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Warren Castille · **07-22-2014, 01:57 PM**

Months ago.

"I'm sorry she never showed up, Warren." There was a sad expression on the diminutive lalafell before him, standing behind the bar as the man slid onto a stool in front of her.

"You, uh, noticed that huh?" He looked a bit embarrassed, gesturing to a bottle behind the shelf.

"Of course I did. It's my place to notice these things!" She smiled, speaking matter-of-factly and beaming with pride. " 'Sides, it's dead in here these hours and you're not exactly easy to miss. Even if you are dressed like a proper gentleman for once and not a gleaming ivory tower helping support my pillars. Easy on the eyes regardless, but a girl can't complain." A grin followed.

"Please, Momodi, I'm not sure if I have it in me to rebuke someone on that again-"

"How many's it been?" She cut him off, picking up the bottle he gestured to and raising it, withholding the pour until he spills first.

"How many what?" He set his head in his hands wearily, looking at his empty glass.

"I've got eyes, you know. Ears, too. There was the chocobo girl, there's that flower-seller, I'm not sure if you saw the miqo'te with the handlebars and the book, but that's not what she was reading. You wouldn't believe the rumors you've got going around about you."

"There's rumors now?" The words dragged out of him incredulously. "I never even said anything to anyone! I deny everyone anything."

"Oh, honey, you don't know how it works, do you?" She looked at him with a pitying expression, dark brown liquid sloshing into the glass in front of him. "We women have a sense about these things. You never said anything about what happened with you and the missus but... You've got a way about you, Warren. And these women who've been looking after you, well, they're all adventurers. Got that second sense you all seem to possess. You didn't say anything, no, but it was written plainly across your face."

"So that means that they just throw themselves at me?" He picked up the glass, still voicing in disbelief before taking a generous drink.

"You go easy now. And it didn't start that way. I don't know how things went with that girl with the accent but she seemed nice enough, for sure. Haven't seen her around much, though. And the flower girl? She's a healer, Warren. And you've got a bad case of something broken, so she's going to try and fix that. Of course, you won't let anyone, so I guess Menphina's just sending heavier hammers."

"Well that's not going to work. Would you believe the other night I had a duskwight just baldly offer herself to me? Without so much as a name or a hello? Just a 'You're big, let's spend time together.'" He shakes his head, looking at his gracious hostess. She just grinned up at him salaciously.

"You ARE big, Warren. Big and stoic and noble. You tell anyone who listens that you're out to protect The People, whatever that means. Now I'm not making fun, but you talk in grand terms about these things. It's just so damn... Romantic! You can see that, right? You're just a big, lovable sad Warren who wants to protect. You're sending out all kinds of signals whether you know it or not. You're catnip. A fixer-upper with great returns. Not to mention incredibly wealthy."

"I'm not incredibly wealthy, Momodi, you know that."

"And those other things...?" She smirks at him wisely. His eyes meet hers and he gawks for a moment before averting his gaze back to his drink, then nursing it.

"I don't want that kind of attention. I'll try to be more mindful about how I present-"

"No, see, there you go again! You're doing it right now and don't even realize it. You stuff yourself down into your armor even when you're not wearing it, you know that? You hide behind that shield and we can tell! The harder you push back, the heavier that hammer's gonna be."

"...I'll endure it. I know what I want. I'm not going to be broken."

Momodi looks on him, setting her mouth and nodding. "Alright. If you ever want to talk, Warren, I'm always here. Just don't go breaking yourself now, you hear me?"

He nodded but was already gone in his mind. There was a sun high overhead, a pang of hunger deep inside of him and lots of street left to run.

McBeefâ„¢ · **07-22-2014, 05:53 PM**

Natalie browsed through the selection of cards at the stationary store, pre made convenience in the city where money could buy anything. There were invitations to weddings, funerals, celebrations. Cards that gave thanks to others, and cards that expressed one's condolences. Cards of pithy poetry, full of warmth for friends, family, lovers. Cards of concern, cards of congratulations, cards of sorrow, and cards of forgiveness, however...

She clears her throat and approaches the shopkeeper, "I can't find exactly what I'm looking for."

