RPC has moved! These pages have been kept for historical purposes

McBeefâ„¢ · **03-12-2015, 01:31 PM**

((The following persons receive the following letter, which will follow the list of following recipients.))

Kale, Jana, Crofte, Inessa, Vâ€™leera, Orrin

Dear Erstwhile Allies,

There is another shipment. We need to speak. I can be reached at the Phoenix Rose.

This is not over.

Evangeline Primrose,
Chairwoman of the Republic of Ulâ€™dah Executive Committee
Secretary of the Republic of Ulâ€™dah Executive Committee
Treasurer of the Republic of Ulâ€™dah Executive Committee
Publicist of the Republic of Ulâ€™dah Executive Committee
Adjudicator of the Republic of Ulâ€™dah Executive Committee

McBeefâ„¢ · **03-12-2015, 01:48 PM**

Her letters sent, Evangeline rolls the jar around on her desk, wyrmtears jangling around inside. Sheâ€™d tested them, once the no-eyes-man had given them to her, going so far as to feed them a spark of aether, and watch them flare.

â€œHumphâ€¦â€

She sighs, â€œLife is confusing when you actually get what you want.â€

With a rustle of paper she digs out her neglected plans, looking back over the drawing. The device seemed slightly more sinister with the passage of time. The more she learned of the tears, the less she wanted the power of three combined. Especially after they had grown in power.

She sighs, â€œWell, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Time to find a blacksmith.â€

Inessa Hara · **03-12-2015, 03:08 PM**

Inessa read's the letter. Perplexed at who could have sent it, but by reading the place to meet the person who sent the letter, Inessa scowled at the thought of possibly going back there.

She sighs, tearing the letter up then tossing it in the trash can next to her desk.Â Â

"Fuck it. Ill go hear her out, but im not doing a damn thing she says anymore unless I want to do it. Tired of being bossed around. . ." She mumbles to herself.

Jana · **03-13-2015, 11:19 AM**

Jana lets out a small growl as she reaches the bottom of the letter... Unless it was her stomach, a likely possibility as she made the trip from Ul'dah proper to the Goblet through the Miners' Guild tunnel. "It's just so like Primrose to give herself a bunch of meaningless titles. Still, the situation is ripe for the picking... I'll have to find her at that house again."

C'kayah Polaali · **03-16-2015, 06:07 PM**

C'kayah was walking. He could feel the rounded cobblestones through the soft, thin soles of his boots. The air still held the chill of the night, but the new sun warmed him as he made his way through the wide square. A tall Hyur woman strode beside him. Aya Foxheart. Supernaturally beautiful, with a dancer's grace, she smiled at everything she saw with a delight that was almost innocent, devoid of guile.

Their destination was a squat building, a low block of pale stone with the false windows common in Thanalan's hot climate. The house looked inward, on a shaded courtyard, while the outside turned a near-featureless shoulder to block the blazing sun. The door was a pastel rose slab with a carved handle and a little sliding window at a Hyur's eye level. He knocked on the door, two quick raps, then a pause for five heartbeats, then another two. The window slid opened, revealing a shaded green eye. It snapped shut. There was a pause, then the sound of bolts being drawn. Finally the door opened, admitting them into the cool, dark interior of the house.

"Lin is just finishing his bath." The speaker was another Hyur. Shorter than Aya but no less beautiful, the woman smiled at them as she closed and bolted the door. She was dressed in light silks, intricately embroidered and drawn tightly around her lean figure in the latest mode. "I've made coffee, if you'd care to wait." She turned before they could respond, leading them into a lush garden, an atrium of green leaves and brilliant flowers and the hum of bees. A low table stood on flagstones in the center, sitting cushions arranged around it. Sliced tomatoes and cucumbers and yogurt sat in bowls, breakfast for the master of the house. The woman guided them to the table, wordlessly encouraging them to sit while she poured out tiny cups of strong coffee, steaming in the morning air.

"Really, C'kayah", a masculine voice called from the shadows. "A beautiful Hyurish assistant? That's so tacky."

The speaker was a stocky man, his dark hair clinging in damp curls to his head, his pale skin the inheritance of his midlander mother. He smiled warmly at the Miqo'te as he moved into the light. He was dressed stylishly in dark colors, simple attire that betrayed it's expense with the obvious care of the cut, a rich blue cravat drawing the eye back up towards his face. He moved strangely. Aya watched him as he approached, realizing that one leg was shorter than the other by nearly half a fulm, giving him an odd, limping gait.

"Grimsley", C'kayah purred, rising from his cushion to bow at his host.

"Sit, sit!" He waved them back down, settling himself at the table and reaching for the coffee. "You're going to make me feel like Jameson Taeros, ridiculous man!"

"Lin", C'kayah said, taking his cushion, "this is my friend Aya Foxheart. Aya, this is Lin Grimsley."

