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Roen · **11-10-2014, 07:54 PM**

How in seven hells did everything get so out of hand?

Brynnalia Callae paced the floor of her bedroom in Limsa Lominsa, the bells of her anklets jingling chaotically with each quick stride. Her eyes were narrowed as she chewed on one fingernail, her mind trying to put the mess of events in some semblance of order.

Jameson Taeros would want a full report, and he was not going to be pleased.

It started as a simple raid. Well, as simple as any raid can be. From the information Brynn had gleaned through various means--mostly through prodding bedroom gossip from the salty lips of a certain Maelstrom Captain--she had picked a few choice warehouses that were suspect in terms of their contents. They were under the names of average businessmen, but had recently been seeing more deliveries and increased traffic, sometimes in the middle of the night. It was a passing observation that was made by one of the Yellowjackets, and one that Captain Hardy was not going to give much pursuit to in his investigation of piracy. And because he did not give much weight to the report, Brynn also found herself out of luck in acquiring a warrant for an official search.

But the lack of legal justification to search a private property did not seem to be a deterrent for Natalie Mcbeef. As soon as the Highlander bard brought the location of a possible warehouse of interest in Moraby Drydocks, Natalie formed a group to raid the place: a Miqoâ€™te named Askier Mergrey, a Midlander who was only known by the name Jana, the Sultansworn Coatleque Crofte, and the ex-Garlean sympathizer, Delial Grimsong. A motley crew to say the least.

It still twisted something inside her, every time Brynnalia was near the woman who used to mercilessly hunt Resistance loyalists, but even while bitterness and suspicion lingered in the back of her mind, the bard put up a casual front--an easy smile firmly in place for Delial Grimsong. The fact that Ser Crofte also came along with Mcbeef, however, did surprise the bard. She always took the former for the type not to get involved in illegal affairs such as this.

Brynn tried to keep the raid under control, but it was not to be. As she approached the warehouse guards in her Maelstrom officer regalia, she had already found two other Maelstrom members there--a Midlander woman dressed in a privateâ€™s uniform, and a well armored and dark-skinned Highlander male who proclaimed he was a Maelstrom Captain. They were both seeking entry into the warehouse as well, and were being held at bay by two stubborn guards.

She had just begun to try and reason with them when the shout of â€œGrenade!â€ came from behind her. It was Mergrey, and he tossed some metallic object towards the chained and locked warehouse doors.

It all went to seven hells from there.

All the bard remembered now was the chaos that followed the thunderous explosion that blew the warehouse doors into a mess of flying wooden splinters and twisted iron. The two guards that were by the door were the worst injured, but other people were screaming and running about. Yellowjacket whistles quickly filled the void left by the grenade's fading echo, raising the alarm. While the rest of Mcbeef's crew rushed into the warehouse, Brynn quickly disengaged herself from the group.

She diverted enough Yellowjackets away from the site of the explosion, focusing them on the rescue efforts and the fire just long enough to give Natalie's group the barest breath of time to search the warehouse. Brynn did not know what exactly transpired within the burning building, but she did recall the sounds of shots being fired from within.

By the time she made her way back to the warehouse, the rest were making their exit, quickly retreating back to the ship docked nearby. They had brought the two wounded guards from the warehouse, neither of them in any condition to argue. Once on the boat, Brynnalia had thought that they had gotten away clean with at least two mercenary guards to pry information out of.

But somewhere between the trip from Moraby Drydocks to Vesper Bay, Natalie Mcbeef bled to death.

The Highlander was still not quite sure how that had happened. She had left the Miqo'te Sultansworn with the injured mercenaries, and Natalie seemed fine at the time. Jana had joined her in tending to the guards, while Brynnalia checked in on Ser Crofte, who clearly was unhappy about her involvement in the raid and its explosive outcome. Brynn gathered that Coatleque had intended to stop Natalie from creating such an incident, but had failed miserably. The bard also regarded the Miqo'te bomb expert and Delial talking quietly in the corner, and noted that they seemed to share some kind of relationship even if there was palpable tension between them. But by the time the bard returned to check in on Natalie with the guards, she saw the two mercenaries and Jana staring at the unmoving and pale corpse of the Sultansworn laying in her own pool of blood and refuse.

Brynnalia had immediately called to Crofte for aid, but despite the Sultansworn's best efforts, Mcbeef could not be revived. Grimsong and Mergrey did not seem to care much for the Miqo'te's passing, though Jana and Crofte fell to stunned silence.

The bard had no love for the Miqo'te, so it was up to Brynn to salvage the situation as best as possible. She blackmailed the two guards into giving her the name of their employer, threatening them with accusations of guarding illegal goods and participating in piracy. They were all fabricated charges at that point, since Brynn knew nothing about what was recovered in the warehouse, but they didn't have to know that; the two were too harried from the wounds they had incurred, and had not the wherewithal to doubt her. They sang like songbirds. The name they gave was not Anselm Mercer, whose name was attached to the property, but another businessman named Sebastian Redgrave. The bard did recall that name, just vaguely so, in William Hardy's mutterings. And the guards also confessed that that they were approached in Redgrave's stead by another Highlander--a woman named Shaelen.

That name Brynn also knew--a ghost from her days within the Resistance. Shaelen had been close to Aylard Greyarm, the man Delial Grimsong had killed. She briefly mused on how the encounter between the two women would go.

At least I've got names to give to Taeros, the bard told herself. She knew he was not going to be pleased with the news of Natalie's death. She wondered if the noble actually cared about the Miqo'te Sworn, or if her death would be considered something akin to the loss of a valuable tool. Either way, the end result was not going to be a good one.

When the ship docked at Vesper Bay, Immortal Flame agents were already waiting at the pier to meet them. Brynn suspected that they were called upon by someone on the boat. There were too many people she did not trust within that motley crew, it could have been anyone of them. The bard bluffed her way through the Flame's questions about the dead Sultansworn, and let them claim the Natalie's body. She quickly made herself scarce afterwards.

Menphinaâ€™s Tits, Brynnalia cursed to herself. They were supposed to find Lazarov and dispose of him before something like this happened. Bombing a warehouse on foreign city-state, that could be a spark to war, or at least a political disaster. If they had at least made a clean get away, none may have traced this act of terrorism to those responsible. But now with a Sultansworn's death...there were bound to be questions.

With a shake of her head, the Highlander paused her pacing to fall to a seat on her bed. She grabbed herself a bottle of wine that sat nearby, uncorked it and poured herself a large glass. She did not like the implications of the troubles ahead and needed to soothe her nerves before seeking out her employer.

What a mess ye've left us with, Natalie, Brynn cursed silently as she took a long sip of the dark red.

If Lazarov had intended on starting a war, ye certainly provided him with the ammunition.

Roen · **11-11-2014, 02:54 PM**

She was dead.

Natalie Mcbeef, once her mentor, Sworn-Sister, friend and confidant; the miqo'te who then turned torturer, executioner, and became the one responsible for so much pain and sufferingâ€¦

She had bled to death on a ship.

When Coatleque had delivered the news to the paladin, Roen did not quite know how to react. Her first instinct was to insist that despite what she was involved in her time of death, Natalie should still receive the proper rites of a burial as an honored Sultansworn. Those were her first words. She had then walked away from Ser Crofte, numb on the inside.

But since then, the longer Roen pondered upon Natalieâ€™s life--the woman she had become towards the end and the words they had exchanged in their last encounter, the more bitter she became. Why was that her first response? After all that the Miqoâ€™te had done, why was preserving Natalieâ€™s honor and memory her first reaction?

Roen stared at the medallion of Naldâ€™Thal in her hand, the one that Natalie had left for her. Her eyes studied the scales engraved within the metal, before her fingers closed down upon it. She instead regarded the view of the bay from her perch on Anchor Yard. The sun was setting into the ocean, lending a fiery hue to the clouds above.

"Are you glad that she is dead?"

Roen turned her head to the voice behind her to see Nero watching her. Of course he had already heard the news. "Should I not be? I should be dancing with joy on her grave, for all the things that she had done."

The smuggler's expression did not change. He just shrugged. "That is up to you to decide. I, for one, am only regretful because she deserved far more suffering."

His words did not surprise her. Of course Nero would want Natalie punished. He knew her only as Daegsatzâ€™s executioner and a Sultansworn dog for the Monetarists. He knew not the woman Natalie was before all this. Suddenly the metal pendant felt a little heavier in her grip.

"Nald'Thal's medallion, she left me." She looked down at her hand again. She had nearly thrown the cursed thing toward the bay at least half a dozen times now. And yet it still remained in her hand. "To remind me that everything has two sides. ...As if there were two sides to the woman she had become."

"In that, you and I are in agreement."

Her indignation simmered. "Does she think that I would try andâ€¦understand what became of her in her last days?"

"I am under the impression that she did not think much of anything. Such was her way,â€ Nero said coldly.