The elderly lalafell adjusts his glasses, "Ah, perhaps you're not looking in the right place? A card yes? What is it for?"

Natalie looks side to side before blushing slightly, "I'm sorry you were tortured when I had you kidnapped..." She says in a low voice. "Oh, and I'm sorry I had your brother captured and put in a death prison." She nods, "It's ok if there are two cards, I doubt you make a combo with those two things."

The Lalafell laughs, "Ha, you're quite the kidder." but then his eyes slowly widen as he sees that she isn't laughing, "Ah......" He backs away nervously, "L-let me check the back..."

Natalie crosses her arms and sighs, "Don't bother, this is the third place I checked."

She walks out dejectedly, before her eyes widen and she grins, "Ah! Perhaps they can write it on a cake."

**Unnamed Mercenary** · **07-23-2014, 11:21 AM**

He knew where Jin'li was, what he wanted, and what he planned to do.

The Unnamed Mercenary was now in a state of moral question. Would he go to the authorities and simply tell them everything? Would he be the middle man in a deathly trade? Or would he assist Jin'li, and deliver a man named 'Osric' to the twisted miqo'te.

He'd gained trust. Something not many people gave out lately. He'd also been allowed to speak, and had most of his words heard. The was a nagging at his conscience. "Don't involve yourself. Let the authorities determine what they will do about the situation."

Having lived in Ul'dah for a couple moons now, he didn't want the mostly peaceful life he had to break down. It was nice. Even with a certain...fog over his memories, the new would eventually be more important than the old. He would have to come to accept he may never see the people who loved him again, despite no longer knowing them.

He'd used a linkpearl to communicate some of this to Natalie, who he knew was in law enforcement. "It doesn't have to be now." "Jin'li said he'd turn himself in, if he can have Osric." "I can't tell you the location."

The thoughts swirled around his head as he returned home. These weren't details Kage needed to know. If he'd heard on the linkshell, the mercenary would answer. That man had already gone through enough. Kage would eventually break from the stress if this continued.

Â He'd wait to speak with Natalie in person. Maybe they would simply find whoever this Osric was, and deliver him. Maybe they'd formulate a plan together, and lure Jin'li out. Maybe he would simply tell her where Jin'li was, and what they could expect. Or perhaps, he'd do nothing at all. Watch as Ul'dah plunged into chaos one last time. A farewell gift from Jin'li.

He said some words to himself before the day ended, going to sleep. "I'm not a good person, but am I really that bad?" Only the following days would tell. He drifted off to sleep, hoping to be greeted by more visions of his past. Visions showing the virtue and humanity he no longer felt he had anymore.

Whittledown · **07-23-2014, 01:12 PM**

It was perfect moment. All the reason the in the world to act. The sea air, the rocks below. The drop. One hundred yalms easy. She had the tabard in her hand. Just let go. Let go. Let go. Let go.

Hornet did not let go. A woman who deserved death lived and Hornet already regretted her decision. Despite the regret, the act would not have been worth the promise broken.

A promise is only worth the person it was made to. And the person Hornet made that promise to was worth more than the life she wished she had taken.

Berrod Armstrong · **07-23-2014, 02:45 PM**

Vesper Bay flickered with orange firelight as the beat of drums rose into the night. The music in the square was sweet, and the shadows of the dancers flitted over the statue of Lord Lolorito like fleeting hands. Lively festivities filled the small seaside settlement, and revelry was the order of the evening.Â

Berrod had arrived on invitation, lured by the promise of free food and drink. He wore his usual leather trousers, boots and harness, not quite willing to be caught without them in the desert at night. His host stood waiting for him, silhouetted against the blazing bonfire -- an hourglass in Midlander's form.Â

"'Ey, Gins."

Ginny stepped forward and brought her features into sharp relief; her black hair tied back in one, her blue eyes that shone gold in the light of the flame, and those lips that looked like they may have killed as much as they had kissed. The Midlander woman was dressed in a rather short top that exposed her pinched midriff, connected to a low pair of hip-hugging silk pants that spared no effort in complementing her shape. "Berrod! You came!"