"They call me 'Grimsley the Lame'", the man chuckled, smiling at her. "You're lovely, aren't you? If you ever get tired of this fickle gigolo..."

"It's a pleasure to meet you", she said, turning her bright smile on him.

"Ho ho! She's a dangerous one", he laughed, nudging C'kayah with his elbow.

"Lin, have you-"

"I've outdone myself", the man said with obvious pride. He drew a brooch from his jacket pocket, setting it on the table before them. A dragon's claw, hand-hammered in silver, clutched at a sickly yellow gem. Years of tarnish hung on the thing, which seemed to suck the warmth out of the light that shone on it. It was a singularly ugly piece of jewelry.

Dread clutched at Aya's heart as she looked at the thing. It was Dravanian, and clearly ancient. The stone flickered dimly in the light, as if it would glow even in a darkened room. She parted her lips and exhaled. "It's..."

"Perfect, I know", the man replied. "You'd never guess from looking at it that it's three days old, would you?"

"And the extra-", C'kayah began.

"It's trackable", Grimsley added. "Just like you wanted. You'll need a mage to do it, and they'll have to be skilled enough to track someone through aetheryte jumps, but it's trackable."

C'kayah picked up the brooch. A heavy pin was brazed to the back, bent as if it had been plucked from a cloak sometime in the last age. As much as Grimsley liked to boast, he did beautiful work. He held it up for Aya to examine, but he could see from the revulsion on her face that it struck the right nerves. "It's perfect", he agreed. "And the rest?"

"I'll have Nora leave an address and key with Momodi for you", the counterfeiter replied. "A little apartment. It's yours for the year."

"Thank you, Lin", he said, slipping the claw into his pocket.

"You paid for it", the man laughed. "What do you think 'extra services' on the invoice was?"

"Still", C'kayah grinned, "I appreciate it."

"What are friends for", Grimsley replied, sobering. "This is bad business, you know, C'kayah. I hope you know what you're doing."

He looked at Aya, meeting her blue eyes for a long moment. "I do, too, Lin", he said. "I do, too."

Verad · **03-16-2015, 10:02 PM**

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 littleÂ 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?"

McBeefâ„¢ · **03-17-2015, 02:29 PM**

Evangeline feeds aether into the stone, waiting until it pulsates a dull yellow before reaching out to touch it.

Immediately her mind is full of the screams and calls of the horde. Her head spins, and she pulls her finger back, breathing heavily. All three tears were real. She rubs a temple, perhaps it was unwise for her to touch them, the last seemed to tear through her considerable resistance. However she knew no other way to determine if the stones were genuine.

Mind still swimming from the tear's influence, she scoots the three stones together on the table, their lights pulsing in unison.

"Now to see what happens when they are in a group..." She exhales, trying to push the sound of beating wings and rushing skies to the back of her mind, feeding aether into the group of stones.

Almost immediately the stones grow bright.

Too bright.

Their energies seemed to bounce back and forth, concentrating the aether like lenses.

A searing pain fills her eyes as she falls backwards onto the floor, twitching and screaming in pain as the room fills with the scent of burned flesh.

She howls, clutching her throbbing eye sockets, seeing nothing but terrible blinding light. Faintly though,

Ever so faintly in her pain addled mind.

She can see the outlines of wings.

Seriphyn · **03-20-2015, 01:30 AM**

Since the rise of anti-Ishgardian sentiment within Ul'dah, standing orders have been distributed among the subordinate units of the Immortal Flames Main Brigades, while additional copies have been left at Grand Company outposts for the attention of enlisted adventurers.Â Each parchment is addressed to the various commanding officers, complete with official heading. The orders would be disseminated to the rank-and-file...

In response to a number of incidents targeting Ishgardians either residing in or travelling through the Sultanate of Ul'dah, the Hall of Flames has seen fit to disclose its efforts in its attempts to locate a number of foul relics of Dravanian origin currently distributed across the Thanalan region. Previously the unassuming property of Lady Barbarccia Valadis, these relics have been revealed to be malignant in nature. As a consequence of these items somehow finding themselves on Sultanate soil, Dravanian attacks in settled areas such as Drybone have been reported.

The Immortal Flames are neither compelled nor inclined towards the elucidation of these relics' significance beyond their inherent danger. They must be expunged from Thanalan with utmost expediency. Attached with these orders are sketches of relics that have been recovered by knights of the Sultansworn. Have your troops recognize and retain the details of their design. Henceforth, patrol objectives must be modified to account for possible Dravanian activity. Commence additional patrols if need be. Account for manpower issues on a case-by-case basis. Respond to incidents with the sole objective of destroying these relics.

