Merchant, Marine [Semi-Open]

[Verad]

“Gods, it’s a gloomy place, isn’t it?” Noticing the expression of skepticism on Slaeglac’s face was a difficult thing given the myriad scars and wrinkles mapped out along the roegadyn’s brow, but Everard had known his captain for a few cycles now, and could read the signs as the pair looked past the beach to the island’s interior. “If anybody used to live here, well, a soul could see why they left.”

 

He was hard-pressed to disagree with the man. The sky had been overcast for the whole of the sennight since they’d entered the island’s waters, the clouds a dull, thin grey that threatened rain but never quite delivered, save for a strange sort of damp that went beyond the usual that permeated the Tumult. The sand beneath their boots had the look of a few-days-old porridge served at the not-quite-worst sailors’ inns, and, he thought as he shifted his feet, something of its texture as well. Where the beach gave way to green some yalms in the distance, the grass seemed a deep and vibrant hue, but strangely limp, as if apologizing for ruining the tone.

 

If the rest of the Sea of Jade were like this, Everard thought, then it certainly didn’t live up to its name, and it damn sure wasn’t Vylbrand.  No sparkling waters and bright blue skies to be had here. And yet . . .

 

“Looks like that’s the last boat.” The comment snapped Everard out of his thoughts, and he turned to face the sea, following the captain’s attention. The Tumult was anchored in the distance, a pinnace some yalms closer and approaching. With no sun to trouble his sight, Everard could pick out the shapes of the crew as they rowed, a few crates scattered amongst them. “Have them haul it up onto the site, then we’ll head back to ship, start unloading in the morning.”

 

“No watch on the supplies?”

 

“Mm. Small one.” Saeglac clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Harbor’s safe from view, and we’ve seen no sail on the horizon, but better prepared than not. Seen anybody drop a crate?”

 

Everard chuckled, looking over the other two empty boats, scattered along the shore. “A few in the morning trips, before they learned. Marked their names.”

 

“Give it to them for the night, with an extra share to ease the pain. Should suffice.”

 

“Aye.” They were silent for a moment, taking in the pattern of the waves on the shore, still in flood tide. “You’re sure it won’t come out, sir?”

 

“Oh, I’m damn sure it will come out, but no harm there. That’s part of the point, isn’t it?” Saeglac’s laugh was low and deep, rumbling, almost a snore. “Some parts needn’t, and those parts won’t. Don’t worry your head, lad; it’s all squared away. Supplier’s made it clear this’s the only load we need haul ourselves. She’ll handle the rest.”

 

“With respect, sir, there’s still that risk.” Everard did his best to keep his voice level. He’d never had the saltier tongue of the typical Limsan sailor, an odd trait even amongst those tamed by the Maelstrom. Now he was thankful for it to keep the tremor out of his voice. “Soon enough things will be clear whether we’re hauling things or not.”

 

“That’s so, that’s so.” The furrow of the captain’s brow narrowed a little, and he reached up to his neck, toying with thick fingers at an old sahagin’s tooth on a string. “ What has you worried, Sawyer? We’ve been over this, much as I dared. You were for it, the mates were for it, the crew was for it, and we both know they’re never all for anything but more drink. Hasn’t been some new shite come up that I don’t know about, has there?”

 

“No, sir.” Here Everard was emphatic. “I was for it then and I’m for it now. Everything’s just as you said. But it’s a bold thing to try. You don’t fear the good Sisters finding out too soon?”

 

The suddenness of Slaeglac’s laugh made Everard stumble, a sound so long and bellowing, that the rowers on the pinnace paused in the distance. It was the same booming sound that most often announced the captain’s presence in a boarding action, axes in hand to finish the battle.

 

“You ever hear about Merry Mord Tiller, Sawyer? Well before your time, he was, so mayhaps not, but you do surprise me on occasion.” The captain had regained his composure, and watched the pinnace crew struggle to move again with a hint of a smile.

 

“I can’t say as I have, sir.”

 

“That’s fine, that’s fine. Good pirate, of the old style, Tiller, in that he was a bloodthirsty bastard and a profitable one besides. Even had himself a little fleet - I think about eight sail strong?” The captain’s eyes narrowed. “Ten, maybe? Something like that. It was solid. Sailed on one of his ships me’self when I was a young thing, but that was well a’fore this story.

 

“All is well and good for the good Tiller, but word comes around to the Dutiful Sisters that he’s been breaking the code. Stealing from some good and wealthy Limsans who had the coin to complain. So of course, he falls under the Eye, and then, the blades of the rogues, and gods, what a mistake that was.”

 

“And they learned to their horror that the charges were fabricated and they had executed the wrong man?”

 

“Swive no, he was guilty as sin and of more besides. The Sisters aren’t stupid. But that wasn’t the end of it, you see. It wasn’t as if the rogues would put all eight or ten of those ships to the sword for one captain’s crimes, and they set to fighting amongst themselves over which of the captains would take Merry Mord’s place at their head.

 

“Bloody stuff - bloodier than the usual stuff in Limsa, to be sure. Squabbles between ships is one thing, but it took to the streets, and it took to families. It took to a few villages taking raids they shouldn’t have because someone heard somewhere that they’d let the wrong ship take harbor. Got so bad it came to the Barracuda mustering to put them all down properly. The Merry Massacre, it was called, when people cared for such names.”

 

Slaeglac closed his eyes. “I remember stumbling home from a tavern one night, still little more’n a stripling, and finding a knife at my side and hearing a whisper asking which ship I stood for, the Surprise or the Longshot. Of course I hadn’t served in Tiller’s fleet for a cycle, but someone saw me, and remembered, and that was enough. All I could do was give ‘em a coinflip of an answer. A lucky one, it turned out.” He turned his head to regard Everard with a curious expression. “Now, you’re a sharp one. What do you suppose the rogues did after all of this?”

 

Folding his arms together, Everard cast his eyes up to the clouds as he thought. The captain had a habit of this sort of thing, talking in old sea stories to make them into parables, and it was always expected of his chief mate to find a proper answer. “They didn’t do anything, did they? Nothing different, that is.”

 

“Ah, he’s got it this time! Just so, they didn’t change a damn thing. The code was the code, and they kept to it as they saw fit, all that blood be damned.” Slaeglac offered Everard a heavy pat on the back and a shrug. “I try to keep that in mind when I think about if I’d be swayed away from something because the Sisters might take an interest, is all. Here, they’re almost there - go give them a hand with those last crates, hm? Try not to drop any.”

