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The Stickup

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((For reference: http://ffxiv-roleplayers.com/forum/viewtopic.php?f=11&t=2901))



"But Sir I..."

"I don't care. Your punishment for your disgraceful behavior is suspension from training for one month. Get out of my office or only Nald'thal can save you!"


Sha'mad straightened his pack, made sure his eyepatch was on, and walked out of the Arrzaneth Ossuary. He had a month to kill so he wandered to the Adventurers' Guild in The Quicksand. 


He searched the bulletin board and saw one that piqued his interest. Some merchant got himself robbed. Sha'mad shook his head at the irony. Unfortunately the writer of the bulletin forgot to write down his/her name. 

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The night is humid in Ul'dah, the smell of wine and women in the air, street lamps flickering bright with flame. The streets are not quiet though, never in this city, with gil to make and purses to take.

Among the Quicksand the noise is a low murmur, conversations kept to their tables. The slouched shoulders of weary men shadow one table, sitting for a last glass of ale before bed. Close by a skinny Hyur paces at the rail, wearing down the floorboards. A heavily cloaked man, unseen and likely boiling within the confines of his clothing, bends over to speak with the innkeeper, hooligans eying the pouch at his belt.

At one table though a Lalafell man sits, fine silks perfectly pressed, pristine jewels on his fingers rubbing skin red as he wrings nervous hands. The golden dagger at his hip seems for show to a trained eye, as his flesh had never seen a hard day of training in his life.


Moedar Maddin. This is the man Momodi motions you to, sitting a jitter in his seat.

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((It's been awhile. Be gentle!))


Shamad rubs the scar running down his face and disturbs the black eye patch over his right eye. "Damn thing!" he says. He takes a deep breath and takes the plunge. He approaches the soft looking Lalafell's table.


"Are you Moedar? I read your notice and am here to offer my humble assistance."

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(Hahah no problem! We'll do a few posts and give people some time to join.)


Jerking his head over to examine the Lalafell before him, Mr. Moedar Maddin mumbles a soft bit, puzzled over the look of the adventurer before him. He expected big, burly men to scramble to his aid, not only had it been bells, but now only the little lunatic stood before him.

Glancing around with his little eyes still wringing pricey fingers, the Lalafell laments. âBe you the only broad-shouldered bastion come to bear such a task as I have?â


Turning in his chair, soft-slippered feet dangle, âI am Sir Moedar Maddin, a trader of sorts, sortings and suches. And being redeemed so, I have regretfully been robbed.â

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Shamad glances around the pub. He looks Mr. Moedar Fancy Pants Maddin up and down with his lone red eye. "Probably. We shall see." He winces inside at the high pitched and rather girly sound of his voice. It really doesn't contrast well with the image he tries to project what with his black eye patch, black robes, black gloves, and just general all black appearance.


"While we wait for what other might grace us with their presences, tell me everything I need to know to get yer stuff back."

He pulls out a chair, whistles for the barmaid, and gets comfy.

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Not seeming overly fond of his new companion and his girly voice, the rich looking Lalafell leans in against the table, sliding over a plain printed map, detailing the hills of Coerthas. âHave you ever wandered in to the winding, windy hills of Coerthas, Sir?â


Nodding to the barmaid and the glass of wine she brought, he takes a tiny sip before continuing. âWell, I've land there you see, and ferrying my goods through the forest is a frequent... task. I hitch my chocobos to my cart and carry the items to sell in Gridania...â Cringing, as if the name of the city was almost foul, he scratches the mole on his neck before detailing the deed. âHooligans, you see. Hired, horrible hooligans surrounded me at Thordan's March on my way down the Eastern Lowlands. Killed my only killing man too, which is why I am wondering if there are any more wanderers wishing to help, for a sturdy price I do promise.â


Wringing his little hands and looking around again, he points to the location on the map with a rubied finger, âA reward which you may reclaim when I have all my goods returned intact.â

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Shamad nods while drinking his juice. It sounds to him like this could be fun. He bolts the rest of his drink.


"Sounds good. Tell who ever else shows up that I will meet them at Camp Glory in 5 days time."