The tactful questioning of Ishgardians who may hold information is necessary, including inspections of trade caravans either heading to or coming from northern Aldenard. The emphasis is on tact. The authorities have had altercations with interlopers from Coerthas who have ignored local laws in their single-minded efforts to destroy these relics. Our sovereignty must not be undermined, but neither should our foreign relations. Act with discretion and good faith; our objectives are aligned.

We have been in communication with several Brass Blade orders, to include the Rose, Gerbera, and Balsam. They are sympathetic in restoring the status quo in the name of normalizing the trade routes to Coerthas, and have been paid accordingly to augment our efforts. The intentions of other orders cannot be accounted for. Please act with discretion, especially when intruding on areas under their paid jurisdiction. In addition, the Sultansworn are actively seeking out the relics for their destruction as well; please assist them the best you can.

Unit commanders, have your levemetes issue and distribute new leves to the end of incentivizing adventurers in boosting our stepped-up patrols. It is recommended that irregulars of the Free Brigade are kept abreast of our activities. They are urged to seek out Acting Flame Lieutenant Kale Aideron, commanding officer of Sandworm V, a Bloodsworn unit with the foremost mission of adventurer liaison. This gentleman is connected to the adventuring community, and is aware of the identities of numerous independent individuals who have varying degrees of investment in the matter. His unit's barracks can be located in the seventh ward of the Goblet, fifty-second plot.

This must not turn into a Belah'dian magehunt. Our relations with the Holy See cannot be sabotaged by the efforts of a malevolent few.

For Coin and Country,Â

First Flame Commander Autgar Wolfhammer
Immortal Flames Bloodsworn

Zelmanov · **03-20-2015, 03:31 AM**

((I love the term Belah'dian Magehunt))

Away, that is where he had to go. Away from the prying eyes, the crowds, the cramped alleyways where he did nothing but take up space. He was on the final stretch, the jewel of the desert naught but a faint glint in the distance now. Near last of his gil spent on a custom porter chocobo that was currently carrying him further and further. Wind swept up behind him, the tracks in the sand quickly covered up, leaving no trace of his venture. It seemed Halone was with him.Â

It was that thought that kept him steady and calm. He wandered if the chocobo could feel it, the clawing, beckoning sentience of the tears. Though locked away in individual crates they resonated with him, the inner dragon that began to roil and churn beneath. The chorus, the song, powerful, perhaps amplified by the proximity and number. His breaths deepened in response, slow, deliberate meditative breaths. This was still indeed justice, his justice, he thought, not weakness nor leniency, this was the right action, not a dragon's will. He snaps the reins, bidding the bird to go faster. A little further would be enough to steel himself away along with the cursed artifacts.Â

The wind begins to kick up, forcing him to raise a hand to grip at his cowl to cover her his eyes, mouth and nose. He forges forward blindly still and what he saw when he closed his eyes always went back to that ghastly site: Cold, serpentine, lifeless eyes, gazing back unblinkingly. He wondered if what he had witnessed had been a kindness. It was Dragon's eyes and lucid words instead of loving, caring eyes and dragon's lies. Lance or no, he thinks that her blood would be spilled were he witness to the latter once again.Â This time would be different, this one he could save.Â

As the dust storm cleared the unbearable heat of the Thanalan sun began to radiate down upon the ivory sand, and the backs of him and his poor chocobo. He looked back over his shoulder once more, civilization but a mirage now. He then looked forward to an outcropping of rocks, one overhanging with tantalizing shade, a bare, dead dry tree, desiccated Â for its audacity to grow so far away from others. He smirks a bit and brought the bird to a pause. He dismounted quickly and circled around to the backside of the beast to retrieve the water skin affixed to his effects. Skin in hand he looked to the bird with a soft appreciative smile "I would ride you into battle" he smirks and cupped on hand, the other folding over the bladder to loose some of its water into his palm before lifting it up to the bird's beak.Â

He started to unload the rest, simply unburdening the chocobo of his armor and arms and the of course, the damnable relics that had consumed moons of his life. With everything removed he walked the bird around by the reins , facing back towards Ul'dah before giving it a firm smack on the rear "HYAH!" he yells and off the bird went.

He watched the golden figure slowly disappear over the horizon before turning back to what would be his place for a while. There was his mission, his duty to perform.

McBeefâ„¢ · **03-20-2015, 01:23 PM**

Evangeline wakes up at the first rays of sunlight, as she has every day since the accident. Her eyes had become sensitive. Too sensitive.

Well dragons werenâ€™t exactly known for their bad eyesight, were they?

She groans and rolls off the bed, rubbing her eyes and feeling for her tinted glasses. Even with the thick lenses the daylight was almost unbearable. Not for the first time she cursed her arrogance in this whole enterprise. Sheâ€™d held the stones for so long, and without incidence, and it had caused her to grow complacent. Not only had she come to harm, but others in the house as well. Jaques, Vaughn, Farrell, Lyria, Chia, and...

Angora.

