Kink could go rut in a ditch for all he cared.
He'd gone ahead to Limsa a few suns ago, tried to pave the way, enlist a certain streetrunner and her resources. Erik was a gadabout, and Osric was a wanted man. He couldn't leave the captain to his own devices -Â too much could go wrong too quickly, for those who weren't native -Â but neither could he accompany him in broad daylight and give the highlander a tour. So they needed a runner. Someone with connections. Someone with information. Someone who could walk Erik around while Osric followed them discretely from a distance.
Contacting Yayabuko for any potential hires would only cause more trouble and earn him more ire from that gods-damned Keeper; there was too much tension there already for him to risk any more. That particular chain was far too close to the breaking point. Another ponze of pressure and it would snap. Had very nearly snapped the other night.
"Dog"? Like hells. "Come t'heel?" Lass, I just got done with that shite. As if I'd snap another collar 'round m'neck and hand YOU the leash. Work for you? Hah! Y'haven't earned that distinction, y'coeurl.
He'd crossed enough palms with gil that night, on the way out, to know who to fall back on should she refuse him: another streetrunner, one who had a history with ol' Sparrow. A rival. One Cenric Amaril, better known as "Raz". He had doubled back the very next sun to meet with the man, and had found him suitable.
Time to get going.
He opened up the armoire and drew out one piece of clothing after another. Woolen shirt. Pants. Raptorskin armguards and leg guards. A bandana. One after the other, he pulled them on. Then came the steel. Knives for throwing. Daggers and dirks for stabbing. All of it for cutting. Each sheath secreted away on his person, hidden from sight, six in total.Â
He picked up and threw his rucksack over his shoulder - Red Wings uniform, Flames uniform, hempen robe-and-cowl; various items of utility; personal effects - walked over to the bed, dropped a letter on his pillow, and leaned over to kiss a sleeping Kanaria on the cheek. He'd be keeping her linkpearl on him at all times; he refused to break contact these days. Too much could go wrong too quickly.
Out and into the hallway he went, pulling the door to their room gently to a close behind him. He locked it with his key - he'd given her a spare - before walking down the hallway, turning a corner, and coming to a stop at the captain's quarters.
He knocked on the door.
"Boss? Ready when you are."
He'd gone ahead to Limsa a few suns ago, tried to pave the way, enlist a certain streetrunner and her resources. Erik was a gadabout, and Osric was a wanted man. He couldn't leave the captain to his own devices -Â too much could go wrong too quickly, for those who weren't native -Â but neither could he accompany him in broad daylight and give the highlander a tour. So they needed a runner. Someone with connections. Someone with information. Someone who could walk Erik around while Osric followed them discretely from a distance.
Contacting Yayabuko for any potential hires would only cause more trouble and earn him more ire from that gods-damned Keeper; there was too much tension there already for him to risk any more. That particular chain was far too close to the breaking point. Another ponze of pressure and it would snap. Had very nearly snapped the other night.
"Dog"? Like hells. "Come t'heel?" Lass, I just got done with that shite. As if I'd snap another collar 'round m'neck and hand YOU the leash. Work for you? Hah! Y'haven't earned that distinction, y'coeurl.
He'd crossed enough palms with gil that night, on the way out, to know who to fall back on should she refuse him: another streetrunner, one who had a history with ol' Sparrow. A rival. One Cenric Amaril, better known as "Raz". He had doubled back the very next sun to meet with the man, and had found him suitable.
Time to get going.
He opened up the armoire and drew out one piece of clothing after another. Woolen shirt. Pants. Raptorskin armguards and leg guards. A bandana. One after the other, he pulled them on. Then came the steel. Knives for throwing. Daggers and dirks for stabbing. All of it for cutting. Each sheath secreted away on his person, hidden from sight, six in total.Â
He picked up and threw his rucksack over his shoulder - Red Wings uniform, Flames uniform, hempen robe-and-cowl; various items of utility; personal effects - walked over to the bed, dropped a letter on his pillow, and leaned over to kiss a sleeping Kanaria on the cheek. He'd be keeping her linkpearl on him at all times; he refused to break contact these days. Too much could go wrong too quickly.
Out and into the hallway he went, pulling the door to their room gently to a close behind him. He locked it with his key - he'd given her a spare - before walking down the hallway, turning a corner, and coming to a stop at the captain's quarters.
He knocked on the door.
"Boss? Ready when you are."
![[Image: 1qVSsTp.png]](http://i.imgur.com/1qVSsTp.png)