"Impatient. Single minded. Ruthless. Without compassion. Foolish." Each of her words were sharply said, nearly spat out. "Foolish above all. Thinking that there was always a justifiable cause in her mind, for all the mistakes that she had made."

"I have never heard you spew such a low opinion of someone before.â€ Nero crossed his arms in study of her. â€œIt'sâ€¦refreshing."

"I should hate her."

"But?"

Roen stared out over the bay, her eyes fixed on that distant horizon. "There should not be a but. Because that would make me a fool."

â€œYou are too good of a person to not have such regrets about her character, Roen,â€ Nero said quietly.

â€œDo not justify any sadness that Iâ€¦that I should not have. You have no idea what she put me through." A rueful chuckle was forced out. "Just call me a fool and tell me to forget her. Rather than stand here and wonder why I still mourn her death."

"You don't mourn who she was. You mourn who she could have been." He stepped up behind her. "If she had waited. If she had given some thought. If she had considered. If she had reached out."

"I loved her once. Like a sister." Roen sighed, her voice losing some of its venom. "Before she turned into someone I did not recognize.â€

"Iâ€™ve said before, she and I are a lot alike. In another life, we might have been friends." Nero observed. "It is unfortunate that it was not this one."

Roen gave him a sidelong glance over her shoulder, her head half turned. "In this life, she had killed. And so have you. You likely would have killed each other."

"It would have been a pleasure for me to kill her." Nero was matter-of-fact in his tone. There was no restraint, no stiffness, no doubt.

Roen shook her head, turning her gaze towards the sea again. "Is it wrong that I am relieved it never came to be?"

"If we had fought, who would you have supported?"

She bowed her head. "I would have tried to stop you both, even though I knew neither of you would have ceased."

"And you might have died in the crossfire. That might have opened our eyes. Or perhaps it wouldn't."

Roen kept her back to him, her arms crossed as she hugged herself tight. "Is that where we are headed? Down the road for more violence, to kill or be killed?" Sadness finally emerged in her lowered tone and sagging shoulders. "I know she made mistakes. She killed Daegsatz. She brought a bomb. Fool of a woman! I knew she had to be stopped. But in the end, she died doing everything and anything she thought was necessary for what she believed was a justifiable cause."

"You realize, of course, that that is a very likely outcome for myself as well." Neroâ€™s voice had become quieter. "Conflict in this world is not brought about by evil people, but by good people who believe they are doing evil things for the right reasons."

Roen hated that his words rang true, because regret and dread then began to root themselves from within. Natalieâ€™s death was a cruel, sharp blade that tore through her dreams and hopes, and brought to bear the thought that the Miqo'teâ€™s end could be a harbinger to his. They had both compared themselves to each other, in how they were not so different in their relentlessness. The paladin had loved the Sultansworn like family once, and now she struggled to even recall those memories. "Will I again wish for hatred in my heart to ease the pain of your passing?" she asked quietly.

The smuggler said nothing, merely wrapping his arms around her waist and holding her against him, his head leaning lightly upon hers. "That would be merciful," he murmured. "But life is usually anything but."

Her head remained bowed, but she shook it just slightly. "I should hate her. A part of meâ€¦perhaps I do. But I hate her for dying. For never allowing the possibility for us toâ€¦to..." Her hands were tight fists pressed to his forearm. "Why did it have to turn out this way?"

"I suppose only the Twelve know why we mortals insist on fighting,â€ he whispered by her ear.

Roen frowned deeper. "Why must you walk the same path that she did?"

"Because if I didn'tâ€¦I believe I would become something much worse."

She glanced over her shoulder, turning her cheek slightly. "I do not want to hate you. Nor mourn your death. If I truly believed that is the path you were on, and there was no other recourse..." She paused. "Tell me there is one."

"I cannot," he breathed, resting his chin along her left jawline, his cheek meeting hers as if to keep her gaze from him. "To turn away from my path would mean rendering all of the sacrifices thus far meaninglessâ€¦and I cannot do that. Those deaths had to have meant something."

A sharp exhale was followed by the turn of her head, as if to withdraw from that touch. "What am I to do, Nero," she whispered. "I have stood by your side. I haveâ€¦trusted my heart, despite all you have done so far. And nowâ€¦now you tell me you walk the same path as the woman who I am struggling to forgive even in death."

"Do what you feel you mustâ€¦for the path will not grow any easier. There will be little respite from the storm." Neroâ€™s voice lowered, almost forlornly.

She felt her heart sinking. â€œIs there not a part of you that want a recourse?"

"Whether I want a recourse is not is irrelevantâ€¦this is the only way to change things with any measure of certainty."

"It does matter! It should matter! Your fate is not decided! Your life is not forfeit to be a sacrifice. Lives lost does not gain justification with more lives lost!" She stiffened in his embrace. "Your wants. Your life. Your hopes. They should mean something. If Natalie had held the same hopes, she may not have ended up as she did. She may not have done the things she did."

Roen exhaled in regret. "She could haveâ€¦just reached out to me. Something. Anything. Rather than rush head first into something because she believed it was the only way."

"My life..." he murmured, slowly releasing his clasp around her waist and stepping back. "What is the measure of a life's worth?"

She turned to face him, unclasping her arms. It was as if she was holding herself together. Her expression was now filled with sorrow, the stoic cold control she had held on to earlier had completely fallen away. "I do not know, Nero. But soon as it is lost, so is all the potential it had with it." She canted her head. "Are you afraid of it being worth anything less than saving all of Ul'dah?"

He stiffened, slowly curling and uncurling his hands. "No," he said. "This is not, and has never been about me, or my life."

She felt her chest tighten. Of course it was not. If it was a selfish thing, a matter of pride, she would not have been drawn to it so. "It is about all the lives you have lost and taken, is it not?" Her grey eyes were steady on him. "You hold your life as payment for them.â€

"That is the least I can give. The price can never be high enough. But a redeemed Ul'dahâ€¦that may be enough."

Roen slowly bowed her gaze as she nodded. "I will help you. As I said I would." Her expression and tone were muted; she could not bear the thought of him coming to harm, much less offering his life to this cause at the end of it all.

"But you promised,â€ an emphatic whisper suddenly rose. "Do not forget your promise." Her eyes locked onto him, imploringly. "That you will try to be better. And that you will let me save you. That the end does not have to be what you foresee, that I can find a recourse even if you do not fathom one. Do not lose faith in that. Do not give me reasons to try and fill my heart with hatred for you."

Nero nodded slowly, although he no longer met her eyes. He turned and walked away without another word.

â€œNever falter,â€ were Natalieâ€™s final words left in her will for her former apprentice. Roen looked down to her hand and opened her fingers to look upon Naldâ€™Thalâ€™s scales once more. There are two faces to all things.

The paladin stood at the Anchor Yard, looking in silence to where Nero had exited. The earnest and compassionate man who had her trust and heart, but also a ruthless revolutionary who had already ordered the deaths of many to achieve his goals.

When the balance tipped for Nero, she wondered what would be left on the scales.

***Nero*** · **11-12-2014, 06:33 AM**

Nero sighed, taking some time to gaze out onto the open ocean as Roen left, his arms folded. His mind remained with his jumbled thoughts until the sun dipped beneath the horizon, and night embraced Limsa Lominsa like a cloak of velvet. The spires and docks of the city began to flicker as lamps and lanterns were ignited, illuminating the towers and walkways with tiny spots of red and orange that were not unlike the stars that were beginning to emerge from the sky.

"Your life is not forfeit to be a sacrifice. Lives lost does not gain justification with more lives lost."

Her words echoed relentlessly in his head. Was all of this pointless? Part of being a businessman was understanding the concept of a gamble, and knowing when to cut losses. Was continuing after all that had happened a fruitless endeavour?Â

No, the real question wasn't whether or not it was pointless...the real question was whether or not he would be willing to accept it if it was.

The Hyur sighed again, shaking his head to shove his doubts aside. It did not matter. Even if he wanted to quit, he'd come too far now. Scythe was slowly but surely beginning to strain against his leash; the bandit and his gang was getting antsy and eager to try their new weapons. In addition, the supply lines for the steel and ceruleum had been solidly established and fabrication of the foundation parts had already begun. Nero was preparing to march both doom and hope to the walls of Ul'dah, whether the city wanted it or not.

No, it was far, far too late.

Nero pulled up a pocket watch from his trouser pocket. While it was not shoddy, it was not nearly as elaborate or sturdy as his Garlean timepiece. The smuggler made a mental note to barter with Shaelen for his timepiece's return; she had been very...forward in their last interaction, but there was quite the difference between a drunken fling and a passionate reunion. At the thought, the corner of his lip curled in a grin. There'd be time later when this was over to mix together business and pleasure.