Evangeline sighs and plods to the bathroom. In the Miqoâ€™teâ€™s urge to help Evangeline, she too had absorbed some of the corruption. As Orrin had said, the stones seemed to find their own ways to spread their Influence.

The stones were with the Dragoon now at least, given with a vague promise. Orrin said he would return them with needed. That alone would be enough to damn the man, should the inquisitors ever discover it. Evangeline wanted to refuse, the Stones called out to her, begging her to keep them at her side, but she could not resist the look of pain in Orrinâ€™s eyes when he asked her. She would trust him, as she had in the past. He was gone though, and more pressing matters availed her.

She stops in front of the bathroom sink, muffling every window with heavy curtains, leaving the room in near blackness. She removed her glasses and to altered eyes, it seems as bright as mid day. Taking a deep breath she once again confronts her visage, the one Orrin could not view without pain and anger crossing his face.

Her eyes stared back at her, strange pale grey eyes, the irisâ€™s flecked with yellow. The pupils had changed as well, more a slit than a dot, more like a lizard than an Elezen. She sighs, resting her hands on the sink. â€œWell, time to figure this nonsense out.â€

Anstarra · **03-20-2015, 09:07 PM**

<< Further events come to pass, in the wake of the last, and as the dust stirs and things grow more dangerous, new threats arise... as holders of relics and wyrmtears alike become targets for those hungry for power... >>

Zelmanov · **03-22-2015, 02:47 AM**

Night had fallen, the blazing heat giving way to unforgiving frigid cold. And yet, to Orrin, the sensation was the more bearable of the two, reminding him of his distant home. He emerged from his desert hovel, lance in hand.

It would be several paces from the offset that he would finally find his quarry. He grimaced visibly at the throbbing, writhing grizzly flesh of the sandworm. Its circular jaw lined with teeth, its myriad crawlers clawing about the sand in its reach, all entirely unawares of the cloaked Dragoon. His icy eyes peered from beneath his cowl, judging, gauging the foul vilekin. He then shifted his weight and in one quick motion he leaped.

The worm must have sensed something, perhaps its blind eyes sensing the sudden cool upon its body when his shadow crossed over its back, for it suddenly jutted its "head" upwards to meet Orrin's lance, the blade descending deep before the hooks and wings started to dig into what he would consider its face. His feet would soon follow, landing upon the worm. He is quick to slip down, straddling the worm, digging into the body with the blades upon his armored calves. It began to buck violently, clearly not all to enthused by its current situation.Â

Orrin lifts the lance once more to drive it down hard, this time hitting his mark of where he assumed the brain or its equivalent would be. Skewering right through the pulsating flesh till the head of the Gae Bolg surfaced on the other side, wings and all. One final, quivering, twitching spasm and the worm fell limp and Orrin rolled off into the sand onto his back.Â

He'd be quick to stand, drawing a knife into his armored palms he began to carve up his kill. He cut slices into the white meat, avoiding what he thought were organs to avoid the chance of consuming something he shouldn't. The rubbery muscle seemed to twitch still, as though it had yet to get the message that it was dead. His knife then tears into something, it looked like the guts of the creature and the smell was something else. He was so used to the gore of his homeland, of burning fat and flesh within armor that the vilekin's rend corpse nearly made him gag. He stuffed what meat he could into the bag and stood up to leave the rest for the vultures.Â

It had to be better than goobue flesh, right?

Verad · **03-30-2015, 06:03 PM**

The Sagolii was not kind to carrion. Outside of the few oases in the region, scavenger birds were unlikely, so corpses tended to go about the business of bloating and/or mummification (weather depending) with relatively little interruption. On occasion, a sandworm would rumble through the region and scoop up a body into its maw, but this was a messy process that left almost as much in the way of torn limbs and gobs of flesh on the ground as was actually consumed, an unfortunate drawback to not having a jaw. Otherwise a body fallen was a body in what would eventually become its grave, once the sand and wind got around to covering it up.

By the time the pair reached the Dravanian camp, the bodies had only had a few days to be subject to the desert's distinct lack of tender mercies. It helped that their killers had thought to pile and burn the bodies; even if the remains of their hastily-constructed shelter remained standing, the rest appeared to be ash and bone, piled near the remnants of what had likely once been a great wing protruding from hastily scrabbled earth. It was all, Gerchon noted from his position atop a rented chocobo, very thorough.

Sighing, he dismounted and approached the remains of the camp first. His companion chose to stay off his feet. Let him, thought Gerchon; the better to save his strength. How anybody could stand the desert heat in an outfit made of mostly black leather and buckles, he couldn't imagine. But his partner had insisted upon it. Image was everything, he said. Well, there was something to that.

He pushed metacommentary aside and squatted down near the pile of bones and ash, filtering through the remains with the tips of his fingers. "VeryÂ thorough," he said aloud, before glancing back over his shoulder. "Cultists and drake alike. Another dead end, I think."

