard pulls tested the integrity of her bindings:  black iron; ever sturdy and reliable. She began to study the bone and stone fragments around her, hoping for shards or slivers that would be serviceable for her needs. After a few moments of searching, however, the echo of footfalls from beyond the gate filled the room, supplemented by undiscernible whispers.Â
The jingling of keys preceded the inevitable scream of rust-caked hinges as the gate slid open, and the vague but unmistakable stature of The Gentleman stepped into view.
The chains rattled again with an instinctual tug as she looked unerringly upon the man, his eyes under-rimmed by dark bruises, his septum obviously redefined and bloodied by the blow she had delivered. The very sight brought satisfaction to her, albeit the cheating blighter deserved much worse.
Either The Gentleman did not notice the grin, or he brushed it aside as he stepped further into the chamber. Studying the young woman’s current quarterage, he clicked his tongue, shaking his head with disgust.
“That you should be made to suffer such gross accommodations… truly a travesty,†he said, pausing to observe the wall to his left, the rugged stone marred by various scrawls. “Perhaps you question the reason for your detainment.â€
“Perhaps me arse itches from this floor. Might be s’from th’sound o’ye voice.â€
Sniffing a chuckle, a small grin touched his presently smudged features. “Truly, your charm rivals your beaut—“
“Gonna heave ‘gain.â€
“Perhaps it is also true that you do not fully appreciate your situation.†With a sigh, he turned his focus back to the enchained girl. “Would that I had the patience and time to allow you opportunity to develop such appreciation. Alas, the claim on your blood is not solely mine own.â€
At last, some pertinent information.
“S’quite a codex, luv.†She flexed her toes, shifting marginally on her seating. “An’ where d’ye settle intae tha’ pool? Mm? Shark ye in cards? Lift ye favourite neckpoof f’ing? Say ye ‘ave a wee prick in fron’ o’ some lass ye were wooin’? Kill ye brov’ah?†Snog ye wife?â€
The Gentleman was unmoved by the prods up until the last, at which point he bristled, the tension in his gaze and stance visible even in the scant light.Â
“Oooh. Tugged a nerve?†She leaned forward, volume diminishing to a careful whisper, “Ye stem wilted? ‘ad a rough time o’ givin’ ‘er th’headboard-shrieks? Figgah’d she might try new f’ings? â€
Her captor’s nostrils flared, his chest swelling. At length, he released the tension in a narrow current through pressed lips, pacing to the side. “You and your contemporaries were once conscripts of the Maelstrom’s Thalassocratic Navy, no? Part and parcel of the Black Sails outfit, yes?â€
She disliked the term “conscript†when applied to herself and her aforementioned companions. While it was true that their numbers were incorporated into the Maelstrom’s overall maritime and landfall assault agendas, it was the Garleans that forced the integration, not Merlwyb herself. Nor would she ever forget the thanks they received for services rendered.
“Th’Garlean invasion encouraged strange bedfellowship fer many,†she finally answered.
The Gentleman reversed the direction of his pacing. “You and eleven other specialists from your Sloetide company were dispatched aground at Carteneau, each with a list of names. Operatives, officers, engineers, researchers. You recall, yes?†He paused, looking to her for a reply.
Her suspicions now aroused, she looked on in silence.
“Your unit was assigned to the latter two,†his pacing resumed, a steadily building urgency in his tone, “Three blades for seven throats. And you found them all, didn’t you?†Without waiting for a response, he reversed direction and continued, “Remember you their names?â€
“They were big names. Some bled intae othahs. F’ink a girl like me can be bothah’d t’membah ‘Vulpitoadius Wundercunt’ an’ such?†She gave a diffident shrug, barely noting the twinge in her shoulder. “Jes’ extra tinder fer th’pyre.â€
Metal suddenly flashed in the candlelight as The Gentleman’s sword was freed, its cuspidate tip drawing a bubble of blood from her throat. His glare was nearly as pointed, his breathing disheveled.
Qaeli pressed her tender skull to the wall in reaction to the suddenly draw, though she never forsook eye contact. Still, she held a sense of what brought the sudden rush of rage on, and knew enough to temper her tongue for the moment.
“Sulpicia Nan Tadius,†his delivery was hollow as it was haunted, all of the charm expelled from his flamboyant veneer.Â
Despite her prior expression of ignorance, she knew the names of those for whom she had been designated executioner.  The events of Carteneau had a way of cleaving to one’s memory. However, this name landed astray, though “Nan†suggested an engineer or researcher.
“Cannae say as I recall tha’ one,†she shrugged once more.
“Adjutant to Revius Nan Manilius,†The Gentleman added, the tip of the blade slowly turning.