Another shake of his head. Clarity, that is what he needed. He needed to be of sound judgment, for there was no rest for the wicked, and there was much work to be done.Â

As the veil of night deepened in Limsa Lominsa, Nero drew up his mental checklist of tasks to be done. While he traversed the various walkways, his mind wandered other avenues, namely how to respond to the destruction of his warehouse. Try as he might, the smuggler could only scrounge a few details of the incident as witnesses were few in number and the perpetrators had fled the scene after the explosion. He knew that the Sultansworn were present; Mcbeef would not have been alone. A frown formed on his lips as he considered the possibility that Crofte had been present, but the lady knight did not seem inclined towards such subterfuge and sabotage. Still, anything was possible. It was also likely that the Maelstrom had participated in the raid, and if the Sultansworn were there, then the Flames were there too.

Was that possible, though? If Maelstrom personnel were present, Nero had to operate on the assumption that they were assisting as independent parties and not as representatives of the Grand Company. Merlwyb would have never suffered Ul'dahn interference in Limsan affairs.... unless refusing the Sultansworn would have caused a major political incident.

No, that wasn't possible. Nero might not have escaped the notice of some of Ul'dah's more powerful elements, but he assured himself with some confidence that he had covered his tracks. There was no hard evidence that they could have brought to the Maelstrom. No, any officers of the Storm would have been there as a personal favour, and not as legal authorities. Still, though, that presented another worrying element. The Sultansworn were well-connected and could call upon members of the Storm. Part of Nero's security had relied on the rivalries between Ul'dah and Limsa Lominsa to get in the way and prevent any sort of consistent collaboration.

The situation was getting dangerous. The number of factors had to be trimmed down considerably.

The smuggler's contemplation came to a halt as he arrived at Naldiq & Vymelli's. Most of the apprentices had gone to the Wench to drink, but there were still several journeymen working hard on their craft. Nero sauntered down the ramp on the eastern side of the building, where leaned a Highlander man who looked like anything but a Highlander.

Rather than tall and bronzed, the man was short, pale, a bit portly, and scraggly. His unkempt ashen hair was kept in place by a haphazard bandana, and his face was pointed and narrow, like a rodent's. The adornments covering his body was a simple linen outfit, and a pair of sheathed stilettos hung from his side. The Highlander's grin revealed a few missing teeth as he glanced at Nero, who swiftly withdrew a pouch and tossed it at the rogue, whose vermin-like countenance had earned him the unflattering moniker of Ratface.

"Ye be providin' quite the greed t' keep me from blowin' me gab," Ratface said roughly as he eagerly opened the pouch and started counting.Â

Nero merely shrugged. "I make the necessary investments to keep my business running. You are one of those good investments," he said diplomatically, though truth be told the Midlander wanted nothing to do with the man. Â The smuggler disliked dealing with Ratface, but the latter and his various corrupt associates were so far the only reliable veil that Nero had from the Rogue's Guild, and what Ratface lacked in any sort of etiquette or pleasant qualities, he made up for in efficient information gathering. Ratface peered up at the smuggler, temporarily distracted from his coin counting.Â

"'eard one o' yer hangs out been floored," Ratface said idly.

"Who do the rogues suspect?" Nero said shrugging, though he was a bit alarmed that news had spread that quickly. The Highlander scowled.

"Mixi been tryin'a split 'em t'wards th' Executioners, but 'er mobs be thinkin' otherwise," Ratface said, scratching the back of his neck with a spindly hand. "If'n the ruffmans be catchin' the wrong rummy, ye bet yer millin' be imminent."

"As long as you keep doing what I pay you to do, that shouldn't be a problem," Nero said rather sharply. Ratface merely grinned and waved a hand. "Ye wanna be cookin' more eggs, ye be turnin' up the heat," he said.

"If it comes to that, your fee will increase," Nero replied, trying to keep the distaste out of his voice. Anyone who was anyone in Limsa Lominsa's underworld knew about Merlwyb's shadowy enforcers and that escaping their grasp was not a simple thing to do. That said, scum was still scum, and though the rogue's guild was not incompetent, they were not infallible either; many believed in that farce of a code, true, and many still like Ratface were willing to bend or break the rules to get ahead in coin or influence. The Highlander had the upper hand, and he knew it, and that was something Nero hated; so long as he was dependent on Ratface's protection from the rogues, Nero had to adhere to the scraggly Highlander's terms.

"Keep an eye out for me for any Ul'dahns that enter the city. Suspicious-looking types. You know the ones." Ratface tilted his head in curiosity.

"Funnily 'nuff, we already been lendin' our daddles gazin' fer some stranger coves. This be fer yer paddy warmin' up?"

"Possible and probable," the smuggler responded as he began to walk off. "Keep me posted and there'll be a reward as always."

Meeting with Ratface was only one of many things on the agenda. As he left the corner of Naldiq & Vymelli's, the paladin's words floated back to his mind.

"Do not give me reasons to try and fill my heart with hatred for you."

Nero had not deigned to respond. He couldn't think of one. He couldn't promise that he could give Roen what she was looking for.

It was far too late to turn back now.

***Nero*** · **11-14-2014, 05:06 PM**

A large map of Eorzea lay spread on the desk, with small ceramic markers dotting various points on the map, mostly based around Thanalan and La Noscea. On the left side of the desk was a large stack of letters. On the right, a ledger. Soft, warm light illuminated the office as Nero Lazarov pursed his lips in study of the map, alternating his gaze between it and a letter in his hand. A previously empty notebook laying on the right side of the map had been filled with notes; personal thoughts, plans, addendums, everything that the smuggler was keeping track of in his grand scheme. The smuggler sighed and brushed a hand through his hair; the chronometer on the wall indicated that it was early morning. Nero had been up all night organising his plans, and now it was time for a review.

The latest letter from Arturieaux indicated that the manufacturing was slow but steady, and the Duskwight was not complaining; the plan for keeping such a large operation under wraps was the arcanist's idea, after all. The key to keeping the plan quiet was to make the act of tracing the lines extremely complex and convoluted; they would contract ten separate companies, who would contract ten more, who would contract even more suppliers. The supply line was chaotic, like a tangled ball of rope or twine, and even Nero had trouble keeping it all together, though at the end as long as the steel and the ceruleum came in, it mattered not. As far as anyone involved was concerned, they were all making a profit. And since every company was only involved with making one type of part, and those parts were passing through so many transactions, no lowly accountant would be diligent enough to put all the pieces together enough to have any evidence.

Construction, however, would be deliberately slow. The purpose was twofold: one, to maintain the veil of secrecy, and two, to lessen the immediate demand for gil this project required. Nero's smuggling operation had ceased to become adequate, and with hesitation the smuggler had begun to probe certain areas looking for wealthy investors. He knew that some of the nobles in Ul'dah held a vested interest in seeing the power balance shift. With a silver tongue and some deception, several mining companies had invested in Dyna-Forte, Nero's front company, under the impression that he--or rather, Sebastian Redgrave--was constructing experimental magitek drilling technology. The investments made by those companies would keep his operations aloft for a while, but it was a temporary fix. More gil needed to be made, whether it be from trading profits or investors.

He put the letter from Arturieaux away and opened the next one. This was another curious specimen; a letter inviting Sebastian Redgrave to join the "Rhotano League", a planned conglomerate of Lominsan trading companies. It was a monopoly in everything but name, as such a theorised organisation would hold undisputed control over the routes of the Rhotano Sea and the Indigo Deep, perhaps even as far as the Sea of Ash. This kind of endeavour had the support of the Bloody Executioners written all over it; though Hyllfyr ostensibly followed the command of Merlwyb and the Maelstrom, the Executioners longed for an opportunity to metaphorically punch the Admiral in the nose. This "Rhotano League" would cause seaborne profits to sink--Nero's lip curled at the small pun--for all companies except those with the League. The Executioners and free pirates in their current state rivaled the Lominsan armada in terms of naval strength, and if they truly were heading the Rhotano League, Hyllfyr would have the economic base of power with which to oust the Maelstrom, or at least break any authority it might have.

Or, the worst case scenario happens and civil war would break out.

The implications were....interesting, to say the least.

The most pressing issue, perhaps, was how to respond to the destruction of his warehouse. Clearly, Nero's distraction was not working; he needed the focus to return to Ul'dah, and keep the eyes away from Limsa Lominsa. Yet, if Nero unleashed Scythe too early, that would do nothing but cause chaos and bloodshed, and if Scythe failed in turning the political pressure against the Syndicate, then the heat would return to Limsa Lominsa. Simply put, if Nero reacted at all to the bombing, the chances of it turning against him increased. Direct retaliation was not an option, but neither was taking losses like the contents of that warehouse.

A reorganisation was in order. It would be expensive, but in the long run if it worked, it would pay off. Nero scribbled a note to start planning for a rotation of goods in warehouses. Some of his underworld associates might be interested in participating; already in his head the general idea was forming. Every moon, sell certain properties and repurchase others. Move the goods accordingly. Hopefully such movement would be mobile enough that if another warehouses was targeted, it could be pinned as Ul'dahn sabotage, taking the heat off of the smuggler.