 

“Aye, sir.” Suppressing a sigh, Everard knelt down to roll up his leggings and wade into the waves. A thought struck him“Why didn’t any of the ships quit, sir? Mord was the binding caulk for them, wasn’t he? They could have agreed to split the fleet as easily as anything.”

 

“One did try, now that you mention it. The Coerthan North. Tried claiming their rights as free pirates and to sail where they pleased. Didn’t last a fortnight before the others tore it apart.” Slaeglac had a rueful smile on his face as he spoke. “Freedom’s a fine thing in Limsa, until you stand to gain more without it than you do with it.”

 

“Ominous thought, sir.”

 

“Indeed. Try not to think it so much, Sawyer.” The captain raised his voice to a shout as the pinnace reached shore. “About time you lazy whoresons! Get that cargo to proper land!”

[Melkire]

‘Twas the cold that roused him, the bite of chill winds across the cliffs. His back to stone, beneath him dirt, ahead… a wooden fence. Beyond that… the ocean.

 

The Lominsan groaned as he reached up and pressed the heel of one palm against his temples. He wasn’t sure what had possessed him to collapse here, of all places. Plain exhaustion was a reason, but it wasn’t a good reason. Swiftperch might not have been the most accommodating collection of hovels, but any shelter would have been better than none.

 

Stress, then.

 

He stripped off his armguards, one at a time, and let them fall into his lap. Last night had gone far better than he could’ve hoped for. Leanne Delphium, gods bless her -- ought’ve been born a moon’s coeurl, ain’t known a Seeker that keen ‘n’ intuitive -- had struck true with her observation… no. No, that was going a step too far. Her observation had the ring o’ truth to it, that was all.

 

Smuggling their newfound employer into Aleport and onto a sea-farin’ vessel of his choice hadn’t proven too difficult, and with a little showmanship, they’d managed to walk old Balther Wright, deserter and former quartermaster of the Warbull, right onto the mid-deck. That was when the man had slipped his hired help their due… but to Dirk Problemsolver, a job wasn’t done ‘til it was done proper. When his employer left to spirit his family off into some secluded corner of the ship, he’d seen fit to dally for a little while, to watch and wait. The Sisters of the Edelweiss were involved, Wright had told them, and Dirk knew better than most that, to such as the Sisters could field, no freighter which could float was safely away until it was well out of reach of the docks.

 

He’d grown complacent, though, when he’d spotted his erstwhile companions deftly handle both the rogues and young Iyrnent Thosinfarr himself, the man who’d inherited the Warbull from his father, before Balther’s pursuers could so much as lay a hand on the hull. With complacency came boredom, and soon enough he was rooting around in the purse to gauge their earnings.

 

That was when and where he found the crystal.

 

Singular… which is to say solitary. Deep blue… like the sea on a nice sun, skies clear and not a cloud for malms. He’d turned it over and over again in his hands. until at last the pressing necessity to abandon ship got him moving again, lest he too find himself disembarking from Vylbrand’s shores for distant coastline. The swim back to the docks wasn’t precisely pleasant, but it must have jolted some sense into him.

 

’If you wish to leave this place,’ he said….

 

Apparently, Balther Wright must have mistaken his fellow Hyur for a man of small means. Sensing in the younger man a kindred spirit, the old quartermaster had rather jumped to the conclusion that Dirk, too, was trapped… shackled to La Noscean shores by way of a society which beat the same tired lesson sun after sun after sun into small folks’ heads:

 

The good cards are dealt only to a lucky few. The only way to win is to double down on your luck. Again and again and again… Mistbeard made it, didn’t he? Got away clean. And now Slaeglac….

 

Hells, even the ones who know better still don’t leave. I wouldn’t have, either. Didn’t matter how miserable we were. Home’s home.

 

But that didn’t matter. What mattered was what Balther had said next, when he’d spoken....

 

“...of the Tumult,” Dirk muttered, a few malms distant and one dawn removed from that night’s revelations. And revelations there had been aplenty, though whether they bode well or bode ill, were good tidings or bad… it was still too soon to tell. But, at the very least, all their efforts had paid off, had resulted in something tangible.

 

He pulled it out now and held it up to the light, pressed as it was between the pads of his fingers.

 

Leverage.

 

He supposed that he could blame the demon for convincing him to share what he’d found. Qaratai Hotgo. Until she’d posed the question to him, he’d been content to leave her and the others in the lurch. A moment alone with the Sisters would’ve sufficed to confirm his suspicions. Only after the question was posed did it occur to him how large the coming storm was. The Warbull, infamous for the blood oath sworn by all its crew… the Tumult, renowned privateer, its very existence a defiant thumb in the Emperor’s eye… the Dutiful Sisters of the Edelweiss, once known as the Upright Thieves in ol’ Bochard’s day…

 

The stakes were high, to attract this much attention, and those were only the players he knew about. He’d need help. He’d need friends.

 

You have friends.

 

Aye, but I didn’t bring ‘em with me for this business, now did I?

 

So he’d shown them… Leanne, Zanzan, and Qara… shown them what he’d found. In a manner of speaking, anyroad. He’d flashed it once, then slipped it discreetly to Leanne later when they’d been questioning the poor sods who were clearly rejects or washouts, not true rogues at all. Leanne had passed it along to Zanzan apparently, and the little thaumaturge had taken a good look at the bloody thing. A cursory appraisal, of sorts.

 

Emittin’ a signature, he said. Like a linkpearl, but not. Might be magitek.

 

That’s when the Seeker had all but confirmed Dirk’s growing suspicions. The Sisters, like as not, weren’t after Wright for coin he hadn’t stolen… nor were they after him for desertion which, in truth, wasn’t a breach of the code anyroad. He hadn’t swindled any purses from Lominsans. He hadn’t rooked his crew, saving only that he wished to retire against the spirit of an oath to a man long dead. He hadn’t clapped folk in irons and sold them into slavery. No, if there was a ‘crime’ of which Balther Wright was guilty, it was possessing a means to an end… a means he had either come into on his own and refused to share, or else a means he had stolen.

 

Dirk was fairly certain that the Maelstrom was involved somehow. Them or the jacks. Little else would galvanize the Edelweiss into taking an interest in anything besides the code.

 

He tucked the crystal away, pushed himself upright, and began gathering his things. There was a journey ahead of him; he’d thought it over last night, and came to the conclusion that -- despite what he’d told the others -- he didn’t have the time or luxury to wait around this poor excuse for a farming settlement. His supposed leverage wouldn’t open any doors to him if he didn’t know what it was or how to use it… and for that, he needed a magitek expert. He needed an engineer… and thankfully, he knew where to find one.