The No-Eyed Man cursed, his words muffled behind a thick bandanna that concealed the bulk of his face. As if people wouldn't notice the buckles. "Suh thuh - " He said, paused, and then pulled down his mask. "So then that's the last of it, isn't it? Even this one was a shot in the dark."

Wrinkling his nose to ride himself of a few stray, windblown motes of ash, Gerchon shrugged. "It was a long shot. Has been for some time. But at least that's the Dravanians out of the way." Inwardly, he was disappointed - Fraideoux, when they'd spoken, had seemed a cultist at the end of his tether. He'd thought desperation would make him more effective.

"The Duskwight and the Keeper must have been freed, though. They've seen you. AndÂ me." The No-Eyed Man was good, to be certain, raising an eyebrow to express disapproval, looking proper and regal atop his mount. Dedicated, Gerchon would give him that. "We're at risk at the estate, are we not?"

"Mmm . . . " Gerchon blew air out of his lips in thought. "No. No, I don't think so. No law enforcement, yet. No proof. The Duskwight has a reputation for the outrageous, and there's still a Blade after him according to Dino. He'll keep his head down. They might make an assault, I'll warrant." He smiled. "But that's more fun than risk for us, and lots of risk for the dragoons."

Once he was satisfied that the Ishgardians had, in fact, destroyed a priceless relic of a corpse of the old Horde like so much kindling, he slumped down into the sand and uncorked his waterskin. The plan was going wrong. That wasn't cause for alarm. It was a plan that had gone wrong a half-dozen ways by now, and it was still in operation. This was how he liked things: flexible, mutable. He'd seen the schemes of the dune-turds and they operated like beautiful pieces of Ishgardian clockwork - finely crafted and well-tuned, but one small speck of dust in the wrong place and they went all awry. Better to be uncertain of success, he felt, then utterly certain of failure.

His partner, it seemed, did not share this enthusiasm. "We could just vanish," he said. "Plant what we need, and then light off for another city."

Gerchon raised his eyebrows. "You're saying this? After all of that? It seems anti-climactic, don't you think?"

"Mayhaps." The No-Eyed Man shrugged his shoulders. The buckles jingled, but even that sound seemed immensely importantÂ when he did that, as if this jingle was the jingle that would shake the heavens. "But what other recourse do we have? We're out of relics, and they're harder to find by the day. The drop-boxes are full with junk - I think one of Dino's men reported a rosary made out of dried pasta at one point - and our mutual contact was unable to confirm the second shipment."

"Then that's what you'll have to do, isn't it? No purchasing agents, no catspaw. Time to work the charm." Gerchon turned to smile brightly, though his eyes moved to a point beyond his partner's position. Something glinted in the light of the desert sun. Metal. It moved no farther or closer. His eyes narrowed.

"Do you remember that story from one of Dino's dealers? Haig, wasn't it?"

"About the cat breaking in and gutting a visitor? Unexpected, to be sure." The No-Eyed Man didn't seem to follow the train of thought. That was fine; Gerchon agreed. It hadÂ been unexpected. That always caught his interest. "What do you think she wanted?" his partner continued.

"Grudge, from the sound of it. It was very focused. Reliable things, grudges. Point a person at their target and they'll do anything to help with it." He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, a habit that often occurred in the midst of serious thought. Back in Coerthas, people had likened it, both unkindly and otherwise, to the tapping of a dragon's claw.

"Well. We have Primrose. And we have a few other angles. And if push comes to shove, we have the last resort - if you're prepared."

The No-Eyed Man flinched. "If I must."

"Good. Now, let's see if we can get what she asked, keep things moving." Gerchon chuckled, and sincerely at that. "Drachen ore, of all things. Whatever she's making, it should be interesting."

"And how, pray, are we to find drachen ore here?"

"Simple, the same way we got our wyrmtears back." Gerchon rose to his feet and dusted off his knees. The glint vanished.

The No-Eyed Man furrowed his brow. "What - we have tears? Did you find more?"

Another chuckle. "Sorry. A passing moment's lie for my own amusement. Anyway, it really isÂ quite simple - we take it from a dragoon."

Verad · **04-08-2015, 10:57 PM**

â€œWe have to stop. Weâ€™re done here. Itâ€™s over.â€

Despite his usual composure, Gerchon couldnâ€™t help but grimace through the words. He hadnâ€™t enjoyed saying them any more than he was sure his partner did hearing them, in spite of ensuring that they could be spoken in as palatable a fashion as possible; Didino out at some nameless soiree and unable to interrupt, a good meal compliments of the Dino estateâ€™s head chef (eft tail, cooked slow so the gristle turned to grease), and a pilfered bottle of Ishgardian red, one of the last bottled before the snows. A pair of lovers could not have asked for a better final meal.