Nero sighed again. Really, he was relying on Roen for this. Hopefully she was gathering allies and punching holes in the Syndicate's network.

As if recoiling from his own thoughts, Nero shoved all his thoughts of the paladin away as he pulled up several sheets of parchment to begin writing letters.

The chronometer ticked silently as the night went on.

Roen · **11-15-2014, 01:19 PM**

They had met at Buscarronâ€™s, the remote tavern in the middle of the Black Shroud. A neutral territory, where an Immortal Flame sergeant, a Sultansworn, and a suspected accomplice to a pirate could meet without prying eyes and ears. It was a stormy night when Roen approached, the shelter of trees doing little to guard the building from pelting rain and howling winds. She looked up to the dark skies above, eyeing the storm somberly.

Roen did not suspect that either Osric Melkire nor Coatleque Crofte would try and arrest her. She still trusted them implicitly and hoped that they still had faith in her intentions for Ulâ€™dah. But much had happened since Roen had last spoken to either of them, that she could not help but feel some measure of apprehension as she agreed to the meeting.

The paladin had not talked to Osric since, as she had heard, he had intervened on Verad Bellveilâ€™s behalf. Mister Bellveil, whom she now considered a dear friend and trusted confidant, had been beaten within an ilm of his life by the Brass Blades--like as not for his participation in her movements against the Monetarists.

It still pained her deeply to think of the vicious attack. Roen had come to see him as he convalesced in Gridania, under the watchful eye of Kiht Jakkya--another dear friend--and the Morbolvine Clan. Seeing him in such a weakened state, despite his words of bravado and reassurance...it brought about such pang of guilt that Roen soon had to depart after making him promise to take his time to recover.

Suns later, thoughts of the Duskwight merchant and the rest of the people she had involved in this matter began to further solidify her resolve. They had put themselves at risk, therefore she had to do more to make their efforts worth something. And despite the fact that it began as an investigation into one Monetarist noble, Nero had opened her eyes to the fact that it had to become more than that. For all the suffering and for all the people who were trying to help her, it had to mean more than just the downfall of one man.

â€œYou heard what Crofte said over the pearl,â€ Osricâ€™s words pushed through her thoughts, bringing her attention to the fore. Roen glanced at the sergeant then the Sultansworn, both of whom were seated at the table across from her. The Immortal Flame wore a deep frown. "Explosives. He's makin' explosives. I already have one Askier t'deal with. Not sure I can handle two. Not sure the cities can take two."

Coatleque had inspected the warehouse at Moraby and had discovered that it was filled with garlean steel and empty containers that should have contained ceruleum cores. Both Crofte and Melkire immediately suspected the worst. The paladin looked between them, shaking her head. â€œIf you think Nero is making explosives, you are mistaken.â€

"Roen, he is stockpiling ceruleum somewhere,â€ Crofte spoke calmly, but was regarding her carefully. "What else could he be using it for?"

"Might be fuel,â€ Osric grunted.

"Aye, that was my second thought, and it may explain the steel," the Sultansworn nodded.

Roen considered her next words carefully. Nero had confided in her what they were for. It was for the Soldier Dance. But that was his secret that he had entrusted to her, and she felt that she could not share it with anyone else. She was not even sure that the two people she trusted at this table would understand, or believe in Neroâ€™s altruistic intentions. "It is not for explosives,â€ she said quietly. "He trusted me with that knowledge and I vowed not to break that trust. But he is not Askier. He is not planning on massive destruction of cities.â€ She glanced to Osric pointedly. â€œIt is a deterrent.â€

"Deterrents only work as such if the folks what have them are known t'be willin' to use them.â€ Osric met her gaze squarely.

"Do you think him such a threat?" Roen blinked.

"I think him wronged and rightfully infuriated enough to possibly make such rash decisions, yes."

"He is not a foolish man. Nor is he wanting wanton destruction, even when wronged. He does want to improve things."

"Things are rarely improved through force,â€ Coatleque chimed in quietly.

Roen narrowed her eyes, eager to change the subject. â€œI heard of a recent bargain struck between you and Taeros, ser Crofte." It was something that Mister North had mentioned, but never elaborated on. His selective discretion had roused her curiosity then. She looked to Crofte expectantly.

The Sultanswornâ€™s gaze was slow to meet the paladinâ€™s. â€œNor should you want toâ€¦though it does concern your welfare."

"Don't strike bargains for her welfare. Nat learned the hard way that all it earns you is a collar,â€ Osric said bluntly. Roen felt her own expression harden.

"Jameson wanted me to betray you to him. To lure you back to the city. He has no legal proof nor reason to detain you, so he wanted you to make yourself available for easy capture." Coatleque averted her eyes to the table in front of her. "Iâ€¦gave him someone else as a distraction."

"Someone else?" Roen straightened, eyes widening. "Who...?"

"Not important. What is important is that I shall keep him distracted as long as necessary for you."

"Tell me it ain't Gharen.â€ Osric interrupted, his eyes narrowed. â€œI want to hear the words."

â€œIt is not."

The sergeant then grinned. â€œAin't me, is it?â€

The Sultansworn seemed taken aback as she stared at the Immortal Flame. "... No."

"Coatleque, I would not have you throw anyone to the wolves in my stead,â€ Roen implored, leaning forward. Roen rarely spoke the womanâ€™s first name, and when she did so, it was to beseech a friend.

"Roen...this person volunteered. Please, just...do not waste the chance. I do not know how long his gaze can be held. He will surely find someone else to hunt you down."

Roen just stared at her, not certain what to say.

"Please just trust me," Coatleque murmured, her green eyes locking gaze with Roenâ€™s.

"Enough," Osric cut in, angrier. "She's struck her bargain, and it's buyin' you time.â€ He pulled out a vial of white liquid and held it up to Crofte. "This is milkweed."

"So I see. But where did you get it?" Coatleque canted her head.

"We seized it from a warehouse. This is but one vial of many from one crate among several crates. We also seized more than a few somnus samples from another warehouse, and enough incriminating records from both. They belong at least in part to a certain fop what dresses in white. If not him, his employers. The lieutenant and I have been buildin' a case, with some help. This whole conflict with Nero could've been avoided from the start. It ought t'have been a Flames matter, given the foreign nature."

Roen fell silent, her eyes darting between the sergeant and the Sultansworn. It was obvious that Osric had come to a realization that she herself had not, and was driving the conversation elsewhere.

"Normally, the Syndicate and every authority in Ul'dah would look the other way, what with Brass Blades and their penchant for makin' off with illicit goods. But this conflict's been instigated. A fire's been fanned. A man was ordered executed without due process from the Hall. There are witnesses. There is physical evidence." Osric looked to both women in turn as he slipped the vial back beneath his shirt. "I intend to use it."

Crofte tapped her chin pensively. "To what end? You plan to ruin the man once and for all? Or to simply hold leverage?"

"The man is entirely too competent at stirrin' up suffering. It needs to end,â€ Osric said gruffly.

"Agreed,â€ Crofte nodded.

Roen shook her head. "He is responsible for much. But...he is also the man who arranges things for many Monetarists. I hoped to gather enough evidence to implicate and trap him. And perhaps use him against his employers as well."

"Nero wants to cut deep t'make things better. I'm content t'just cut out the bullet.â€ Osric shrugged.

Roen inhaled and steeled herself. She knew neither of them was going to like what she was about to say. "I want to do both, sergeant."

Osric met her words with a hard stare. Roen continued calmly. "If you remove one bullet, they will find another to replace it in the pistol. It may take some time, but the pistol still remains."

"I move slowly, but I get the job done without bloodshed,â€ the sergeantâ€™s voice had lowered considerably.

Her own voice has taken a determined turn, her expression intent. "I do not mean to bring violence. Only sow more chaos and distrust amongst the Monetarists."

"I can't help you there,â€ Osric growled. "I won't."

Roen narrowed her eyes, her hand laid flat against the wooden grain of the table, as if to press her point. "From what I have seen and observed of the man, Taeros moves products, offers services, and arranges for things for his employers and for families that can pay. If his services and loyalties are held in suspect, then they may question their own alliances with each other." She finally flicked a glance back towards the Immortal Flame, an odd calm settling over her. "I know this is not what you wanted to hear, sergeant.â€

Osric stared down at the wooden table, teeth grinding hard as his fingers dug into his knees. He was not pleased.

"I am not cutting either. Onlyâ€¦waving the scalpel a little. To see who flinches."

Osric barked out a laugh. "Well, Crofte. I'm sure y'must be shocked."

The Sultansworn kept a placid expression in place. "I rarely am anymore."

"Gobshite."

"It appears Mister Lazarov may be rubbing off on dear Roen more than she is on him.â€ Coatleque regarded the paladin carefully from across the table.