 

Aigiarn Kha was, after all, a fellow member in good standing of the same company he ran with.

 

He didn’t have the luxury because, quite honestly, he wasn’t sure where Aigiarn was at the moment. Linkpearls were notorious at times when attempting to communicate over great distances. Even if he could get word to her regarding his whereabouts, he didn’t want to burden any more of his friends and family with this business than necessary… and someone would inevitably insist on tagging along, if he made the call on an open channel. That meant he’d have to go to her… which meant a visit to headquarters. A trip home. For now.

 

He didn’t have the time because, according to what gossip he’d been able to pick up since landing on Vylbrand, the Tumult had gone missing moons ago.

 

Thom went missing ‘round the same gods-damned time.

 

That thought brought him to a halt, as he ran a hand up through his hair.

 

Everything came back around to his own foolish choices. When he’d offered to move the others, Thom had refused out of spite. The lad had a fire in his guts and an open wound on his heart that had never truly healed. Determined to prove that he could navigate the dangers and the temptations where others had failed, Tom had elected to stay behind. To fall even further into the abyss, in a manner of speaking. To race through the seven hells and come back out the other side whole and intact.

 

Because they’d lied to him his whole life. Because when Dirk’s luck had finally turned, responsibility came crashing down upon a poor child too young to understand why. Because Thom hated Dirk for that.

 

If the Tumult had gone missing, and the Dutiful Sisters were interested… then there was no doubt in Dirk’s mind that Tom was somehow involved. And if Thom was involved, then there was every chance that the lad was risking each and every horrifying agony that Dirk had whispered into Balther’s ears the night before.

 

Keelhaulin’...

 

Too slow y’drown, too quick y’get cut to ribbbons.

 

Abacination...

 

To blind with light.

 

...the boats.

 

His left fist slammed against the stonework. Cracks tore through the bricks as pieces of brick and mortar cascaded down onto the earth, but he paid his handiwork no mind.

 

Leanne was right. His method were, at times, deplorable. She could no more condone them than Thom could have done… but she could see that he knew. He knew what he was about, and he knew just how monstrous his decisions could be… how easily he’d slip and slide down the slope if he didn’t watch himself and take greater cares moving forward. Thom… Thom had never seen that. He’d never had the chance to so much as try to understand his older brother. That constant struggle to do better, to be better… to drag oneself up and out of the muck… that was the greatest trial of his brother’s life. First to atone, and then to redeem, and at last to reconcile. That was the path he’d been walking when Dirk Problemsolver had well and truly died.

 

The ghost of a man who now walked the dirt path through Swiftperch raised his right hand before his eyes. He’d been trembling last night.

 

He wasn’t trembling now.

 

Osric Melkire laid that hand on the aetheryte and disappeared, bound for parts unknown.

[Melkire]

Attn: Maelstrom Command,

 

I can deliver you Slaeglac and the Tumult.

 

His plans are known to me. You are as well aware as I, if not moreso, of the devastating impact that a widespread series of defections from Limsa's most successful privateers will have on the city-state's security, both from an economic and a military standpoint. The subsequent birth of a competing maritime power, a rival if you will, would prove the death knell.

 

They have long since tired of the code. They have grown sick of the Galadion Accord. They have come to despise the Trident. They wish to be rid of the Admiralty.

 

They were born pirates. They desire freedom.

 

They can still be stopped. I hold the means to do so, but I require a meager measure of assistance. In exchange for information, I will lead you straight to the man you consider a mutinous bastard, and you can quell another uprising before it's even begun.

 

For reward, I ask the following: that I be granted amnesty and a full pardon for all the wrongdoings of my youth, and that my brother Thomys be returned to me, safe and in good health.

 

The assistance which I require is as follows:

 

1. A committal to non-interference from all branches of Lominsan authority, so that I may move unhindered... barring any deceit necessary to maintain the facade that I, too, am a disgruntled pirate making my way to the Tumult in search of a new League of Lost Bastards,

 

2. The last known port of sail and the last known heading of the Wail, helmed by one Captain Aerstbhar, to be posted surreptitiously on the board at the Wench and addressed to "Rings".

 

I know that my word is worth scum to you and yours. I ask only that you inquire as to my sealed records with the Immortal Flames as a measure of my competency, if not my trustworthiness.

 

And know this: I love every stone and plank of my childhood home. I would not see her fall to ruin, were it in my power to save her... even if I were never permitted to return.

 

'tis in my power.

 

Sincerely,

 

Rings

Dirk Problemsolver

Merlwyb's Ghost

Osric Melkire

[Verad]

An Island in the Sea of Jade

 

The captain was a good man for a handshake. There were a number of sailors, Sea Wolves in particular, with a tendency to treat any act of greeting as a test of strength. All well and good for the average roegadyn crewman, but the small and slight races among the ranks could find themselves with sprained wrists or worse. Not so Slaeglac; when he clasped Balther Wright’s hand in his own, it was just firm enough to avoid harming an old sailor infirm enough that it could do him serious harm.

 

The relief in Balther’s face at this gesture was evident to the captain, or mayhaps that was relief at finding his destination at last. Slaeglac was happy for it in either case. “Damn good to see you again, you old sw - “ He paused, noting the children behind the man. Balther’s daughter by marriage and his grandchildren had come for the trip. “Well,” he finished. “It’s damn good to see you. Not too troublesome a trip?”

 

Balther smiled and shook his head, patting at a nearly-bald pate to keep the wind from tousling what hair remained. He had to crane his neck to look up at Slaeglac, which was fine for both of them. The captain was never one to stoop. “Passage was fine, ser. Ship’s boat met me where you said, smooth enough once I was off the merchantman. Departure, though - “ He lowered his voice. “Iyrnent didn’t let me go easy, you know. Had the Sisters looking about along with him. Had to smuggle out of Aleport.”

 

“Blasted fool.” Slaeglac pinched the bridge of his nose. “His father’s man in all the wrong way.” It had been a risk, giving the captain of the Warbull the means to reach him, but he’d known Balther to be a stout sailor who’d see sense. Giving the quartermaster his own means was insurance. “You took it back from him, then, along with yours?”

 

For a slight moment, Balther flinched, flicked his eyes back to his family; the daughter minding the children and giving Slaeglac a hopeful smile. What tales had Wright told her? She had the look as if the captain was a savior. He frowned. “Well, we’ll talk about it anon. Let’s get the lot of you settled. Beach is only a small sight to see,” He gestured out to the island’s harbor, where the Tumult kept watch, now joined by the smaller profile of the Dodo’s Wail. “And you’ve seen ships enough to last you a lifetime. Come have a look at the interior.”