Better, however, did not mean good, and the puzzled look in the No-Eyed Manâ€™s â€œgoodâ€ eye (why did he insist on wearing the patch when he was out of the public eye - haha, very amusing) bespoke the start of a longer conversation. â€œSo soon?â€

The grimace remained, and Gerchon cradled his goblet in his hands. A nice one, golden. Didino refused to touch them now, and given the rumors around the city, Gerchon could see why. He preferred the risk, however, and drank deeply before continuing. â€œItâ€™s gone wrong. Thatâ€™s all there is to it.â€

â€œAs it has several times now. And we have always found another opportunity. So you have said yourself. Was it the Seeker? I did warn - â€œ

A raised hand. â€œYou did.â€ Now that had been a mistake. Enticing some half-mad feral cat to stalk and nearly gut the pair before theyâ€™d left the Sagolii, only to convince her it was in her best interests to stalk the dragoons in the city and take what they were hiding to â€œbring their Nunhâ€ power. She had been easy to sway; a mere mention of pleasing her master, however much it had made Gerchon shudder, had made her pliable. But since then, theyâ€™d received no word. Either she had failed, or, worse, succeeded and not shared the proceeds.

â€œYou did,â€ he repeated. â€œIn other circumstances, Iâ€™d wait it out. We had the benefit of time. Now, though - â€œ

He paused, loath to admit what came next. â€œWeâ€™re not tipping the scales. Not anymore. If anything, weâ€™d be helping to keep them stable. Tell me - youâ€™ve been out amongst the people? Riling the crowds?â€

â€œFrom time to time. A good appearance here and there, offering payment to the â€˜rightâ€™ person. All as planned.â€

â€œRight, right.â€ Gerchon glanced away, his grip tight on his wineglass. For once, his thoughts were muddled. The song had been ringing strong in his mind of late, and when it had reached a crescendo he had fought the urge to drop the plan entirely and take flight to Ishgard. That had subsided, but the sound was there even now, the beautiful keening of glass on slate. â€œAnd youâ€™ve seen the swaps?â€

â€œThe meets? Yes, a few. Locals trading in trash.â€ The No-Eyed Manâ€™s snort was small and slight, too harsh to be written off as a mere scoff. â€œI made an appearance at one. Paid the thousand for a â€˜rosaryâ€™. It seemed to be keeping their interest.â€

â€œThen you havenâ€™t seen the buyers.â€

â€œThe - what?â€

Gerchon nodded, and drained his drink. â€œBuyers. Monetarist purchasing agents, from the sound of it. Snapping up relics at twice our offered price. Haloneâ€™s arse, Iâ€™ve heard last night there was a woman offering ten times the amount. They were never interested before, you see? It was all trash to them - not worth their notice, in spite of all the accidents and trouble. Then thereâ€™s . . . whatever happened at that feast, and now theyâ€™re clearing the markets.â€

Oh, to have been at that party, as a guest or a gnat on the wall. Didino Dino hadnâ€™t been influential enough to secure an invitation, which was not a problem in and of itself. It was his middling pull with the Syndicate, and the Dunesfolkâ€™s desire to increase that pull, that had made him ideal for the original plan. But it did mean that the rumors heâ€™d heard were all that heâ€™d heard, and the tales varied from the plausibly wild to the implausibly likely.

â€œSo thereâ€™s that. And then Dinoâ€™s interest in the particulars. The angles, the move with Primrose, the last resort - almost every day since the feast. He wants it to happen, and soon. Between the two? Powerâ€™s shifted, I think. Dino isnâ€™t keeping us under wraps to surprise the Syndicate and show them what he can do - heâ€™s getting us ready to act to prove that heâ€™s worth keeping around.â€ A quick shake of the head. â€œIt wonâ€™t hit them both anymore. Weâ€™re tools now.â€

Quiet passed between them, broken by wine hitting metal as Gerchon refilled his goblet. The No-Eyed Man, he noted, had yet to touch it. â€œSo itâ€™s done. We declare the problem solved, the threat ended, and we leave. Weâ€™ll try again elsewhere. Limsa, Gridania, Vylbrand, mayhaps Ishgard if thereâ€™s a turn in the battle.â€ He tried to smile. â€œYou wanted this, right?â€

â€œYou offered me an end.â€

Ah. There it was. He kept the smile, tried to keep it from turning brittle. â€œI did. Youâ€™ll still get it. Iâ€™ll hold to that. But not - not here. Here, itâ€™s no end, you see? You overturn nothing, no matter how it looks. But elsewhere, matters are less stable.â€

â€œYou offered me an end.â€ His tone had dropped. Though Gerchon knew the source of it, the menace in the No-Eyed Manâ€™s voice still made him shudder. â€œThis is not a recurring role.â€

â€œWhat - where, where is this coming from? A week ago in the desert you wanted to flee!â€