Roen blinked. Was that true? Was she starting to see Neroâ€™s way of things? Was she bending towards his radical views? Was she sympathizing with his needs to justify the means by the striving relentlessly towards the end no matter what the cost? She could not believe that. Where Nero saw her plans as not enough, Coatleque and Osric saw it as too much. She felt pulled in both directions. "I see the need for change. I just do not want to see the most radical plans come to fruition."

"Quite likely,â€ the sergeant grumbled.

"I do not want bloodshed,â€ Roen insisted. â€œBut if some chaos can be thrown into their camp, mayhap the Royalist and those who support the Sultana can take advantage.â€ She shot both of them a look. â€œAre both of you so content to leave things as they are?"

"No. But I prefer the slow road.â€ Osric frowned. â€œI've an obligation to the little folk, t'make sure they don't get trampled."

Coatleque shook her head. "T'is not about contentment as much as knowing my place."

"There are too many that are already getting trampled, sergeant, everyday. I too do not want any more violence to come to those who already suffer. Nor innocents to become drawn into this crossfire. That is the last thing I would wish." She wanted them to understand that more should be done. That more could be done. "Turn the corrupt upon each other. Make them work against each other."

"You asked me somethin', once. I figure I'd better ask you now." Osric met her gaze again, his words deliberate. "Would you cut?"

Roen blinked slowly at Osric, the memory of their previous conversation jarring her conviction. "Do you thinkâ€¦this is cutting...?" her words came out quieter, shaken with uncertainty. "Is that how you see this?"

Osric bit his lower lip as if in thought, then shook his head. "Not yet, but you're on the edge of a knife." He added after a pause, "Don't fall."

The paladin and the sergeant stared at each other in silence for what felt like hours, before she nodded slowly. He then answered her with one of his own. It was an unspoken promise.

Osric then rose from his seat to go. "Ser? Anythin' else?"

Coatleque nodded to the Flame. "I will keep you informed of anything I find."

With a quick and sharp salute, the sergeant ducked out into the rain, leaving the two knights at the table. Coatleque broke the silence after two breaths. "Roen." She leaned forward to draw the paladinâ€™s attention. Her voice held no accusation, only earnest curiosity. "I need to ask you...why? Why are you doing this? Trying to affect such change?"

Roen leaned back, exhaling slowly. "Because no one else sees the need for it, but I am beginning to." Her words were calm, unwavering. "The Syndicate walks and lives off the backs of the poor. And the refugees...they suffer so greatly beyond the walls, and yet nothing changes.

"Of course we all see the need. But how is that our place to act?"

"I see their desperation, and I see it driving Nero. Perhaps he has opened my eyes to it." She shook her head, determination swelling her chest. "Should someone not try? Just because it may be impossible does not mean the very idea should be dismissed."

Coatleque regarded her for a moment longer, before nodding."No, you are correct. Would that it were my place to try. But my place is to serve."

"He wants to try. He will give his life to try. And I chose to stand by him. I mean for this not to take his life, or his humanity."

"You still care for each other?"

That made the paladin pause. Roen looked back to the table between them, studying a random wooden grain. But she nodded.

"Why remain here then? Take him and go. Leave Eorzea. You still have family do you not? A chance to be happy? Ul'dah's troubles should not be your own."

Roen blinked, her hands curling into a ball on her lap. "That would be running away." She frowned inwardly that there was a part of her that considered that temptation even for an instant. "Ul'dah is in his blood. The Jewel's pain is his own. And it is also my home, however flawed it may be."

Coatleque smiled slightly. "True enough. I had hoped you would realize that just the same, butâ€¦still it is tempting?"

"I do wish..." she whispered, almost inaudible over the din of the tavern and the roaring storm outside. "I do wish that after all this is overâ€¦that there is some chance of happiness for him.â€

"I need you to understand something then." The Sultansworn sighed as she rose. "Perhaps for both of our sakes. You may hear some disturbing rumors soon. Whatever you think, I need you to know I am still your friend, and that I still mean to help you in mine own way."

Roen blinked, her eyes widening with some alarm as she watched the woman pull the turban back over her eyes. "Are youâ€¦alright?"

"Yes,â€ Coatleque said, and turned for the door. She paused as Roen rose from her seat, her gaze hidden beneath the fly-mask of the turban.

"It was me,â€ the Highlander said quietly, then strode for the door.

Roen blinked, not understanding at first, then she felt herself grow cold at the realization. She could only watch in stunned silence as the Sultansworn disappeared into the stormy night.

***Nero*** · **11-17-2014, 12:37 AM**

Night enveloped Ul'dah, the cool breeze contrasting with the heated tempers that shouted in Pearl Lane. It was a scene not unusual for the city; on one side of the street was a skinny Elezen, flanked by a Hellsguard Roegadyn and a Midlander Hyur. On the other side of the street were two other Midlanders and several Ala Mhigan Highlanders. The Elezen and his companions were dressed in scraggly cotton robes and held no weapons that could be seen. Conversely, the opposing Hyur were shirtless, wearing only some woolen kecks and armed with unpolished but clearly functional scimitars. Their arms were adorned with tattoos that depicted a crude image of a hawk with a warhammer in its mouth, and all of them wore confident smirks.

"Scythe owns this area now," the Wildwood Elezen spoke calmly, folding his arms in the cotton robe. "We had gone over this before. Everywhere from the Onyx Lane to here belongs to him. You had best be on your way."

One of the Midlanders briefly scratched his head, before letting out a bark of laughter. As if on cue, the rest of the Hyur followed suit, filling the area with guffawing.

"'ear that, laddies? We'd best be on our way," the Midlander said with mocking confidence. "Th' 'ammerbeaks be bowin' t'nobody, an' if ye got a problem wit' that, well..." he patted the scimitar on his side. "Bein' the generous sort o' people, we can sort that out fer ya."Â

The Elezen shook his head. "Your numbers are meaningless. Scythe is giving you one chance. One. I suggest you take it." Out of sight, one of the second-story windows that had been previously boarded up silently swing open, a detail that would be fatal to miss.

The Midlander's amused expression dropped. "Who ye be thinkin' ye are, ye knife-eared shite licker? Ye think ye can waddle in t' our turf and get out unscathed?" He and the other HyurÂ drew their swords, their joviality replaced with violent anticipation.

"On the contrary," the Elezen said, smiling. "It is you stepping into our territory, and it is you who will not be escaping unscathed." He raised his hand, seconds later a sound not unlike the crack of lightning was heard. A plume of smoke emerged from the open window and the Midlander's furious countenance was replaced with one of shock. He looked down at his chest and found a small hole that quickly blossomed into a crimson plume. The Midlander looked up at the Elezen's now sadistic grin, and tried to say something. Nothing emerged but a gurgle as blood escaped the Midlander's lips, preceding the dull thud of a body hitting the pavement.

As if on cue, several other windows swung open, and polished wooden rifle barrels poked out. The remaining Highlanders were surrounded as their position of confidence had crumbled under the threat of the barrage.

The Elezen reached into his robe and pulled out an ornate pistol, pointing it at the next Midlander in the gang.Â

"Scythe extends his invitations," was the smug proposition.

Roen · **11-17-2014, 12:48 PM**

Roen tugged on the cowl of her hooded cloak as she ducked out of The Gold Court, her eyes warily looking about as she began to make her way toward the Gate of Thal. Her meeting with Broken Nose was a quiet one, shared over a sandwich under the fountain, the quiet babble of the water masking much of their muted conversation.

Her thoughts were a whirl with some of the updates she had received, both from the Roegadyn Brass Blade and from an earlier meeting with Mister North. The Hellsguard confirmed what she was already expecting to hear. There were rumors about that since the three Monetarist warehouses were raided, that the security had been heightened and blame had been eagerly dispensed to any and all who could have been responsible. Broken Nose counted himself fortunate that suspicion had not been cast his way as yet, and even though the Roegadyn put up a brave front, Roen could tell there was wariness behind his dark eyes.

But the Monetarists were starting to founder, starting to suspect each other in who was betraying whom--so much so that there was another agent from Lolorito that was sent to â€œclean upâ€ the mess. Mister North had been privy to the meeting between someone he referred to as Master Zuka and the noble Jameson Taeros. He had noted that Taeros sounded almost deferential in his conversation with the Lalafell, and that this Lalafell Enforcer seemed to be very well informed. The two Monetarists spoke of her and Nero, but also had discussed nearly all of her allies, including her brother, and even Qaeli Varily, a friend to both her and Gharen.

While this meant that her plan was working--to throw more chaos and disorder into the ranks of the Monetarists and turn their focus towards their own troubles in Ulâ€™dah--it also meant that her efforts here were started to get noticed, and the list of enemies was growing. If only this opportunity unveiled more weaknesses that she could capitalize on...

Her thoughts and her steps froze when a distant crack rang out from the far end of Pearl Lane. At first, her thought was to look up at the sky, as if to expect rain. But it was not the sound of lightning she had heard. That was a gunshot.