 

It wasn’t more than a tenth of a bell to reach inland. Yalms out from the grass the treeline rose, a small section of it cut away by the work of the crews. Men and women of the Tumult and the Wail labored over clearing land, taking down timber, and setting up houses, the latter stopping Balther in his tracks. “A strange make, those,” he said, his voice an unanswered question.

 

Slaeglac’s laugh startled a nearby topman-turned ploughman. “Aye, strange indeed. Damn sight better for keeping out the damp and the chill than a tent, I’ll tell you that. You’ll adjust. As y’see, we’re settin’ up nice - a bit too late in the year for the land to do much more’n lay fallow, I’m told, but we’ll have it ready for crops come the end of the cycle. Better to be prepared than not, aye?”

 

“Food’s coming in from abroad?” Directing Wright’s attention to the plowed land set him to work. Slaeglac could already see the old quartermaster running figures in his head, pursing his lip as he tallied the land and the possible yield to the people present.

 

“Aye, that and our own fishing. A few moons and we’ll be self-sufficient. And funds’ll be no problem - Oi! Sawyer, get over here!”

 

Slaeglac waved down his mate, not quite struggling under a yard’s length of wrought steel. “This here’s Everard Sawyer, our man in charge of the funds.”

 

Everard wiped sweat from his brow, red hair long and stringy likely from the same, and offered a weary salute. “Sir?”

 

“This here’s Balther Wright, fella I told you about. Best quartermaster in the Levies, here with family.” He slapped Blather on the back, a gesture in which he was closer to a normal Sea Wolf than he was for handshakes. “He’ll be taking the lay of the place ‘fore he decides what to take on. How’s your work going? Need more hands?”

 

“No, sir, all the hands are fine, though they’re chafing at the forbidding of spirits near the equipment. Sailors and their drink, and all. The pay is enough to maintain order. There is some difficulty with the density of the ground, but I believe it will only lead to delays rather than ruined equipment.”

 

“Good lad, Sawyer. Carry on.” The captain waved his hand in a lazy dismissal, moving on to leave Everard to his labors. “They still call you captain?” Balther asked.

 

Slaeglac grimaced. “Aye. Once we’re up and running proper I expect we’ll ‘ave to change that. Heard good word from another three ships, an’ if this is all to work we can’t have people fighting over pride of place.” He shook his head, pausing to trace his fingers on his sahagin’s tooth necklace. “But no sense with worrying you when you just got here! Let’s get you and yours settled, and see where you’d like to pitch in. Be a treat to have you tallying the numbers like the old days, but if that’s not your choice I understand.” He seemed to remember something. “Ah, and you have the crystals? Yours and Iyrnent’s?”

 

“Mine, yes. The other . . . “ Balther fidgeted, seemed to shrink in on himself. The captain hardly knew his exact age, but whatever it was he seemed to have gained ten cycles. “I gave it away. I’m sorry.”

 

“Away.” Slaeglac clicked his tongue, looking back out to the sea. He said nothing, letting the noise of construction and the odd cursing of a sailor fill in for him. At last, he shrugged. “Risk I took with this setup, really. Was it Maelstrom? One of the Sisters?”

 

“No, sir, neither! Man who helped me get out of Vylbrand. I thought he’d do well here.”

 

The captain exhaled. “Well, no harm in it now I suppose. What’s done is done. With any luck, he’ll come to us.”

[Verad]

The Halberd, Flagship of the 9th Squadron, Sea of Jade

 

“Word of the Dodo’s Wail?”

 

Commander Haelstyrmm was a man much fixated on his food, and he asked the question without glancing up from its preparations. While his supper fare was a task he entrusted to the galley, the breaking of his fast was his own doman. A particular sort, he made a point of ensuring that each piece of ship’s biscuit was carefully toasted, the bread turning black over a plate heated by fire crystals he brought specifically onto his ships. While it was a more common thing to soak tack in order to soften it, Haelstyrmm was of a mind to ensure that his morning meal was hard enough to crack an adamantoise shell. He watched the slow process of charring with an expression of intense interest, eyes not so much staring as fixed in place, light grey hands folded together at the edge of the small desk in his quarters and lit with the faintest orange hue as the crystals expunged their aether.

 

Torrael had long since given up trying to understand the process. Haelstyrmm was a man of peculiarities, but that was no surprise. Former pirates had their quirks. Executioners, moreso. “Aye, sir. Came in over pearl from the Bulwark Hall last evening.” She was hoping for a brief report and a return to duty. A staff officer ought to have attended to the commander’s needs rather than the ship’s captain, but he had long since dismissed his aide, preferring to rely on the captain herself for day-to-day reports. “My means to the men,” he called her. Something to do with preferring to be not to be too remote, perhaps. Again, quirks. She’d heard passing rumors that the commander of the 8th squadron believed himself to be pregnant with an aurochs. Compared to that, a bit of paperwork was a mild fate.

 

“Was any reason given?” Haelstyrmm wiped a bit of sweat away from a balding pate, his hair having long since succumbed to time and age save for the patch of it around his ears and the back of his neck and the graying strip around his chin.. It was a cool day with a good wind and just enough gloom in the sky to keep away Azeyma’s touch, but as close to the heat as he was, some perspiration was inevitable. He made no effort to lean away from the toaster. “Surely, it is not some mere status report.”

 

“The request was vague, sir. Transcriber said it had much to do with a possible defection, but the source was suspect and wanted to confirm.” At the word “defection,” Torrael edged back a step, and lowered her head such that the bangs of her dark blue hair fell into her eyes enough to shield herself from the light of the plate and Haelstyrmm’s undivided attention.

 

“Defection? From the Wail? Surely not. Captain Aerstbhar is a good and loyal privateer with a long service.” Reaching for a set of small iron tongs, at his desk, he removed his plate from the crystals as the last of their aether died away, the two biscuits he afforded himself now more closely resembling a choice piece of coke stolen from a kobold’s furnace than a meal. “Nevertheless, we must a’course - pardon, of course retain order. A defection is a serious matter.”

 

“Aye, sir. Anticipating your order, I’ve sent word to the other vessels to seek out the Wail’s colors and report back with any recorded sightings.” She straightened her back, taking care not to look too far down her nose at the commander - a difficult thing for Torrael, given the length of it, and the width and flatness of its bridge. “I expect reports within the bell.” That should very well have been the end of it - a return to her post and to the business of manning the ship.