That name struck true. She recalled Revius; he never managed a word, given the dagger plunged into his heart from beneath the arm. He collapsed on the spot. A plain but panicking brown-haired woman attempted to flee the antechamber and shout alarms to the soldiers, researchers and miners that were busied packing up in the shaft below. She barely got out a note before Qaeli had opened her throat.Â
“Science officah,†she said with a difficult swallow, “Responsible fer Ceruleum excavation an’ synthesis.â€
Seemingly partially satisfied, the tip of the sword eased from her flesh.
“I and others withdrew from the battlefield when Dalamud began to descend. We held no desire to become part of the… pyre, as you named it.†He turned away, his tone becoming thick with reflection, “I sought the cavern that led to the Cereleum excavation site, from whence I intended to extricate my wife and flee the madness.â€
Suddenly the light of clarity dawned upon this scenario, but Qaeli held her silence.
He paused again, his gaze turning to the scrawl-riddled wall. Slowly he walked to the chamber candle, hooking a finger into the ring of the altar before moving back toward the previous spot that had caught his interest earlier.
“I arrived at the processing site in time to see my wife running out onto the scaffolding, the terror in her eyes tangible even from so many yalms away. Then a shadow was upon her… opening her throat as though it were a melon. She was dead before I reached her, the shadow gone into the ether.â€
The candle yet remained apart from the wall, limning the brokenness in The Gentleman’s face as he looked back to his captive, studying her expression.
Qaeli held passive airs as she looked on, waiting.
“I survived Bahamut’s rampage, relinquished my title and commission under suspicion of death, relegating myself to the company of scoundrels and foolish idealists, and devoted myself to pairing a name and face with that shadow. I established a new name, a new creed, a new network. For these nearly six years I toiled, peeling flesh and soul to unearth what I sought. And unearth I did.†His head tilted slightly, a wistful, pained smile creeping to his lips, “One can imagine the precipitous surprise in learning that my wife and four officers were felled by a silver-haired girl of fifteen.â€
A shrug lifted in answer, the onset of a smirk building on her dirtied features, scarcely masked by the length of her aforementioned silvery strands.Â
“We were selected wiv propah reasonin’.â€
“Just so.â€
“Sae, wha’ now? Ye already said me blood ‘as othah claims. Which mean ye nae goin’ t’off me jes’ yet. Wha’s all this fer?â€
A wild smile spawned upon the man’s face, and he lifted the candle toward the wall, giving clear sight of the word he had been studying.
The sharpness of the angle—given her fettering—made it difficult to decipher the scratchy script, but within minutes she had the truth of it.
Justice.
Unsurprising. A backhand from a hand nearly the size of one’s own head tended to have that effect.
A streamer of crimson jettisoned from her mouth, landing at her current mentor’s feet.
“Ye quick, an’ strong fuh sich a lil’ bird. But, tuh mich weight in ye movemen’s. Keep ye arms an’ feet light. Attack an’ defense in one, ‘membah?†Bergonier’s daggers—alive with steel—sparked off of each other, ending in reverse grips.
The hyuran child took the measure of her opponent. Bergonier held the presentation of a lowly sailor, sleeveless tunic and slops of linen, and often barefoot, same as she. Yet to assume that his appearance was his whole invited a quick, perforated death. His advantages were clear: each arm was a scant few ilms short of the full length of her own body, his height nearly three times—she was diminutive, even by eighth nameday standards—her own, his strength, experience and speed were renown amongst the fleet. Yet she remained undaunted, recalling the steps of their last round:
A feinted lunge. A mid-stride backstep to bait a parry followed by another lunge. She bypassed his downward cross-parry with a monopedal twirl to the side, using the spinning force to launch a kick for the outer rim of his knee. He simply lifted his leg above the attempt— a possibility which she had not accounted for—sending her spinning. Then the world was limned with white as the back of his hand met her cheek, stopping her cold.Â
She sucked the remnant of copper through her teeth and slowly spread her footing, weighted iron daggers secured with opposing grips.Â
Small feet pattered on the water-slick deck as she dashed forward. The blades held close until she was within proper striking range. An upward jab for his lower abdomen and a backhand slash for his inner thigh were checked by a pendulous swipe and downward parry, respectively. Her arms briefly numbed from the vibration of the force of his denials, but she re-affirmed her grip and pressed on. Her shoulder ratcheted back to spur her astride the straight knee he shot for her face, spinning and ducking between his legs to escape the inbound stab meant for her shoulder blade.Â
With her now poised behind him, Bergonier promptly leapt forward, wheeling about upon his small and wily opponent. To his steadily dwindling surprise—and rapidly realised chagrin—the little girl was already upon him. The first and second blow he managed to curb aside, but the falsified third in the form of a low slash to the ankle led into a stopping elbow to his inner thigh, clinched by a bone-wrought pommel slamming into his manhood.Â
All of the breath left him, and he dropped to a knee, nearly eye-level with the small girl that had managed to fell him. Through the tears, he could glean her smile. Frigid iron pat his chin gently.