He gets up and is heading towards the door when a thought strikes him. He slaps his palm to his face and walks back to the table.


"I forgot to ask. What is the nature of this cargo, how much of it is there and....."


He moves his hand in the more gesture.

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At this the Lalafell looked away from the man, scratching again at the mole beyond his collar. Hesitating on revealing the contents he collected himself.


"Some medicines, but mostly materials for fabrics. Cotton and webs and the like for silks... And dyes as well! Yes." Nodding a few times as if agreeing with himself he motioned the man along. "I will tell anyone that follows you, may you meet luck!"

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(okily dokily!)


Shamad stumbles into Camp Glory and collapses next to the Aetheryte. He is covered with bloody scratches and there is a huge red lump right over his voice box. His breathing is slow and wheezing. His clothes are tattered and his eye patch is missing. One bystander walks over, looks at Shamad's face, and shudders. He walks away to get medical supplies.

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Grey clouds hang over the lands, threatening to rain down each passing moment. The air is cold and the fires of the aetheryte camp seem warm and inviting. A few people linger about.

Near the Lalafell, a Hyur man leans against one of the overhang posts, sitting with an arm around his waist. He glances over to his new companion and grunts with the effort, near him the faint outline of finely crafted armour, and Ishgardian soldier.


Looking over the Lalafell he laughs a little before coughing and wincing. âThe beasts get at 'ya?â He quips with a cocky grin.



(Anyone reading this needs to join in, come on people roll new characters and just enjoy!!!)

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Laughing with his deep, throaty voice, the sound is followed by a wince as he clutches at his bandaged stomach.

"It's not just the beasts you have to look out for 'round here." He nods, having starred at the mans eye, "My bets on you knowing that already."


Using his free hand he swipes up a skin and pops the cork, drinking heavily a substance that was defiantly not water.

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Shamad just nods, totters to his feet, and touches the Aetheryte. He gasps as power flows through him, his empty eye socket glowing dimly beneath the scarf. He casts Cure on himself then the Hyur man. "What's your name?" He's surprised by his voice. It still isn't working right.

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"Adventure? You'll get plenty 'o that out here. In fact, why don't you help me with something?" Grinning he reached beside him, producing a bloody arrow, fletched with white and black feathers, long and pristine. The arrowhead, besides being soaked with blood, is sharp and finely crafted.


"I'm looking for an archer woman."

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"Good! Good!"


Grinning even wider the Hyur man stood, brushing off his pants and sliding the arrow in to his pack before lifting it on to his shoulder. He seemed to ignore the pain, but it had drained him of colour. Still, the sword at his belt seemed to give him strength. "She ambushed our patrol just down the road, If we hurry we can probably still track her. That is, if the rain allows it!"


Nodding briskly he started off south down the path, eyes full of fire.

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The walk, despite the injuries, seems to be brief. The path worn by so many travellers and laid in with cobblestones wound and twisted through the hills, guidance for their feet. Soon though the Hyur veered from the path and on to the grass to an open valley, nestled between two cliff-faces, where their very breathing echoed in to the rolling anger of the grey sky.


Four bodies, untouched from their resting places, remain on the ground, unmoving. Each man was clothed the same as the Hyur who quietly walked toward them. Each man also had an arrow, fletched black and white, the shaft long but buried deep, showing much strength behind the archer who fired them. The locations of the wounds are precise, and each deadly seeing from the corpses, and the direction of the arrows each seem to be at a different angle.


Many heavy footprints scatter the ground, leading to the scene and around it. Two straight lines leave the scene, indented in the grass, and a few yellow feathers follow that trail.

Otherwise, there is nothing more to tell who had been there.


The Hyur man kneels beside one of his comrades, sighing heavily.

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Nodding a few times the man shakes his head and narrows his eyes, standing and moving to the straight lines leading away from the scene and deeper in to Coerthas.


"She has the cart, but we can probably catch up if we hurry, Chocobo's will be beat." Pointing off in the direction of the lines he looks back to the Lalafell, nodding. "Lets go!"

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