It took considerable effort for Berrod not to choke on his own saliva. She looked gorgeous. Several glittering bangles shook along her smooth bare and milk-pale arms. "Gods save m'loins right now," Berrod muttered.

"What was that?" She asked. Fortunately, his remark had been genuinely missed.Â

"Eh, nothin'. Y'been here long?"

"Only a quarter-bell! I'm glad you came so soon, this music's got me itching to dance." She wasted no time in gripping his thick wrist.

"Ginny -- uh --"

"Don't even try, Berrod, I've seen you dance, you know what you're doing. Come on!"

For all his bulk he was tugged along and cast into the scattering of moving bodies as though he weighed nothing. There were a few couples -- and a sprinkling of Miqo'te dancers, all splashed in the sticky orange light. Ginny had clearly been impatient about getting the opportunity to dance, Â she wasted no time. Her body became liquid flesh that personified the rhythm, each limb moving in expressive tandem with the beat. Her eyes closed and a smile of sheer enjoyment took her lips in an almost sultry quality -- but all her intimacy was reserved for the music.Â

Berrod found himself far too weak in the knees to begin dancing along with her at first, and the reaction shocked him. The Highlander was no stranger to jumping onto a dance floor and keeping close to the most tantalizing female figure he could find, so why did Ginny make him feel like a peach-fuzzed youth?

Ginny moved against him, possessed of a tone both teasing and foreboding. He could feel the heat of her body through his leathers and it set a primal fire within him that he knew she would not quell. Her hands brushed the exposed portion of his chest, her hips ground against his and Â her thighs snaked alongside his own. With every turn she made her hair brushed his neck and the sweet smell of it filled his nostrils. He ached with a sudden troublesome hunger -- a need he knew he could not satisfy. Not with her.Â

He finally managed to begin moving along with her -- he wasn't bad at it at all, his training had taught him to move his body on the command of an internal beat; with an actual, audible beat to guide him along, it was child's play. Just as Ginny had grown bold with her hands (quite often they ran along his jaw, shoulders and arms) so too did he seek to do so, planting his hands on her hips. It was all she allowed, for when he slipped his palm onto her stomach she moved in brilliantly timed evasion. At those moments she opened those blue eyes of hers and gave him a smoldering denial. The line was drawn. No matter how sensuously the writhed and gyrated, she remained firmly on the other side of it. Far was it from Berrod's discretion to actually cross that line with her, at any rate. Friends and nothing else. That agreement had been made a long time ago.Â

And so they danced, releasing their worries and woes into the embers that floated into the night's sky.

Kage · **07-23-2014, 04:47 PM**

Kage blinked.

He blinked again.

"Aye, I am in Ul'Dah. In the Sultansworn gaols."

Was he really reading this correctly?

"I turned myself into Ser Crofte and Natalie yesterday.

He couldn't stop blinking. Was it the drug or was it real? Kage poked himself, yes, it was real.

He read the last lines with wide eyes before he clenched the paper in one fist. He yelled out, hoarse, as the fist gripping the letter shook in the air, "NATALIE! NAT! WHAT'S THIS ABOUT ROEN IN THE GAOLS?"

Kage · **07-24-2014, 09:10 AM**

The lalafell blinked up at him. Though it was covered by the red turban, Kage's eyes caught the movement through the visor just he same. Kage watched him with trepidation before the lalafell gave a small grin. It was Kage's turn to blink as the lalafell said, "Ser, we're glad to have ye again, even if it is to skin that furball."

The miqo'te received the bundle into his arms, almost a little dumbfounded as he realized that he wasn't being mocked or ridiculed being addressed as 'ser'. He furrowed his brows as the lalafell saluted him.

"Ye help catch the cur, ser! Just don't get shot by dem Garlean magitek thingies Lieutenant," the lalafell grinned.

Kage saluted the lalafell and responded, "Thank you....?"

"Kakaru."

"Thank you, Kakaru." Kage left with a nod. As he walked back home he realized that while he might be an alcoholic he didn't need the moko grass. He'd left it where it belonged. Outside of his home. Away... from him and Natalie.