 

“Well-anticipated, Captain.” Haelstyrmm plucked a piece of char from his plate, far too soon for it to have cooled. He did not seem to react. Torrael presumed his callouses were as thick as any other sailor’s, especially one who had risen through piratical ranks. “A terrible business. If there truly is a defection, well then.” Whatever the rest of his point, he did not make it, placing the biscuit between his teeth and biting down. The crack was sharp enough to pass for a pistol’s report. He swallowed. “Now, about this week’s muster for discipline?”

 

Damn. Torrael kept her fists unclenched, though she gripped the side of her uniform sleeve’s collar in one hand. “Aye, sir. But one name. Forecastleman Eynabyl. Twelve lashes for striking an officer about the face.”

 

The commander seemed surprised, furrowing his brow and pursing his lips. “Just about the face? Surely, twelve lashes is o’er - overmuch.”

 

“A repeated assault, ser. In truth we should hold him until Vylbrand to convene a martial, but it was too blunt a thing - some argument about the quality of his sister between one of the Storm Sergeants and he.” The captain scowled, her lips seeming to stretch and fold into the set of scars along the side of her cheek. “Hyurs, captain. Asking the wrong kinds of question about Sea Wolves.”

 

“Ah, you support the forecastleman’s actions.” Haelstyrmm allowed a teasing smirk. Torrael, against her better judgment, allowed herself to relax, and unclenched her sleeve.

 

“It was a rude set of things he said, sir. Still, we’re pirates no more. Have to set an example.”

 

“Very true. We cannot afford a loss of order, especially if we seek mutineers.” Picking up his second biscuit, Haelstyrmm rolled the morsel between his fingers, leaving a little char on his flesh. “Six lashes, I think. More than fair.”

 

Here it was, Torrael thought. That momentary note of hope which was, on occasion, rewarded. “Just six, sir?”

 

“Yes, Captain. I shall be sure to wield the lash myself.” He set the biscuit between his teeth and bit, issuing another sharp crack. He swallowed once again. “Dismissed, Captain.”

 

Saluting with enough sharp attention to please him, Torrael left the commander’s quarters, making a note to notify the ship’s doctor to be ready before the discipline muster.

[Verad]

Report from The Harbour Herald, 7th Sun of the Sixth Astral Moon

 

Mend the Wound is the Cry arising in the streets of Limsa Lominsa as the publick anticipates the trial of admitted Mutineer Dominic Morris. Our Readership will remember the tragic grounding of the loyal Privateer Maiden's Wound upon the Strand of Salt in the last moon, and the sorry state in which soldiers of the Maelstrom found the vessel, its captain and crew slaughtered in a vile assault leaving but two survivors, the accused Morris among them.

 

Of his guilt there is no doubt, as he has admitted his crime upon his rescue and thrown himself upon the good Mercy of the Admiral, so say the soldiers who took him into gaol. Already the good people of Vylbrand have tried sorely to bring their own Justice to the mutineer, though he was spirited away to holding in Aleport under heavy guard. They now content themselves with the knowledge that the Courts of the Admiralty will bring the blackguard to his proper hell. Still the cry of Mend the Wound arises in the streets, that our leaders will know where the people stand.

 

As to the matter of the other survivor, we at the Herald have continued to withhold her identity for discretion's sake after the immense cruelties inflicted on her person during the bloody voyage. The people of Limsa may rest assured that she is safe and under better circumstances than her Captor, and that even now the Admiralty seeks a means to take her oath and testimony in the coming Trials with every regard to respecting her decency and character.

 

A woodcut of the accused, Dominic Morris, accompanies the report. The image is of a grotesque Hyuran face, slightly malformed, with jutting teeth, a lazy eye, and a scattered half-beard.

[LystAP]

Ul'dah - Night - Hihijewa Spire

 

The lights flicker as Hihisa Hisa, daughter of the illustrious Hihijewa Cacajewa of the East Aldenard Distribution Inc., looked out over the Ul’dahian cityscape. On her desk lies reports sent to her family’s advocates and managers, distributed to all of her father’s kin as to keep the family appraised of the health of their businesses, hence their inherences. As she lazily skimmed through the papers, her emerald eyes froze on a particular section of a report focused on the family’s oceangoing holdings in La Noscea. “I see. I see. Those poor common folk, always so vulgar.” Her eyes shifted to a highlighted paper and her face turned into a frown, “Those brutish thugs, we’re having a party in a few suns.” Hisa fumed over a report detailing the recent actions of a ship named the Night Plunder and their ridiculous demands. Hihisa froze and a evil smile spread across her chin, “Although, it would make good practice.” She stepped down and signaled. 

 

A figure drops down from the ceiling, “Your orders, Mistress.” 

The figure looked up at Hisa with violet eyes, a white face rimed by black scales and dark-blue hair. Hisa glanced at her servant, “I have a task for you.” She tossed the report deftly and it floated down in front of her servant, upside down. The servant quickly turned it around and glanced at the contents. Hihisa spoke, “A pack of thugs have imposed themselves on the waterfront of Costa Sol, where some of my friends are planning a celebration. It is a eyesore; however, they are most likely violent.” The servant nods in silence as Hihisa continues, “I want you to get rid of them, I care not the means.” Hihisa turned back to the papers and with that, the servant was gone.  

 

“Keep a eye on her, report back if anything goes awry.” A crackle followed by the beat of wings could be heard as the magicked-concealed entity flaps out of the room.

[LystAP]

Hihisa looked out into the Ul’dahian skyline, sighing. She looked back at her servant, “So they spotted you, do you think your cover is gone? Would I have to prepare to have you go to ground?” The servant shook her head, “I do not believe so. The most they would have seen is my profile, and according to the reports, the Maelstrom believes that it was a unilateral decision on the Revenge’s captain.” Hihisa sighed once more and looked out over the cityscape, a airship with lights flashed as it approached the airship dock, the lights reflecting off Hisa’s emerald eyes. “Nevertheless, the outcome serve the Syndicate’s interest. Mr. Gegejire from the EATC toasted me in last night’s party and conferred his patron’s appreciation for ‘recent work’. Had the pirates been allowed to leave unpunished, it may have encouraged other pirates to do the same.” Hihisa drums her fingers on the gilded window frame, “As they say, if you give them a gil, they’ll start expecting Allagan coins.” The servant nodded. 