“Tae much weight in ye movemen’s, Berger.â€
“Not… movin’ fuh a bit,†he rasped.
With girlish triumph she tittered, leaning up to kiss his chin.
She tasted blood.
The air was inundated with an unholy congregation of filth, flooding the senses with the irrefutable presence of death, piss, vomit and disease; a bouquet any woman would be delighted to bottle. Fondness in dream was violently supplanted by disgust in waking, the myriad horrors assaulting her nose—paired with the pounding in her skull—prompted a retch. Metal screeched on metal as she lurched forward, and she realised her arms were fettered to the wall above her.
She spat as lucidity returned to her, the haze of the world falling away to reveal a dank, dimly lit chamber. Bone and other unidentifiable detritus littered the ground, presently being explored by a bilge rat.Â
Gulls sounded in the near distance, and through the impregnable wall of malodorous hideousness she detected the ever-comforting roar and spray of the sea.
She was still somewhere in La Noscea.
A gradual scan of her environs revealed the source of the light, a single tallow candle—relatively fresh by the scant few tears—in the furthest corner to her right. The edge of its globe of luminescence revealed a grime-encrusted barred gate, though little else could be seen beyond the cage.
She then chanced a glance over her own person. Stripped of her prior leathers and linens, she was now garbed in a simple tan slip of cotton and naught else, though it shared in the quality of her surroundings; now complimented by her own vomit. She didn’t appear to be bleeding anywhere visible, suggesting her wounds had been bound or healed outright, albeit the itching wetness at the back of her head suggested otherwise.
Careful  twisting of her wrists and a few hard pulls tested the integrity of her bindings:  black iron; ever sturdy and reliable. She began to study the bone and stone fragments around her, hoping for shards or slivers that would be serviceable for her needs. After a few moments of searching, however, the echo of footfalls from beyond the gate filled the room, supplemented by undiscernible whispers.Â
The jingling of keys preceded the inevitable scream of rust-caked hinges as the gate slid open, and the vague but unmistakable stature of The Gentleman stepped into view.
The chains rattled again with an instinctual tug as she looked unerringly upon the man, his eyes under-rimmed by dark bruises, his septum obviously redefined and bloodied by the blow she had delivered. The very sight brought satisfaction to her, albeit the cheating blighter deserved much worse.
Either The Gentleman did not notice the grin, or he brushed it aside as he stepped further into the chamber. Studying the young woman’s current quarterage, he clicked his tongue, shaking his head with disgust.
“That you should be made to suffer such gross accommodations… truly a travesty,†he said, pausing to observe the wall to his left, the rugged stone marred by various scrawls. “Perhaps you question the reason for your detainment.â€
“Perhaps me arse itches from this floor. Might be s’from th’sound o’ye voice.â€
Sniffing a chuckle, a small grin touched his presently smudged features. “Truly, your charm rivals your beaut—“
“Gonna heave ‘gain.â€
“Perhaps it is also true that you do not fully appreciate your situation.†With a sigh, he turned his focus back to the enchained girl. “Would that I had the patience and time to allow you opportunity to develop such appreciation. Alas, the claim on your blood is not solely mine own.â€
At last, some pertinent information.
“S’quite a codex, luv.†She flexed her toes, shifting marginally on her seating. “An’ where d’ye settle intae tha’ pool? Mm? Shark ye in cards? Lift ye favourite neckpoof f’ing? Say ye ‘ave a wee prick in fron’ o’ some lass ye were wooin’? Kill ye brov’ah?†Snog ye wife?â€
The Gentleman was unmoved by the prods up until the last, at which point he bristled, the tension in his gaze and stance visible even in the scant light.Â
“Oooh. Tugged a nerve?†She leaned forward, volume diminishing to a careful whisper, “Ye stem wilted? ‘ad a rough time o’ givin’ ‘er th’headboard-shrieks? Figgah’d she might try new f’ings? â€
Her captor’s nostrils flared, his chest swelling. At length, he released the tension in a narrow current through pressed lips, pacing to the side. “You and your contemporaries were once conscripts of the Maelstrom’s Thalassocratic Navy, no? Part and parcel of the Black Sails outfit, yes?â€
She disliked the term “conscript†when applied to herself and her aforementioned companions. While it was true that their numbers were incorporated into the Maelstrom’s overall maritime and landfall assault agendas, it was the Garleans that forced the integration, not Merlwyb herself. Nor would she ever forget the thanks they received for services rendered.