Berrod Armstrong · **07-24-2014, 10:13 AM**

The Root.

The effect was instant; Berrod felt three times as heavy as he had been, but his movement slowed none. As he moved through the desert dust, the particles that rose did not fall back to the floor -- instead they settled onto him, replacing the sweaty gloss of his skin with a dirty matte. A fist fired onto the boulder nearby with knuckle-breaking force, but his knuckles remained intact. He barely felt it. The punch itself seemed to do no more damage than usual, but he tookÂ no damage either. The ground beneath him felt like home, it embraced him, it was his shield and his retreat. It was his ally, and every puff of dust that rose from it was a bountiful boon.

The Sacral.

The sensation that flooded him could best be described as invigorating; among other things. Berrod found himself energized, ready to move, ready to work, ready to play. Desires and urges nagged at him for some reason -- a sudden need for good food, good drink, and good company in a bed. He compartmentalized it all and focused on the rush that deluged each limb. There were no injuries on his form, but he knew if there had been any, they would have healed before his eyes. Without anything to attend to, the energy returned to his core.

The Solar Plexus.

A new energy surged through him -- this time quite more visible than the last. He felt it from just under his chest, flowing through every muscle, activating them to move faster, to strike harder. Berrod saw the white-blue sparks along his arms at first, then took a risky peek down to see the cackling pop of the lightning aspected aether about his legs as well. It did not hurt at all -- quite the opposite, really. The lightning may as well have been the blood through his veins, and he welcomed it. Once more he unleashed his fist upon the rock -- this time to a splitting crack. Chips of the boulder shore off as the small area near the Sil'Dih ruins strobed. The lash seemed to excite the aether, intensifying the arcs of brilliant blue about the Highlander's form.Â

The time had come to take the risk, to see how far he had come.

The Heart.

It was if an unstable crystal had exploded within him; from the center of Berrod's chest sprung a roiling, heated power that seemed far too much for his own body to contain. In only a moment he was filled with it, and it threatened to rip him apart. The Lightning that wreathed him was joined with flickers of flame -- each tongue competing for space within his limited capacity. It suddenly quieted the blue, reducing the flickering sparks to naught.The Monk knew the danger of letting such power linger in him for too long. He had to get it out. His fist was the doorway; one final time he set it to the stone. It took every ounce of his will to force the explosion of aether into that one arm.Â

The only thing that hit the rock was his own blood. Great spatters of it, dark and glistening dripped down from the surface as Berrod roared in agony and frustration. Along his arm several shallow slits had formed, paths through his flesh where the aether had flowed -- and ultimately forced itself out. Blood filled the paths now, seeping out amidst the agonizing sting.

He swore loudly and bitterly at everything within range.Â

Another failure. The fourth was opened, but it refused to obey.

Berrod Armstrong · **07-25-2014, 08:41 AM**

The impact upon his chest sent a horrible concussion through his form and pitched him back several fulms. Berrod hit the dusty ground with a series of thuds, rolling roughly before he came to a stop with a crunching skid. Dust covered him, and he was almost sure that his chest had caved in from the blow. Agonizing coughs pressed from his diaphragm, each one repeating the shock of the strike. It would be sure to leave a vivid bruise. Still, he held on to his only weapon against his opponent, who saw it fit to release a joyful ululation of his victory.Â

"KWEH."

"Gods...damned...shite-headed bird..." The Highlander grunted as he got to his feet. With his free hand he held onto his aching chest, while the other clutched a somewhat wilted bunch of Gysahl greens. "Yer damned useless! Hold still so I can ride ya back ta town." It hurt to breathe, and that propelled him into further irritation. Boldly, he began another approach toward the large, yellow Chocobo. Thunder was its name -- appropriate enough. The mount had been given to him by the Maelstrom as a reward for his services and good behavior. The more Berrod thought about it, however, the more it seemed like they wanted to palm the damned hellsspawn off on him.Â

"Reward my arse," He grumbled. A few fulms closer he drew to his ward, which decided to stand its ground. The Chocobo planted its talons firmly in the hot dirt, craned it's neck toward him and hissed.Â

Berrod was unable to help himself from recoiling; did the stinking bugger just hissÂ at him? It did! He didn't even know the damned things couldÂ hiss. Unfortunately Thunder noticed his hesitation and took it as another mark of victory. The beaked, feathery head reared to proclaim another assertive "KWEH."