 

“These pirate thugs made the misfortune of blockading a place where many Syndicate and members of the Monetarists members have investments. Your actions merely sped up the punishment." a bullying smile curled into existence on her face, "No one extorts the Syndicate. Reminds me of that poor man that thought there was ore in the Sil’dahian ruins.” stopping suddenly, Hihisa turns around once more, “I also heard you lost your collection of tools,” as Hihisa said this, the servant’s face briefly twitched, but remained composed. “Yes, Mistress.” Hihisa turned and gave a rather smug smile at her servant, “I’ve prepared some interesting tools from my family’s collection. They are one of a kind, do try not to lose them.” Hihisa signaled and a cackle could be heard as a round being emerged from a hidden door way. It flapped over to Hihisa and the servant, before depositing a large box in front of them with its claws, before retreating to its safe place. “Open it,” Hihisa ordered and the servant obeyed.

 

“These tools will replace what you lost.” Hihisa turned and looked at her servant, “I will keep appraised of the situation. But it is possible the Syndicate may order a hit on the surviving pirates. No one likes loose ends after all. Get acquainted with your new toolset and I will instruct you anon.” The servant nods silently in affirmation and as Hihisa turned back to the window, the servant was no longer there. 

[Aya]

I am writing about Aya and W'Chaza's efforts to delay the judgement of mutineers in Limsa on behalf of Osric and Leanne in my Stranger in a Strange Land thread.

 

Part One: here.

[Aya]

Part Two: here. 

 

Featuring W'chaza Yheli.

[LystAP]

Costa del Sol - Approximately A Week After "Big Buccaneering"

 

Costa del Sol blazed in the night as the party rage on. The pirate ship that once marred the coastline is gone, allowing the partiers to enjoy the nearly-unimpeded moonlight reflecting off the waters of the bay. Nearly, as Melphina was still somewhat blocked by the fleets of pleasure barges and massive first-rate ‘yachts’ of the Syndicate elite that made the aforementioned pirate ship seem like a insignificant rowboat. However, to the partiers on the beach and in the town proper, those ships were not eye-sores, but displays of their owners’ wealth and tolerated. The nearby Castrum Occidens was brightly illuminated by the show of wealth, but no action was taken against the pleasure fleet by the heavily-bribed garrison.

 

Hihisa wore a exotic, gold-embroidered jet black dress, as she lightly walked among the partygoers on the beach. A nearby group of Monetarists toasted in her direction and she displayed a brilliant smile back at her peers. She gracefully waddled over to her co-patriants; a hyur woman bedecked in gold chains toasted Hihisa once more, and the others respond as well, “My, if it isn’t Miss Hisa. Rumors are abound about the play at sea.” The hyur smiled wryly. “The dread captain Simb’a Fuckintia slew the rascal Jenny Hellfist, a most barbarous villainess. Those Limsan pirates are always betraying each other. Typical thugs.” The group laughed pompously. 

 

Hihisa bowed respectively to the hyur, “Madam Aebbe Graves of the Graves Emporium of Exotic Pleasures, I bid you well.” Madam Graves sneered as Hisa sneered back, “And you, Miss Hihisa Hisa of the Eastern Aldernald Distribution Company.” Hisa smiled, “I am here on personal business, not my family’s.” Madam Graves smiled, “Ho? Then me and my husband wish you well on your investment.” Hisa smiled at Madam Graves’ reply; a facial combat of smiles and sneers playing out between them.

 

Looking out at the pleasure fleet, Hihisa noted, “If I recall, one of the demands of the so-called Jenny Hellfist was in regards to a recent outrage of a ‘mutiny,’ the thassolocracy is making a show of a execution.” Madam Graves smiled, “I hope it happens, I have been rather bored recently. Mayhap we can view a honest Limsan hanging.” One of the other socialites giggled, “Indeed, I have instructed my servant to arrange a prime view position for the execution. Although I’ve heard it has been delayed somewhat." “What? I’ve been expecting a good honest hanging! It gets boring watching brutes slaughter each other in the Coliseum,” replied another. “Not to worry, my dears,” noted Madam Graves, “I’m sure everything will play out according to our desires.” 

 

“Mayhap, they’ll have the hanging around Starlight and the corpse can be wonderfully garnished with holiday festivities,” someone giggled. The group collectively laughed amid the crowd of gold and sin, as the night rolled on under the feeble, obscured glow of Melphina's light.

[Verad]

Staging Point of the Immersabilis, Location Unknown

 

A sharp stamp of his boot on the ground. A crisp salute, arm across his chest. Above all else, Ulf made sure to lock eyes with the men and women of the cohort as they returned the gesture, one by one, while leaving the guts of the great metal beast to report to their centuries aboard the Firmitas.

 

The Pilus was well aware that his gesture delayed proceedings. The cohort’s engineers would need the vessel clear ere they could perform maintenance, and a delay in the return of the crew would likewise slow the arrival of those bound for service in the submersible - strange word, even in Garlean, which did not roll easily off the tongue - for the next sennight. Any centurion could handle this matter, and were he answering to a Tribunus for the duration of the expedition, Ulf was sure he could expect to meet with disapproval for his actions, if not censure for those of stricter mind.

 

In his own command, however, he would have none of it. Those willing to risk their lives for the Emperor by climbing into the Immersabilis and plying the waters of the Sea of Jade deserved at least this moment, if not more. In Garlemald there were memorials aplenty for those who had braved the first airships, whether to share the triumph of their successes or honor those lost to the failures. Ulf had no such guarantee that the soldiers of the Special Expeditionary Cohort would ever see such appreciation - not with what the Architectus had said of the operation, at any rate - and so he would give the soldiers what respect they were due.

 

As the last of the men stepped off of the small plank connecting the submersible to the lower decks of the Firmitas, Ulf broke his salute and signalled with a slight nod for the architectoi crews standing nearby, tools at the ready. “Standard maintenance. Have the vessel ready within two bells’ time.”

 

“No - no, a day, at least!”

 

Ulf’s attention snapped to the figure clambering up the gangplank, one he hadn’t expected. The Architectus Magiteci tended to sleep on the Immersabilis rather than make use of his quarters on the battleship. The Pilus couldn’t fault him for that, as it was the man’s invention, and closer to his heart than any child he might have. But it did mean he saw little of his own superior in this expedition, and it was also another mark against the sanity of Academy graduates. Looking over the submersible’s design, with its squat exterior only barely above the waterline and the bulk of it beneath, as if it was threatening to sink at any moment, Ulf could not fathom any soldier wanting to spend their days living in such a thing.

 

And yet there before him stood Virgil nan Gravis, clambering up the ramps and out of breath as if he had not tasted the air above ground in nearly a moon, clutching a transcribed reading from the submersible’s instruments tight against his chest.