“Th’Garlean invasion encouraged strange bedfellowship fer many,†she finally answered.
The Gentleman reversed the direction of his pacing. “You and eleven other specialists from your Sloetide company were dispatched aground at Carteneau, each with a list of names. Operatives, officers, engineers, researchers. You recall, yes?†He paused, looking to her for a reply.
Her suspicions now aroused, she looked on in silence.
“Your unit was assigned to the latter two,†his pacing resumed, a steadily building urgency in his tone, “Three blades for seven throats. And you found them all, didn’t you?†Without waiting for a response, he reversed direction and continued, “Remember you their names?â€
“They were big names. Some bled intae othahs. F’ink a girl like me can be bothah’d t’membah ‘Vulpitoadius Wundercunt’ an’ such?†She gave a diffident shrug, barely noting the twinge in her shoulder. “Jes’ extra tinder fer th’pyre.â€
Metal suddenly flashed in the candlelight as The Gentleman’s sword was freed, its cuspidate tip drawing a bubble of blood from her throat. His glare was nearly as pointed, his breathing disheveled.
Qaeli pressed her tender skull to the wall in reaction to the suddenly draw, though she never forsook eye contact. Still, she held a sense of what brought the sudden rush of rage on, and knew enough to temper her tongue for the moment.
“Sulpicia Nan Tadius,†his delivery was hollow as it was haunted, all of the charm expelled from his flamboyant veneer.Â
Despite her prior expression of ignorance, she knew the names of those for whom she had been designated executioner.  The events of Carteneau had a way of cleaving to one’s memory. However, this name landed astray, though “Nan†suggested an engineer or researcher.
“Cannae say as I recall tha’ one,†she shrugged once more.
“Adjutant to Revius Nan Manilius,†The Gentleman added, the tip of the blade slowly turning.
That name struck true. She recalled Revius; he never managed a word, given the dagger plunged into his heart from beneath the arm. He collapsed on the spot. A plain but panicking brown-haired woman attempted to flee the antechamber and shout alarms to the soldiers, researchers and miners that were busied packing up in the shaft below. She barely got out a note before Qaeli had opened her throat.Â
“Science officah,†she said with a difficult swallow, “Responsible fer Ceruleum excavation an’ synthesis.â€
Seemingly partially satisfied, the tip of the sword eased from her flesh.
“I and others withdrew from the battlefield when Dalamud began to descend. We held no desire to become part of the… pyre, as you named it.†He turned away, his tone becoming thick with reflection, “I sought the cavern that led to the Cereleum excavation site, from whence I intended to extricate my wife and flee the madness.â€
Suddenly the light of clarity dawned upon this scenario, but Qaeli held her silence.
He paused again, his gaze turning to the scrawl-riddled wall. Slowly he walked to the chamber candle, hooking a finger into the ring of the altar before moving back toward the previous spot that had caught his interest earlier.
“I arrived at the processing site in time to see my wife running out onto the scaffolding, the terror in her eyes tangible even from so many yalms away. Then a shadow was upon her… opening her throat as though it were a melon. She was dead before I reached her, the shadow gone into the ether.â€
The candle yet remained apart from the wall, limning the brokenness in The Gentleman’s face as he looked back to his captive, studying her expression.
Qaeli held passive airs as she looked on, waiting.
“I survived Bahamut’s rampage, relinquished my title and commission under suspicion of death, relegating myself to the company of scoundrels and foolish idealists, and devoted myself to pairing a name and face with that shadow. I established a new name, a new creed, a new network. For these nearly six years I toiled, peeling flesh and soul to unearth what I sought. And unearth I did.†His head tilted slightly, a wistful, pained smile creeping to his lips, “One can imagine the precipitous surprise in learning that my wife and four officers were felled by a silver-haired girl of fifteen.â€
A shrug lifted in answer, the onset of a smirk building on her dirtied features, scarcely masked by the length of her aforementioned silvery strands.Â
“We were selected wiv propah reasonin’.â€
“Just so.â€
“Sae, wha’ now? Ye already said me blood ‘as othah claims. Which mean ye nae goin’ t’off me jes’ yet. Wha’s all this fer?â€
A wild smile spawned upon the man’s face, and he lifted the candle toward the wall, giving clear sight of the word he had been studying.
The sharpness of the angle—given her fettering—made it difficult to decipher the scratchy script, but within minutes she had the truth of it.
Justice.