For some reason that was the thing to render Berrod's temper to nothingness. He would not have some bird rule him, not at all. In a fit of anger he hurled the wad of greens at the thing's head with all the force his arm could manage -- a significant amount. Thunder reflexively tried to snap at it, but it had been flung too violently. Though it managed to catch the greens in its beak, it lurched backward and had to flap desperately for balance.Â

Never before had a feeding been such a declaration of war. After taking the time to make sure that the greens did not go to waste, the affronted Chocobo leveled a beady eye on the Highlander with gormishly savage intent. "Kwuh."Â

No further warning than that was given, the fearsome mass of yellow feathers and scaly talons burst forward, ready to engage the man in a battle to submission. Berrod barely had time to react -- instinct and reflexes guided him. With a loud cry and a kweh they met; Thunder with a lunging peck...and Berrod with a reactive wheel kick. His heel came down hard on the top of the poor bird's head, augmented with his considerable body weight. They both went down in a plume of dust...but only Berrod stood up again.

Thunder, it seemed, had been knocked out cold -- there was a brief moment when Berrod feared that he had killed the dirty great thing, but that was dispelled when he saw it stir. Dusting himself off, the Highlander stood victoriously over the crumpled mass of feathers and talons. "Take that, y'lil bugger."

It took him only four ragged breaths to realize what he had done. He aimed a slow squint downward at the wretched thing and nudged it with his foot. "'Ey. 'Ey, wake up, ya gotta carry me back ta town."

Thunder breathed, but did not wake.

"...damnit. Wake up, ya sack o'bird shite, c'mon."

No response. The sour irony had begun to sink in, and already embarrassed anger reddened the edges of Berrod's ears.

"...I'm...gonna have ta carry ya back ta town. I'm. Gonna have ta carry a bleedin' chocobo. Bugger me."

Coatleque · **07-25-2014, 09:38 AM**

Coatleque said her goodnight to the head guard on duty at the gaols. She handed over the large keyring and signed herself off the roster for the night before stepping back out to the Palace. It wasn't the typical prison used by the Brass Blades, or the Flames. These cells belonged to the Sultansworn. Used for high-level political prisoners, not common thugs. Still, it was a prison none the less.

This afternoon had been emotionally draining on the Knight. Her ward was no stranger to visitors tonight, and Coatleque had the unfortunate duty of eavesdropping the whole time. Unpleasant conversation had at least born fruit in the end. Some potential new leads in her case were now known, and Roen herself seemed to be the most hopeful that she had been since her arrival.

And there was her own nightly visit of course. Coatleque had made it a point that her last action each night would be to see that Roen was well accommodated for. Tonight she requested additional light, so a fireless torch would need to be provided. She also desired to speak again, which was a good step. To be able to speak of her ordeal without breaking down, to revisit the feelings while maintaining her composure. It meant she was finally able to look past it.

Telling the woman of her own past also gave Coatleque a small sense of relief. They had some common ground to share. Roen would not need to bear her pain alone at least, just as Coatleque had in Sapphire so many moons ago. Sapphire... F'lierre. She hadn't thought of her in some time. The Knight hoped she had survived somewhere, somehow.

Drained. Yes, drained. Her shift was over, it was time to relax before the night ended.

Kage · **07-25-2014, 09:48 AM**

Kage fingered the linkpearl Natalie has given him once more. What Erik had first given him.

He'd started to wonder ever since he became a Brass Blade if it was worth it, holding onto it. Perhaps its only worth was to get the initial contact but.. even then, Kage wasn't sure if he should hold onÂ to it.

No one but Natalie had even responded to him over it. Ser Crofte only spoke over it when Natalie said something.. a little embarrassing for him as he was a private one by nature.