â€œAnd you wanted to stay.â€

â€œI did when staying might tip the scales. Now, though? If the Monetarists have taken the city? Itâ€™s futile. It would change nothing. Harden the anti-Ishgardian sentiment, perhaps. Give them more justifcation to have expelled those knights - â€œ That much he had heard, repeated with glee by panicked citizens sure of a reprisal, clutching â€œrosariesâ€ and necklaces hammered into wings as if they were proof. â€œAnd use the one man crusading against them - â€œ

Ah. There it was. â€œI see. Itâ€™s futile.â€

â€œIt is. You see precisely.â€

â€œI wonâ€™t be party to this. Itâ€™s exactly why I left Coerthas.â€

â€œYou neednâ€™t be. Flee; disappear. Leave the last resort, and all will be well.â€ The No-Eyed Man rose to his feet. Despite being indoors, his trenchcoat managed to billow. Gerchon always puzzled over that.

â€œThere are better endings, Leofric,â€ he said as his partner left the table. â€œBetter than this.â€

Verad · **04-10-2015, 01:00 AM**

The crowd at the Quicksand was busy, as it had been every time Malin had visited in the past few nights. Without her uniform, nobody paid her any real mind; a somewhat slight-looking Midlander woman who didnâ€™t draw attention to herself with ostentation and armor could blend in easily amidst crowds of adventurers too busy with their own intrigues to pay attention.

At first she had thought this would make finding her quarry simple; he enjoyed standing out, if not to the point of ostentation. But for the past few nights she had returned home empty-handed. How Verad Bellveil could possibly hide himself, when all reports indicated he was out of hiding and back to â€œwork,â€ eluded her as much as the man himself. Tonight would be the last effort before she grabbed whatever Blades her limited authority in the Ulâ€™dahn division could muster and stormed his estate. If what Donnell told her was true, however, that wouldnâ€™t be necessary.

A sour look crossed her face, and she sought out the leggy blonde who always served drinks in order to get an ale. It wasnâ€™t that she didnâ€™t trust what her husband had told her; working as a retainer, he no doubt brushed shoulders with the same lower circles as Bellveil. It was just that it was so . . . stupid. It couldnâ€™t possibly be as easy as he said to get the man to reveal himself. Nobody was both smart enough to avoid capture and stupid enough to walk into it that easily.

And then there was just . . . what sheâ€™d have to do. Her ale arrived and payment was provided before the look could get any worse, but once she received it, she took a very long pull. It made her feel sick, considering it. She considered moving to assault the estate now, but the memory of a week ago, of that Ishgardian zealot tearing through good men and women like so much trash, made the sick feeling worse. Try this first, at least.

So decided, she found a space at a table, bumping shoulders with a Highlander off to some anonymous liaison, and had a seat. She took another drink. The ale didnâ€™t feel strong enough, so she drank again.

And then, leaning forward and heaving a large, heavy sigh she tried to make as breathy as possible, she spoke, raising her voice over the crowd. â€œMy, but I am in such dire need of goods of dubious quality! But all the local merchants will only sell reputable things. Whatever am I - â€œ

She heard the rapid patter of footsteps behind her before they came to an abrupt halt. â€œYeshellomadamIamtoldyouareinneedofdubiousgoods?â€

She fought to hide the smile, fought to avoid looking over her shoulder right away. She didnâ€™t want him to see her face right away, and she was afraid that sheâ€™d see a dust-cloud in his wake when he approached. Then sheâ€™d be laughing too hard to catch him, and off heâ€™d go again. When she was sure she could remain composed, she turned to face him with a smile. â€œIndeed I do.â€

Seeing grey skin turn white, she felt, was worth the stupidity.

---

Despite having a good fulmâ€™s height and fifty ponz over her, Bellveil was surprisingly easy to capture once lured into the open. He managed a half-hearted attempt at fleeing, got taken down at the legs by a seated tackle before she got too far (to the frowning disapproval of the barmaid, but while Malin did not bring her uniform, she had remembered to bring her seal of authority to quell serious protests), and, once wrangled with wrists placed behind his back, was led out of the Quicksand towards the Pearl Lane entrance with surprising compliance. Perhaps he had seen this coming.

There was an old rug a few yalms down the street, and it seemed as good a place as any to deposit him. A quick shove of her arms and Verad tumbled onto the ground. She thrust a finger at him before he could right himself. â€œYou sit there,â€ she said, a cautioning note in her voice, â€œand listen. Run and Iâ€™ll call for help.â€

â€œI - I assure you, Ser Greaves, that I havenâ€™t a thing to do with the buyers on the markets. Those relics are well out of my purview, you see, and - â€œ

â€œDid I say talk? I didnâ€™t say talk. You listen, Bellveil. You can talk later, but for now, listen.â€

Ever the protester, Verad opened his mouth, but another look from her clamped it shut. He seated himself in cross-legged fashion - seemed oddly comfortable on that rug, thought Malin - and gestured for her to continue.