 

Ulf held out his hand to stay the engineering crews, giving Virgil time to reach the deck. “Architectus, that will put us behind our patrol schedule. The colony is expecting a supply shipment within the day.” He tried not to glare down at his superior. The Architectus was already nervous around a crew of Ala Mhigans, the Pilus among them. To his knowledge, the expedition was the first time the Garlean had been outside the borders of Garlemald proper, and the lack of a third eye amongst any soldiers of the cohort was doubtless upsetting.

 

“Use the gunships, then. Aerial observation for the supply vessels at high altitude. We have to make these changes, Pilus.” Stumbling to his feet, Virgil’s frame was still not that much taller - he was short for a Garlean, short enough that without the third eye he never bothered to conceal, he could be confused for a Midlander. He held the transcription record, a device patterned after old Allagan tomestone methods of storing information, up to Ulf’s eyes as if the Pilus could decipher the series of parallel lines by sight alone. “I have it, Pilus. I’ve found the source.”

 

Unable to conceal his surprise, Ulf’s eyes widened too much for Virgil not to notice, judging by the victorious smirk that crossed the Architectus’ face. He worked quickly to regain his composure, his face returning to the placidly stern expression he used with superiors and soldiers alike. “How, sir? We still haven’t charted the new search pattern, and the patrol routes cover well-known waters.”

 

“Depth, that was the mistake, Pilus.” Virgil ran a hand through his hair, dark and matted from too many nights in the submersible. “Depth! The signal was in the original search pattern, we just weren’t searching low enough. We had but to press a few hundred yalms deeper than safety projections allowed - “

 

“Sir - “

 

Virgil cut him off with a wave of his hand. “A brief dive, Pilus, very brief. Well within the expected ranges of tolerance for the ship, have no fear - though your crew might be a bit ill after. Nothing lethal, I’m sure. Suffice it to say we were able to get a position, but it’s deeper still. We’ll need to make adjustments to the converter to handle a trip that extreme, and likely install some materials for visibility - I have some notes here about a reinforced searchlight, and - “

 

“And the crew?” Ulf tried to stand straighter still. This wasn’t a conversation to be had in front of the engineers, but Virgil’s love of his ship overrode any concerns about security he might have. “And the colony? Reports from the Sea Wolf indicate that they ought to have two more ships inbound since you rewrote the codes. They still need our guarantees.”

 

“Never mind the crew. Once the proper adjustments are made and a few points on the interior are reinforced, they’ll be as well as ever. And as I said, gunships will suit just fine for temporary security. We only need to make small dives to pinpoint the source’s location. Beyond that? Well, we accelerate! Do you still have your woman in Limsa?”

 

“She’s not ‘my woman’, Archi - “

 

“Pilus Hartsblood, do you still have your woman in Limsa?” Virgil tended to avoid eye contact when he was plotting out repairs and adjustments to the Immersabilis, but now there was nothing but a direct, unblinking stare, marred only by a slight twitch in the center of his brow, as if his third eye were trying to blink.

 

“...Yes, Architectus."

 

“Good. Be in touch, and tell her to activate the Shadows. If we can’t spare the time to keep them safe, we’ll keep Limsa too busy to want to go there.”

[Melkire]

The windows were open, and the cool breeze made for a refreshing change. The tropical climate here on Vylbrand had always been near and dear to his heart: consistent warmth tempered by the near-constant presence of coastline. Nowhere else in the realm, he’d found, was quite like here. Nowhere else was quite like Limsa Lominsa.

 

The room he’d rented in the Mizzenmast was, more or less, in complete and utter disarray. Shreds of parchment and shards of glass littered the floor; the broken segments of a wooden chair had been scattered across the chamber; the lock on the door had been broken, the frame compromised, and the padlock which now secured it from the inside was ridiculously large. The windows were open because there was little point in shutting them, given the broken panes.

 

Had anyone from Aldenard born witness to this chaos, they would have described it as the aftermath of a hurricane and blamed it on the brutish and belligerent nature of pirates. Said “pirates,” on the other hand, would have recognized it for what it was: an ongoing intervention.

 

There was not one bottle in the room. Not one mug or tumbler or flask. The reek was that of sweat… natural perspiration… as opposed to alcoholic.

 

On the sole remaining chair, a few mere fulms from the lone bed, sat a single midlander dressed in brown leathers. His arms rested on the back of the chair and his chin on his arms. The drumming of his fingers against the wood accompanied the occasional gust of wind and the rare shifting of sheets from the cot. Beneath those sheets, back turned to the chair, was another Hyuran man… little more than a lad who’d but recently come of age.

 

The man in the bed was dressed in Edelweiss greens, and he resembled the man on the chair. Younger, to be certain… rounder in the fence, gentler… leaner, less bulk… but that was where the differences ended and the similarities began. Same skin tone. Same dark brown hair, bordering on black. Same curve to the ears. Same dark green eyes.

 

From out the window could be heard many, many voices. Agitated… loud… hostile. There came the noise rioting on the decks of Limsa, and that did not bode well. Not at all.

 

“Thom,” murmured the man on the chair, “what in the ruttin’ hells happened t’you?”

 

“...you did.”

 

 

 

 

 

“We’re goin’ back now, Thom. The both of us.”

 

The rake’s teeth caught in the dirt as it came back down. The lad… no, not a lad, a grown man now, Osric could see that despite the rags and the grime… the man went still, both hands firm on the haft of the implement. Thom’s gaze swept back and forth across the scene before them both, but the reason for such caution eluded his older brother. They were alone, as they both knew all too well. The eldest Melkire had made certain of that when he’d first approached this plot of land. “My brother and I need some time,” he’d said, and the low rumble in his voice had served to drive the others off towards the ramshackle housing.

 

Towards Garlean steel.

 

He spared those accommodations a single glance as he waited on Thom… and, in turning back, was barely in time to catch a glimpse of the rake flying through the air towards him, clods of dirt still clinging to the tines. Osric dropped on instinct, allowing his legs to give out from under him, but Thomys must have anticipated that because this particular steel caught him across the temple and drew blood. The man collapsed as his brother advanced on him.

 

“Arse. Ruttin’ self-righteous git. Who in the seven hells asked you, eh? WHO IN THE GODS’ NAMES ASKED YOU?!”

 

Osric drew a wrist across his forehead and pushed himself up and onto one knee. He could smell his brother even from here; the younger man reeked of ale and rum and whiskey and Twelve knew what else. Now that he knew to look, he could make out the red in the lad’s eyes, the bloodshot look that spoke to exhaustion, intoxication, and more.