While they killed the cur, Jin'li, Kage pondered over what Roswyn had told him and Erik. The mage. The voidsent. The cerulean core bomb. The first two had come to pass and the Jewel had weathered them a bit. The latter... well the latter he had made inquiries about in the hopes that while they had Jin'li in custody -someone- would think to interrogate him. If not, well Kage assumed then that the Red Wings had a handle on it.

Kage had tried but people refused to acknowledge it so he would leave it at that. He'd look into what Natalie said about that pugilist she'd met. Or Delial. Delial... was his lead into helping not just Roen but Gharen as well.

Lady Rivienne · **07-25-2014, 11:01 AM**

The beguiling motion of flesh took place underneath the layers of silk adorning their forms. Though one was stilled, except from the rise and fall of his chest, the other stretched and moved in a languid motion against him. There came an appeasing sound, quiet and yet easily heard in the emptiness of the dark, as she was roused from sleep. Weariness was found past the flutter of lashes, which attempted to filter the lancing moonbeam that entered through the window. Golden eyes glittered when she turned away from Thaarus and rolled to face the light which bathed her this evening. The bed-sheets fell away from bronze flesh, only to pool around her waist whilst she sat up, taking in the faintest of sounds.

Even when attempting a moment's reprieve, which was found in slumber, something desired her attention. There was a rustle from the bough of the trees, and it was not some occurrence made by the winds. the rhythm of foot steps, albeit faint, were heard outside the window.

A glance was made past the curve of her shoulder to the pallid countenance of the man that slept beside her. With a slight twist of her frame, warm fingers sought out his marred cheek; her thumb brushed at the scar gingerly before letting slender digits caress his jawline. His hair was disheveled and fanned around his visage, enhancing his allure. Warmth was spreading across her features and a smile was triggered by the serenity he was enveloped in.

But, just as soon as that tenderness is expressed, Rivienne pulls herself away and slips her fingers underneath the pillow her golden crown once rested 'pon. When withdrawn, a sheathed dagger comes into view and is pulled against her body. Thaarus stirs, but she quickly leans over to his frame and presses her lips to the outer shell of his ear. Her contact lasts but a few heartbeats, for soon she is on her feet and taking possession of a robe at the end of the bed.

Silent footfalls carried her out of the bedroom, through the hall, where dying light sweeps across the room, stealing a caress of any exposed flesh soon covered by the light robe. The dagger was not forgotten, it was still in her grasp as she hastily made it to the very entrance of her homestead. The blade is unsheathed slowly, the scabbard set on the table. The flat side is pressed to her cheek, tapping it gingerly, as the door opens and swings in. That is when the tip of her blade is pointed forward at who awaits her.

The guest outside was garbed in dark attire, making him indistinguishable with the shadows that ensnared him. One thing was for certain, the striking gaze of silver met hers of gold. They narrowed as she took the envelope, which was, without a doubt, another assignment. Usually, these exchanges needed little verbal confirmation, but his voice spilled from past the scarf he wore, which caused her eyes to be drawn to the mottled shadows across his profile.

"Quite an act," his chin, though she could not see it, points toward the inside of her home. He slowly lifts a hand to lower the blade, which had been settled between his eyes.

"There is no acting involved, not with him. I would suggest you pay mind to your own business and keep out of my own." A warning laced with an even-tone that remained calm, steady. The envelope is taken into her free hand, whilst the dagger now rests at her side.

"Your business is ours, we rather not have another endangered. How much does he know?" The man looked past Rivienne, past the threshold, as if seeking something in her lightly lit home.

"I never inquired, though he is no fool. He knows what I am, I am sure he can piece everything together if he desired to investigate what dealings I have with you." She changes the subject immediately, her personal life was never meant to take precedence in this exchange. "When do you want me to take these targets on?"

"Come daybreak, instructions are written inside as to their travel schedule, the destination they are heading to. You need to make sure that the supplies are kept safe, at all costs. You will be opposed by a few that wish to get their hands on the delivery of these goods, rid them of breath." He gave her a salute, one she knew all too well, and turned on his heel, leaving Rivienne to watch him vanish into the drapery of darkness.