Roen instinctively reached behind her back to draw out her shield, her fingers sliding into the grooved handle even as her pace quickened down Pearl Lane. She had heard shots from pistols and rifles before, but it was mostly in Vylbrand and her homeland Garlemald. But here? In Ulâ€™dah? Before drawing her sword, her free hand reached into her pouch and withdrew a pearl that she inserted into her right ear.

â€œBroken Nose, shot fired. Pearl Lane. Relay to Brass Blades...and the Immortal Flames if you can.â€ She knew she could have used the pearl that sergeant Melkire had given her, but she was not exactly sure who else was on that shell. She had hoped that Broken Nose could contact whatever law enforcement was nearby. He had access to the linkshell that the Blades, Sworns, and the Immortal Flames all shared. She hurried down the street, even as she passed panicked refugees running away from the scene.

The paladin skidded to a stop at a turn, hearing voices. She gave a glance around the corner and spotted a showdown between two groups. One man was bleeding on the ground, motionless. The larger group of men was looking up; she followed their gaze to the open windows above them. Roen thought she spotted at least one rifle poking out. A robed Elezen stood amongst the smaller group of men, in his hand an ornate pistol.

Roenâ€™s eyes narrowed. She had never before seen the firearm's like outside of Vylbrand. She ducked back out of sight and summoned aether with a quick, practiced cast, and a thin layer of stone began to form from her fingertips, wrapping around her gloved hand, then her armored limb. A layer made of hardened earth began to coil around her entire form, but fading and ultimately disappearing as soon as it came. The paladin knew enough of pistols and guns, after all; gunblades were a well used weapons in Garlemald. Any unarmored body would be vulnerable to a single well placed shot. One had to close the distance on the shooter before that shot was fired, else any blade held in hand was useless.

With multiple rifles atop buildings and another pistol wielder at ground level, this was not something Roen could rush into and expect to survive. But she could not wait either--there could be more shots fired and more violence erupting before others could arrive. Perhaps she could end the face-off before it turned into something more bloody.

The paladin took a deep breath and called out, â€œCease and desist! Brass Blades and the Flames have been alerted! Drop your weapons before this ends even worse for all of you!â€

***Nero*** · **11-18-2014, 01:21 AM**

The sudden shout startled all present in the alley, and the Elezen whipped his head around looking for the source of the voice. Unfortunately, the cramped conditions lent the slightest bit of echo to the female timbre, and the Elezen's moment of distraction would not go without punishment.

The Midlander opposing the Elezen shouted and swung his sword, cutting a large gash in the Elezen's hand and calling the Wildwood to drop his pistol. Snarling, the Elezen, clutching the wound with his other arm, made a wild gesture at the remaining Hyur. "Kill them!" The Highlander Hyur all made various battle cries that seemed to synchronise with the crackles and booms of gunpowder igniting in the rifles, and in the first few seconds several of them fell.

Qaeli · **11-19-2014, 12:55 AM**

Zazuka Zuka â€“

Children streaked through the cobblestone streets, shrieking with comingling laughter and distress as their weapons comprised of stripped branches clacked together with hollow threat. Devoid of the watchful eye of their parentage, the prepubescent churls heeded noneâ€”not even themselves, much less where they were going.

"I am Raubahn the Mighty! All fall before my mighty cleave!" boomed one stocky lad as he chased down two smaller boys, who ducked between merchant and streetfarer into one of the dim alleyways branching from Sapphire Avenue. His frenetic pace afforded him little control, and thus he had no chance of evading the Lalafell approaching from the other direction. Like a hapless pup scrambling over a pile of stones, the young hyur half-flipped over the smaller creature, crashing side-first onto the unforgiving street.

A pained cry turned to a flash of rage as he clambered to his feet, twain-snapped branch clutched tight at his side. "Hey, watch where youâ€™re going!" the boy yelled blindly into the shade before turning and resuming his chase.

Zazuka brushed the dirt and grime from his cotton tunic and leathered breeches, subtly luminescent gaze following the retreat of the young fool that had sent him to the ground. Smoothing out a wrinkle here and there, he re-shouldered the satchel that had uprooted during the collision and continued on his way.

High were the Jewelâ€™s walls, concealing from the world the tempest of chaos and anarchy that had been gaining potency for the past several moons. Yet if such anarchists and many refugees had their way, the Gate of Nald would tremble and collapse, shining a dust and corpse-ridden light upon just how weak and reachless the Sultana and her agents were.

The loose thread of coin and compromise that had kept the Monetarists together was beginning to fray, all by the making of their own greed and ill-informed decisions; an inevitable byproduct of the autonomy affordedâ€”and purchased byâ€”the various houses. This had led to the allowance of foolishly short-sighted action, such as the unsanctioned execution of Daegsatz Traggblansyn, first mate of Nero Lazarov.

â€˜Underestimatedâ€™ was the frail justification that Jameson Taeros had applied to the gross mis-step. And yet the well-kempt hyur had yet to be touched by the consequences of his failures. For Zazuka, every attempt to make a fist or hold one of his beloved instruments of inquiry was a ghostly reminder of the price he had paid for his own underestimation. Soon, the streets and courts would be filled with the consequential spectres of that lone act.

It was for the prevention of this grim future that he had been sent. He was the needle that would guide the wrongly-sewn threads back into accord; or the blade that would clip the extraneous stitches from the whole.

Loloritoâ€™s First and Final Pence.

And there were many accounts to be settled.

Even in the dusk hours, as many vendors began to pack up their stations and prepare for the journey home, Ulâ€™dahâ€™s economy was a flurry of transactions of various magnitudes. The dark corners of the sacred Jewel held many secrets, and few of them were beyond the reach of his shadow. In one, someone was being beaten for coin, insult, or no reason at all. In another, a womanâ€™s thighs were spread for similar reasons. In still another, clandestine folk were exchanging clandestine goods with (sometimes) clandestine intentions.

The cityâ€™s walls towered high above all, obscuring sight of such misdeeds from eyes that often preferred to look elsewhere. But as the sun crept below the Jewelâ€™s spires, her shadows grew ever longer; and so too did Zazukaâ€™s.

His shades were ever vigilant, dispersed into the city like so many scattered coins, lodged into the many cracks of its streets, alleys, and walls, collecting interest and sensitive value for their master. And this particular eve, dividends were being paid.

Further delving into the suspicions Taeros held concerning the lifted products from his warehouse had yielded a trail of crumbs that led to a certain Flame Sergeant. Moreover, collections had gathered that the former Sultansworn Deneith was somewhere within the city, doubtless conducting her covert affairs.

A hasty man would have rushed to cast a net and attempt to sequester the woman with forceful repercussion. Zazuka, however, had learned the value of temperance. Deneithâ€™s presence had left crumbs, however miniscule. And for as much value was placed in the paladinâ€™s dealings, keen was his interest at whose feet the last crumbs fell.

â€˜When seeking sign of rot, look first beneath the drawn sleeve.â€™

No, he would leave the net unfurled for the time being. Now was the hour of the snare and hot iron. He would cauterize each of the gaping wounds in Taerosâ€™â€”and the Monetarists as a wholeâ€”operations, and thereby wall off the avenues of the paladinâ€™s offenses.

He had so many questions for so many people; a prospect that nearly brought a smile to his commonly undiscernible expression.

And he knew just where to begin.

Somewhere behind him, pockets of thunder cracked with spurious frequency, limned by a familiar choir of enraged and agonized screams.

He did not take pause to consider the source, for it was already known. Rather, he quickened his pace.

The walls were already shaking.

Banquo Viaquo · **11-19-2014, 04:26 AM**

He stood straight-backed over the flat workman's table, a fire crystal grasped in his gloved hand and warm to the touch. A gentle hissing filled the air as, stroke after prim stroke, he ran the hot crystal's smoothed face down the wrinkles of an exquisite cream-colored suit jacket. Entirely focused on his work, his eyes remained calm and focused on the texture of the master's formalwear; fine work, and barely worn.

Regrettable.

That was the word that kept returning to North's mind, unbidden, in the midst of his daily routines and work on behalf of the illustrious Lord Taeros; like a child tugging at his sleeve. Insistent, and admittedly testing his renowned patience.

It was regrettable indeed.

He and Eadmund Prosser had not been terribly close, even in their school days, but time hadn't had much of an effect on him; he was still delighted to see a familiar face, and his brown eyes had beamed at the sight of North, quite unexpectedly in his master's foyer. Their encounter in the Crowes' palatial manor had been brief and muted, but fond. He had not voiced his observations, but the young valet's face had shone like a schoolboy's at the gift of Ishgardian Crystwine(!), handpicked by Lord Taeros himself and passed on to North with a smile. A calm, assured smile.

North had hoped that Eadmund would hear the tone in his voice as he cautioned against overindulgence, advised careful dilution of the wine, suggested that it was known to cause terrible gastritis, urged modesty and alcoholic abstinence. Part of him had already accepted, however, that the gift was perfectly selected so as to be utterly irresistible. And so they celebrated, and North made his way home, having accomplished his duties.