â€œA week ago and a few dozen yalms from here I caught one of those Ishgardian meddlers harassing the local merchants for artifacts. Youâ€™d know her I think - Vâ€™aleera Lhuil? You met once at the Footfalls.â€ What a mess that had been, she thought. An Ossuary researcher injured and traumatized and a pair of the Rose Orderâ€™s guards brought to deathâ€™s door. Worse still because it now seemed mild in comparison.

When Verad nodded in recognition, she continued. â€œSheâ€™s had a bounty for weeks - resisting arrest from the Flames for refusing to yield weapons, you know. And sheâ€™s been terrorizing the markets for longer. Harassing merchants. Beating people who talk back. And when we arrived to apprehend her?â€

At a downward glance, she noticed she was clenching her fists. She tightened her grip. â€œFive men and women dead. But just Blades, of course, so nobody minds. You can get a dozen to the gil if you dredge the bars around closing time. Still, five dead at her hand before we called it off, and sheâ€™s still out there, on her â€˜holy missionâ€™.â€ She smiled a razorblade at Verad. â€œAnd what do you think that mission is?â€

He didnâ€™t respond, just sat there scratching the scruff of his beard in a kind of nervous tic. She didnâ€™t need him to do that. â€œLooking for artifacts. Relics. The same relics that led her to damage a museum with a priceless, er . . . â€œ What was a Tardaftigops, anyway? â€œA priceless skeleton, intervene in the city gaols, fight and kill and bicker her way around our city. The same relics that led to the aevis at Highbridge, and the Ossuary explosion - oh, donâ€™t think I donâ€™t know, Bellveil, you wipe that look off of your face - and some idiot in a trenchcoat convincing the locals anybody with an Ishgardian accent is the enemy. And with people like Lhuil around, I almost believe him!â€ Her voice rose as she spoke, the tired tone of her voice that Donnell always joked made her sound bored rising to a higher and higher pitch. She didnâ€™t realize she was shouting until she saw Verad flinching at her words. She didnâ€™t care. â€œAnd why, Mister Bellveil, why are all these relics out in the streets of Ulâ€™dah? Why are people dying over stupid gems and trinkets?â€

She stopped, catching her breath. To her surprise, he responded, his head lowered. â€œBecause I stole them,â€ he murmured. â€œOr if I didnâ€™t steal them, I let them be stolen.â€ His head rose his chin jutted out, a momentary defiance. â€œBut I had reasons for - â€œ

â€œIf you like,â€ she said through gritted teeth, Â â€œYou may take your reasons to the families of the slain and explain them as best you can. Mayhaps theyâ€™ll forgive you. Twelve knows so many of your friends have with that tongue of yours. Not one would give you up, and I canâ€™t even get you out of the estate without that clan in your house coming at me spears drawn.â€ She threw her hands up. â€œI canâ€™t even arrest you here, alone, because Iâ€™m half-sure theyâ€™ll stage an escape.â€

There were other problems, to be sure. The evidence was flimsy; the only item linking him to the scene was a report of his Imitation Foolâ€™s Gold being used as a weapon, and even that hadnâ€™t been found. If she left it to an honest inquisition, she had little. Yet he was flinching, Twelve, even his beard seemed to be wilting. Let up for a moment and he might come to the same conclusion.

â€œThatâ€™s why youâ€™re getting a choice, Bellveil. You can turn yourself in for negligence leading to interference with trade routes, head high, and take whatâ€™s coming. What we both know you deserve, and probably less. Nobody comes with you, nobody tries to break you out, nobody pleads about how badly you feel. Thatâ€™s one option.â€

He swallowed. â€œAnd - and the other?â€

â€œYou stay holed up in your estate, and I pass word to the Goblet Housing Authority that youâ€™ve been implicated in this business with the relics. I donâ€™t even need to say much, I think, but I have more than enough.â€ His eyes widened. â€œTheyâ€™ve been itching to evict you, havenâ€™t they? The Dubious Duskwight? Heâ€™s not a real adventurer. This is some kind of fraud. It would be more than enough for them to act.â€

â€œI-it wouldnâ€™t be the first time Iâ€™ve lived hand-to-mouth - â€œ

â€œMayhaps, but your guests? All those friends? Do you want to see that little cub without a home?â€ His mouth gaped in horror. For a salesman, she thought, he wore his emotions too freely. â€œI thought not. You give yourself up, and Iâ€™ll keep them off your back. Iâ€™ll give you that much. And thatâ€™s all Iâ€™ll give you.â€

Silence passed between them before she spun on her heel. â€œYou have a week. Turn yourself in at Highbridge - or be prepared to start packing.â€

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Scales in the Sand [Semi-Closed]

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