The door closed behind her and she felt the weight of the envelope in her hand. A slow breath is drawn out and the back of her head falls against the grain of the door. Tiredly, her eyes are drawn to the glow that came from the lamps as her thoughts draw her back to the moments shared at Thaarus' side early in the evening.

It was an escape of reality that she welcomed, and needed.

Ciel · **07-26-2014, 10:06 AM**

At last, she thought.Â One more task I can put behind me.

Ciel strode into Stillglade Fane's primary chamber with a sense of renewed calm which had all but been a stranger to her since she first returned nearly a cycle past.Â In those moments of confusion, she hadn't imagined a task like this, but E-Sumi-Yan saw fit to punish her transgressions in unique ways, even if the Padjal, himself, hadn't seen it that way.Â Finally she could enter his presence and provide him with an accomplishment rather than uncertainty.

She sat in silence, off to one side of the small footbridge, the trickle of water through the chamber only helped to settle her mind even more.Â It was a welcoming sound.Â They were whispering their welcome, and their pleasure at seeing her task fulfilled.Â Too often it seemed that same sound grated on her nerves like stones grinding together, harsh and condemning.

The other Conjurers sitting before E-Sumi-Yan eventually dispersed, his lecture done for now, and the boyish figure looked to the songstress expectantly.Â She knew that unspoken invitation, and she knew that he already knew why she had come to this very place she so often tried to avoid.

Ciel rose from her resting place and approached the center of the platform where her old mentor waited.Â From her belt, she took a small bag and poured the object within onto the palm of her hand - a single shimmering sphere, which hovered just an ilm or so above her hand.Â E-Sumi-Yan greeted her, then, with a genuine smile and extended a hand to take the artifact from her.

"I knew we had chosen the right person for the task," he offered amicably.

Ciel withdraw her hand to her side, yet kept her eyes on him, "You knew more than that."Â This caused the Padjal to tilt his horned head to one side in askance, but she continued.Â "You knew full well who had the Conjurer's Orb all along, and that is why you left his fate up to me rather than place an amount of gil on his head."

E-Sumi-Yan handed the orb off to another Conjurer with a few quietly spoken words and watch as it was carried off to be placed somewhere secure. More secure than it had been before.Â And then he turned back to Ciel with the same knowing smile, still saying nothing.

"You little imp, you were testing me!"Â The volume at which she spoke failed to match the severity of her anger over the matter, though this was anything but strange for the songstress.Â And especially within the hallowed walls of the Fane, she dared not raise her voice.

At length E-Sumi-Yan bowed his head, but the innocent, child-like smile remained, "I could have done exactly that and sent anyone after the thief with gil as a lure, certainly... but that would have bespoke ill of our guild.Â And I knew of no one else who would have handled such a delicate matter with such steadfastness, and without a drop of blood shed.Â Your friendship with that person made no difference to me.Â You are still very much a Conjurer, Ciel."

The songstress's cheeks flushed with anger.Â E-Sumi-Yan had not only used her by dangling her own debt in front of her, but he still meant to draw her back into the guild and having her take on the task of finding the orb was all to try and prove, to herself if no one else, that she was meant to be there.

"And the Elementals are pleased by this, as you have no doubt heard,"Â E-Sumi continued, seemingly unconcerned by the woman's mood.Â "You have afforded yourself more time in retrieving the Berunda's remains, but only another moon at most.Â Take too much more time, and you know what may befall you next time you set foot in the Shroud."

Ciel's head angled downward, causing her face to all but vanish beneath the brim of her hat.Â "After that, will you leave me in peace?"

The Padjal's smile faded.Â All too easily he understood that there would be no changing the woman's mind, try as he might to convince her otherwise.Â "You have my word... would that your own demons could do the same, milady."

No more words came from her.Â Even the bow she offered in her own dismissal was a stiff one, a gesture born of necessity and grudging respect more than one of gratitude.Â The songstress didn't even bother to wait for his acknowledgment before she turned to leave the chamber.

B'ren Lyrgh · **07-28-2014, 07:31 AM**

"Been a bit, hasnâ€™t it?"