And now Eadmund Prosser was dead, House Crowe was dead, and the bottle was empty, because Taeros had smiled, nodded, and determined that it all be so, and Gideon North, humble servant, had performed his duty. And it was regrettable.

He started, then gave a curt tsk of irritation, realizing his hand had stopped moving, letting the heated crystal hiss and whine against the cuff. His thoughts had distracted him from the task at hand, again... Hastily drawing the aetheric chunk back, he inspected the damage critically. No visible difference, but the wrist would be rather crisper than the master may be used to. Fortunately, the style appeared to be Elezen cuff... more than enough room for the wrist to shift and move as necessary, without the chafe of a too-stiff cloth. Still, the other would need equal treatment. Inconsistency would be far worse than simply hoping the difference wouldn't be noticed. Another hiss, and a light wisp of hot vapor as he turned his attention to the other sleeve.

Jameson Taeros was the master. He was not Gideon's Master, but he was the current master, and not to be displeased. He suspected that Miss Deneith's expression would twist to hear it, but he took a certain satisfaction in being able to serve a master again in whatever capacity needed; to be relied upon to carry out his duties and to be counted on as the best within his field. When the time came for Taeros's retribution - and, seeing how he treated others, he was sure it would come - he would not be the one to pass down judgment. It was a natural law: there were Masters, and there were Servants. Gideon North was no master.

And neither indeed (he suddenly thought) had been Eadmund Prosser. Attachments, fond memories and betrayals aside, Gideon realized with an unsettling calmness that the both of them were equally expendable. His death was regrettable, indeed... but not for Gideon to regret. He was a tool, being used. That was his role, and had been Eadmund's. He had done what he could. Surely. The master's will must be carried out, and indeed, Gideon's true Master, the young Master - his guiding star - must still be served. He checks his tightening grip, and the hissing dies down as he delicately arranges the right cuff.

Miss Deneith obviously meant well, and her idealism and earnestness had certainly impressed upon him her determination to her cause. Lazarov had been described by a bored-looking Taeros as a radical, and perhaps in that, they were alike... in thought, if not precisely in action. It was a cause that intersected with his, and though he lacked their altruistic motives, he was happy to lend his services to the two so long as they might further his own goals. Neither side had seen much success arise from the other, and he was very conscious of the fact - Miss Deneith, for all her efforts and ideals, was in no condition to delve into Ul'dah's secrets, especially to discover the identity of an assassin. North's efforts, too, had borne few tangible results; he had managed a gift here, a slight disturbance there, a change in delivery or a hint at alliance, but turmoil among the wealthy houses was rarely perceptible from the outside. If his efforts had stirred the pot, there was no telling from his current position.

Still, Five had made a fine point, and one he should have realized himself. The Roegadyn naturalist had struggled through a series of increasingly unwieldy metaphors of Eorzea's monsters before settling on a satisfyingly simple observation: Symbiosis doesn't happen overnight. A bit of patience, and the winds would surely change... and North had a great deal of patience to exercise. Roen Deneith was certainly a Master, and he a Servant, but if she had impressed any of her values upon him (he smiled, faintly) it was that she would not tolerate selflessness. He would serve, and for once, he would be served in turn.

Miss Deneith had often said that he reminded her of her childhood teachers. Vaguely, he wondered if he had been instructed by any of them in his valet training. Eadmund Prosser's face rose to the fore again, and he pushed it from his mind with practiced calm and detachment.

The suit was impeccable. He raised it by the shoulders, pinched carefully between two slim, gloved fingers, and laid it carefully within the master's wardrobe.

His time with the young Master Aerstorn was proof enough that Five's words rang true. It would be preposterous to expect that the bond that he had shared with the young Master would be replaced, but if he could attain even a scant quarter of the trust he and the young Master shared, newly formed with Miss Deneith and her allies, it would be a fine place to find himself. Two distinct sides, concordant in harmony and purpose, and prepared to help each other in their times of need... and in their ultimate ambitions.

He exited Lord Taeros's chamber, nodding to a chambermaid. "Inform the master that his suit has been prepared for the operetta this evening."

"Oh, North, he's going to be livid! He says if you take any longer, he's going to be late to his place, and he's in the box seats alongside Lord Rezhenne tonight!"

A wan smile. "You may assure my lord that patience is a virtue. I shall expect him momentarily." The door clicked shut behind him.

Roen · **11-25-2014, 04:08 PM**

Roen winced when she heard the booming echo of the rifles all firing at once. She hazarded another look around the corner to see more bodies now crumpling to the ground. Single-fire musketsâ€¦they would need time to reload.

She had no time to wait--something had to be done to prevent any more bodies from hitting the ground. Thoughts flew by all at once: the time between shots fired and when it could be fired again, the group of Highlanders that had greatly diminished their numbers after being shot, their opposing gangâ€™s leader unarmed with a cut wound, and her warning shout that called out for reinforcements. There would only be a momentâ€™s confusion that would not last long--a very small window of opportunity if she was going to take it. And it was still a dangerous one if not utterly foolish.

I just left Broken Nose at The Gold Court. He cannot be too far behindâ€¦?

The paladin bolted to her feet and charged around the corner, rushing the Elezen dressed in ragged cotton robes. She counted on the fact that they were likely not expecting a charge--and if so not expecting a paladin. Their firearms had all just been discharged. She darted past the Highlanders that were still left standing, skidded to a stop, and instantly summoned aether, releasing a blinding flash of energy all around her.

She just needed to buy a few more seconds before they could react.

Roen bashed the Midlander that was flanking the Elezen with her shield, enough to drive him back so she could get around to the Elezenâ€™s back, her sword still in hand. She was hoping that the wound and the flash would disorient the Elezen leader just enough for her to place herself in between the Highlander and the gunmen above, with the Elezen in between.

â€œMultiple targets up top!â€ Roen yelled toward the alley as if to order the unseen men. She knew there was no one there--no backup at all--but no one else knew. At the very least she hoped to seed some hesitation. â€œAll of you, stand down!â€ She prayed to gods she did not know that soon this place would be crawling with Blades or Flames.

She just had to hold off the violence until they arrived.

Melkire · **11-25-2014, 06:07 PM**

The taller-than-average lalafellen corporal huffed an exasperated breath. She paced back and forth along the line comprised of her own men, her bone-white celata held beneath one arm, her blondÂ hair still done up in its bun.

Warmer than usual.

Haruko Kokojo came to a stop in front of a particularly bland-looking midlander and glanced up at him out of the corner of her eye. Flame Private First Class Karl Gregson might not have looked like anything special, but his calm demeanor in the face of fireÂ and hisÂ natural bent forÂ tacticsÂ made him an invaluable asset that she had found herself relyingÂ onÂ more and more with each passing sun. Such a shame about his face, though.

"Gregson," she said now. "Analysis, please."

"Musket fire, or worse. That it's comingÂ from Pearl indicates a supplier, ma'am, given how poor the residents here are. That means they're organized. Worst case scenario, they've had ampleÂ time to train on them. Always plan for the worst. If it was me, I'd have posted my best marksmenÂ at windowsÂ in the surrounding structures, assigned a heavy to each, and taken what's left downÂ to the streets."

She nodded, then swept her gaze back down the line towards the Brass Blades.

They'd setÂ up at the junction where the three alleyways leading from the Quicksand, the Gold Court, and Sapphire Exchange met. Even now, she knew, Blades were securing the various entrances into the palace and cordoning off any alley that led to Sapphire. Her eyes came to a rest on Broken Nose as the Hellsguard approached her; it had been heÂ who'd been the one to soundÂ the alarm over the recently-minted Sand Pearl, and she knew as well as her men did that the chaos they were about to confront rankled in the guts of the Blades just as much as they did with the Flames. Violence was one thing, a daily occurrence taken for granted in this city.

Armed and organized refugees, however, were another. That spelt trouble, and that sort of trouble reeked ofÂ possibilities, possibilities like riot, revolt, rebellion, treason, and sedition.Â Such thingsÂ could not be tolerated.

Broken Nose came to a stop in front of her, and she snapped a sharp salute.

"Small firearms, ser. Men up top."

"We'll take streets."

"Leaves us windows," sheÂ answered back with a nod of approval. He didn't waste time. Good. They turned towards the assembled men and women together.

"BLADES," bellowed the Roegadyn, "THEÂ STREETSÂ ARE OURS.Â THEY HAVE CONDORS PERCHED HIGH, SO KEEP OUT OF THE LANES.Â HUG THE STONES.Â ONE CRY OF QUARTER, THEN BE ABOUT YOUR WORK."

"FLAMES,"Â cried theÂ Lalafell, "WE'RE FOR THE STOREFRONTS, THE APARTMENTS, THE WAREHOUSES. SHIELDS HIGH, BREACH IN PAIRS, REMEMBER YOUR DRILLS.Â CLEAR THE WINDOWS. NOÂ QUARTER. A MAN WITH A MUSKET STANDS CONDEMNED, AS DO HIS FELLOWS."Â

Two sharp rasps of steel were answered by dozens upon dozens more. Moments later, the rolling thunder of a veritable stampede aroseÂ in answer toÂ the sharp cracks of gunfire.

Coatleque · **11-25-2014, 09:18 PM**

Coatleque leaned back in her chair as she heard the news in one ear. The report she was reading fell silently onto her desk as she waited. A moment later she heard the Captain's voice in the opposite ear.

"Ser Crofte, are you still in the palace?"
"Aye, Sir."
"Handle this."
"Of course."

Pushing off the chair she rose and took her shield which was typically left leaning against her desk. Leaving her office, she signaled for the two Sworn in the hallway to follow her. They quietly obliged and the trio quickly strode around the circle of the Hustings Strip. Coatleque quietly gave orders over her pearl the whole way.

"Something is happening in the alleys. I need the guard doubled at the Merchant Strip stairs on both sides. If anyone is still lingering on the Hustings, begin to escort them out, NOW. Ser Trevanchet, take three and watch the Aethernet. I will be at the Chamber of Rule. Nobody is to enter or leave until lock-down is lifted by myself or the Captain."

As they reached the doors to the Chamber of rule, they met the existing guard. The group spread out and drew their swords making a wall of shields, ready to hold their ground if necessary.

***Nero*** · **11-26-2014, 04:25 PM**

The alley was briefly filled with blinding light. The Elezen grunted as he covered his eyes with his good hand. The sounds of bodies shuffling in the chaos intensified as the Wildwood kept his eyes shut tightly for several seconds that felt like years.

"Multiple targets up top!" came the unknown voice again in a distinctly feminine timbre. As his vision gradually returned, it was impossible for the Elezen to know whether the threat of reinforcements was real or fake. A few scant moments were spent scanning the ground for the pistol which had been kicked away in the chaos. The Elezen's lips curled into a snarl. The rising crescendo of boots on pavement echoed in the distance, likely the authorities. Any shouted commands were unlikely to be heard, so he placed his fingers to his mouth and produced a loud, sharp whistle.Â

On cue the windows that the riflemen had been using slammed shut, one after the other. It was fortunate that most of Ul'dah ignored the run-down buildings of Pearl Lane; walls were easily knocked out to make passages between buildings, and there was nobody there to protest besides the occasional squatters. Assuming that nobody was there with them, the riflemen could easily make a hasty retreat, and the weapons themselves stored in such a way that it would be it would be highly improbable that anyone with any sort of actual authority would be able to identify which of the many bandit gangs had been using them.

Meanwhile, the Midlander had managed to recover from the shield bash as the chaos ensued, and pulled out his own pistol. Blood streamed down his nose and his disorientation showed as he aimed it at the one who had attacked him and pulled the trigger, but the bullet missed narrowly, whistling past the newcomer's hood.

--

"You get your gods-damned eyes on the Blades now before I pull your eyes out with pliers!"

"There's a lot of chaos. It's not--"

"You do as I say or I will personally pull out your spine through your throat!"

The crew had awkwardly shuffled away as their captain raged in his cabin. It was not the usual tranquil fury or smoldering glares, but it was a full-blown inferno of enmity and frustration. Nero paced back and forth restlessly, clenching and unclenching his fist as his other hand lay pressed against the ear. The crack in the window to his cabin had scarcely been repaired and already another one had been made next to it. The pearl made a soft chime again. On the one hand, it had been worth it to pay some people to keep an eye on Scythe and his gang; on the other hand, when one pays street rats and petty underworld brokers, one can hardly expect professionalism.

The report had come in naught but a few minutes ago. Firearms had been discharged in Ul'dah's Pearl Lane. The tentative assessment was that Scythe had been muscling in on another gang's territory and the confrontation had gone south. In the span of ninety seconds, Nero had thought of a varied litany of curses on Scythe, his parents, his grandparents, his future children and any pets he might have owned.

Surely now, though, the bandits had the attention of the Brass Blades and the Sultansworn. The rule of Ul'dah was that the nail that sticks out gets hammered down; breaking the law was only a problem when it made trouble for someone with power. Out of sight, out of mind, and the bandits had made a mistake in letting their presence be noticed.

That idiot had acted without thinking! This could ruin everything! All it would take is one confiscated firearm and the Monetarists had the ammunition to turn the public opinion on Limsa Lominsa. This wasn't supposed to happen. Nero had known for a while that Scythe had started using his newfound firepower to strongarm territory and men away from the other gangs, but so long as everything stayed quiet, it was not a problem. Scythe was the kind of dog where pulling at the leash too hard made him try to break it that much more often. The territory grabs were concessions, but now it had spiraled out of control.

"There's someone else fighting down there. No uniform."

"Description," Nero snapped.

"Robed; can't tell if they're man or woman. Some people saw a flash of light; must have been magic. No smoke from an explosion besides the firearms. Shouting. Blades are moving."

"Just...get out of there," Nero said, his voice straining to control his temper.

A gods-damned paladin, then. But who? If they were wearing robes, they were attempting to conceal their identity. If there was no visible uniform, it was someone who had to resort to subterfuge to move through the city. Might it have been a member of the Sultansworn? Surely their uniforms were shiny enough to blind all passersby with their conceited self-righteousness, but more than likely it was one of the so-called "free paladins".

Nero's face twisted in contempt. Was it Roen? If she had stumbled upon a gang fight, she would have impulsively jumped in to stop the bloodshed, the idiot girl. A small part of him sincerely hoped it was not, but anything was possible at this point.

She was the last thing he cared about right now though. There had to be a way to salvage this. Assume a worst case scenario and execute a plan based on that. Scythe was the most dangerous kind of brainless thug; one who was smart enough to make simple plans, but lacking in the foresight and patience to initiate anything of genuine success. In short, he was simultaneously the best pawn to have and the pawn that was the hardest to control.

No, no, there was still a way to turn this around. The firearms would be identified as Limsan, but they couldn't be linked to Nero. In actuality, does this outbreak of violence not help his case? The more he thought about it, the more it made sense to him. This happened not because of Limsan weapons, but because the Monetarists couldn't give a rat's ass as to whether the bandits were in the city. After all, the bandits regularly preyed on refugees and travelers and used their spoils to bribe the Brass Blades and bureaucrats, both of which were on the Monetarist's payroll. So long as the bandits didn't target trade caravans or anything that made a noticeable impact on the Monetarist's revenue, they were permitted to do as they pleased. The gangs formed because of the enormous economic disparity in Ul'dah, and said disparity was enforced by the Monetarists in order to keep the gil flowing.

Propaganda. That was what he needed. This onset of violence and corruption was because the Syndicate cared naught for order unless it affected their pocketbooks.Â

Yes, there was still a way to turn this around.Â

But I have to work quickly, or everything is lost.

Roen · **11-29-2014, 01:01 AM**

The pistol fired only a few fulms away, and it just barely missed her. Roen felt the shot graze the edge of her hood as she reflexively jerked to one side, even though she knew any attempt to dodge a fired bullet was a futile effort. She counted herself lucky that the Midlander was still dazed. She raised her shield between her and the Roegadyn on the other side of the Elezen; likely if the Midlander had a pistol, then likely the Roegadyn did as well. She was not likely to get lucky twice. â€œStand down!â€ she yelled again as she slashed at the weapon arm of the man that had just shot at her.

The keening of a Wildwoodâ€™s sharp whistle pierced the air, followed by the shutters above slamming shut. She sighed inwardly with relief that there would not be another barrage of gunfire descending on to the streets. Either they bought her ruse orâ€¦

â€œYou have ONE CHANCE to surrender! LAY DOWN the weapons, get on the ground, face down!â€ came Broken Noseâ€™s booming voice echoing off the walls of the ally. From the corner of her eye, the paladin spotted the familiar dark red hue of Brass Blade armor as the men rounded the corner, sticking close to the walls. A few of them glanced warily above for any rifles pointed their way, shields still raised in anticipation.

It only now occurred to her that her own identity was in danger of no longer being hidden. She hoped what Crofte said was true, that Taeros truly did not have a warrant out for her arrest, and that the Blades working for him would leave her be. She was not sure about the Immortal Flames however. While she and sergeant Melkire met in private, he did it so that there was no need to arrest or detain her for possible suspicion of conspiracy.

But it was too late now to rethink her actions. Her eyes darted from the Elezenâ€™s back to the two that were flanking him. They would need to be detained for questioning if they were wise enough not to resist arrest. She knew the Blades would not hesitate in cutting down a man or two who posed a threat. If they attempted to run, either they would find their paths blocked or she would need to slow them down if they had other means.

"As the Blade said, you have one chance," she said firmly. "Surrender now or your life may be forfeit."

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