Bâ€™ren sat, perched atop the Bloody Knuckles. Night had long since fallen, but he was never one to sleep much to begin with. Idly a hand went to scratch at his chin stubble, the Miqoâ€™te giving a small, annoyed grumble as his thoughts raced. Been far too long since heâ€™d been around normal people, not stuck in his books and research, stuck in a loop of isolation with training and nagging. It felt nice.Â

"Berrod Armstrong. I swearâ€¦"Â Barely knowing him but a few days and already finding the Highlander pleasant company. A simple man, not in mind but in statue and personality. Could almost be refreshing as it were, not being around such stuck up prissy pants. What lay before him, the White Mage in training barely could fortell. Not that it seemed to bother him, a few drinks had been taken (payment left behind) and enjoyed on the roof. His body limber and relaxed, eyes peering far out from behind the white mask.

"Dâ€™alo, ooooh Dâ€™alo. Hurry with you duty so I can finally show you a life outside the Shroud. Silly man."Â Lips cracked in a smile, turning to a smirk as another bottle tipped over and the contents swallowed with eagerness. Whatever work he decided to do now, it came of his own hand and that was a certain freedom he longed to enjoy. Finally.

Berrod Armstrong · **07-28-2014, 08:43 AM**

"Tom...! Tom, sweetheart, you'll be late if you tarry any longer!"

The middle-aged Highlander woman called out to her son from in the kitchen, where she had just finished wrapping him some snacks in red-checkered cloth. Â It was a small room, shared between both kitchen and dining table. The little square table had room for only two, with chairs placed at opposing edges. Reddish-orange light streamed in through the single window, igniting the space in the colors of sunset. The meal had been made with care, and she made sure that it was something that would at least last until the next morning -- even if it tasted a little stale after too long. For her son, her only child, she wished only the best, and if she could provide it in any capacity, she did so.

From another room, a gentle male's voice replied, "Almost ready, mother! Boots..." Sure enough, a tall and uncharacteristically slender Highlander man entered the kitchen. His hair blazed in the same hue as the sun's light, and his bright, enthusiastic blue eyes peered from over a scattering of freckles on his nose and cheeks. Resplendent was he in a set of white and red robes, a replica of his childhood hero, one of the Padjal of old. She had made it for him herself, very almost literally pouring love into every stitch. Only the best for her little Tom, even grown as he was. He spotted the wrapped cloth and beamed. "You didn't have to, mother! You're too sweet. Thank you...!"

"Sweet treatment for a sweet young man," Said Mother. Her smile attested that she meant every word, and she wasted no time in handing over the wrapped bundle. Tom took it, and offered her a hug in return. Nothing could be more of a reward than the love of her child. "Do you have your gil?" She asked.

"I do?"

"Your staff?"

"It's at the door."

"Mister Spriggles, for luck?"

The man's face reddened at the mention of the little Spriggan plushie, safely tucked away in a pouch at his belt. Nevertheless, he nodded. "Always." The confirmation pleased Mother, and she offered him another hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Alright, then. Go, before you end up being tardy."

Tom squeezed back and released her, moving to the door to pick up his staff -- another replica of a relic of old. It held no special ability in particular, but it was a beautiful piece wrought of white wood and golden-colored foil. "I'll be back in the morning, probably. Likely I'll remain in an inn for the night! I love you, mother."

Warmth filled her breast -- to hear those words always uplifted her. Their bond was precious, and was a thing that she knew would remain unbroken. "I love you too, my little Tombleweed."

He flushed slightly and then chuckled, giving a short sort of bow before exiting the little house. The moment the door closed an almost suffocating loneliness occupied the space, unwanted solitude bathed in the red of oncoming dusk. It was nigh unbearable, being separated from her boy, but Mother would endure. He knew how important he was to her, and perhaps depended on her company as much as she did his since her husband did not return from Carteneau those five years ago.

With a little smile, she made a dismissive fling of her hand. "Bah. Silliness. I think I'll enjoy a book until bed." And so she went, able to ignore the emptiness about her with the simple reassurance that in the morning, her dear son would be back.

For no matter what, he would always come back.

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