 

“Thom, y’--”

 

“Don’t you call me that. Don’t you dare call me that.”

 

“How’s about idiot, then?!” Bellowing felt good. Looking up at Thomys didn’t, so he hauled his arse upright and back onto his feet. “Reckless little shite?! Grandstandin’ fool! The hells are you even doin’ here?!”

 

“Makin’ m’own way, Ossy.” More a matter of ilms between them, then, rather than fulms. “Fendin’ for m’self. Choosin’ my own path.”

 

“With Slaeglac.” It was a statement, not a question. “The man’s committed to this lunacy o’ dealin’ with the Empire, ‘n’ gougin’ Limsa--”

 

“--ain’t about that--”

 

“--then what the hells is this about, Thom, ‘cause I’ll be damned if I can tell--”

 

Hands against his chest, shoving hard. Once, twice, three times, in cadence with a voice that barked, “YOU!”

 

Osric staggered back a few steps, caught off guard… not so much by the physicality as by the accusation. To have it out in the open like this, the talk they’d never had, the conversation that was only now--

 

“Always you,” growled Thomys, and the younger brother did not stop. Again, he shoved Osric. “Never me.” Again. “It’s always... been… about… YOU--”

 

Thomys never stood a chance. Larger, stronger hands clamped down upon his wrists and pulled, dashing him to the dirt. A foot caught him in the side as he fell and sent him rolling only to end up sprawled face-down.

 

“I fed you,” seethed the eldest Melkire. “Clothed you. Sheltered you--!”

 

“And who bloody well asked you to, eh?!” Hands and knees, that one. Looked a little disoriented. “Who--”

 

Osric seized his little brother by the shirt and hoisted him upright, held him aloft….

 

“DA DID! DA, WHEN THE RUTTIN’ ARSE DECIDED T’UP ‘N’ HANG HIMSELF, HE LEFT MA ‘N’ I T’CARE FOR ALL O’ YOU!”

 

Thom stared at him in shock… and then something struck Osric just below the arm, something round and hard -- pommel -- just as the lad’s other hand shot up, fistful of steel, and slashed his own shirt open. Thom kicked as he fell, and his foot struck Osric’s leg, knocking the both of them to the ground. Youth had surprise on its side, and so it was that Dirk Problemsolver found himself on his back with the edge of a knife at his throat.

 

“Forgave Ma,” came a harsh whisper as Thomys straddled him. “She took sufferin’ onto herself t’care for us, t’put bread ‘n’ lox on the table. Who in the seven hells would fault her for resortin’ to the oldest profession? But you.”

 

Blood began trickling down the blade, and Thom leaned down, leaned in close to look into his brother’s eyes.

 

“Murderer. Don’t you ever judge me again, Dirk. You fed me blood. Moon after moon. For ages.” A grin. “You ain’t half the man Da was. In your own eyes… that’d make you worse’n scum, wouldn’t it?”

 

Osric spat in Thom’s face.

 

Thom blinked.

 

A fist caught him in the side.

 

Fueled as it was by Vitala, the second chakra of shadow, the aether-driven strike drove Thomys off him and back onto the dirt some half-dozen fulms or so to one side. The pressure on Osric’s throat disappeared, and he gasped for breath as he rolled onto his knees and panted. He snuck a look at his brother. Groaning… but not moving. That was good. The grizzled veteran wasted no time; he rose to his feet, shambled over, and dropped to the earth, elbow first. He caught Thomys across one temple… and the groaning stopped.

 

“Amateur,” Osric muttered.

 

 

 

 

 

Here, now, the Mizzenmast. Thomys in bed, recovering from addiction. Osric on the chair, recovering from guilt. The window, open, as the crowds below clamored for the Admiral to mend the Wound. Here, now… a different wound that needed mending.

 

“You blame Dirk.”

 

Thomys didn’t so much as move, but something in the atmosphere communicated his acknowledgement of the point. The lad still refused to look at the man on the chair. He spoke anyroad, after a few moments.

 

“Dirk didn’t jus’ steal m’childhood the way Da did yours. Dirk stole my past, present, ‘n’ future.”

 

“...go on.”

 

More silence, at first. The lad shifted somewhat beneath the sheets before continuing.

 

“Dirk broke the code. Over ‘n’ over. No hero, him. He took contract after contract. Wasn’t jus’ thievery, either. Muscling. Wetwork. Grew up in his shadow, I did. Still livin’ in it.”

 

“You could’ve left for Gridania with the others, Thom--”

 

“To live with them bigoted bastards? Suffer that pile o’ shite? I’ve heard the stories. I’ve read Dani’s letters. So no. ‘sides. I wasn’t takin’ any more o’ your blood money. Not after I found out.”

 

Silence again, this time from the older of the two. This seemed to embolden Thomys, and he went on.

 

“I know that y’blame Da for leavin’ us, after… Tabitha?”

 

“Tabitha.”

 

“Not one o’ you ever talk about her…. I couldn’t anymore, y’know? I couldn’t take it. Everywhere I went. ‘Little Dirk’. ‘Melkire’s brother’. So I set out t’prove ‘em all wrong. T’make up for what you did. To them… and t’me.”

 

“So Slaeglac….”

 

“Didn’t care. Not a one of ‘em care. I was finally m’own person, free t’live m’own life… ‘til y’cocked that up, too. Because it’s always about you, Ossy.”

 

There was far too much venom in that familiar nickname for him to be altogether comfortable with, so Osric stood up

 

“Stay here. Baderon has men on the door, ‘n’ you’re too far up ‘n’ on the wrong side t’climb out the window in your condition. Sober up. Don’t touch so much as a drop. I’ve spread the word. The pubs ‘n’ taverns are goin’ to turn you away. All of ‘em. So will the captains… and the ferrymen… and any other ride off Vylbrand. From the drydocks to the coast o’ the sun, they’ll know.”

 

“...go drown in the Deep.”

 

Osric paused, halfway out the window as he was. He glanced back towards the bed.

 

“I’ll come back for you when this is over.”

 

The figure curled up even more, resembling a fetus now more than ever. The sight of it struck the eldest Melkire to the heart. But... there was no response, and so Osric left.

[LystAP]

Limsa Lominsa - After the events of 'Black Fireday.'

 

The door to the hidden shop swing wide, and a cloaked figure could be seen briefly entering. The occupants inside briefly glanced warily at the figure; however, after affirming a sense of familiarity, they resumed their activities. The figure walked somewhat half-heartedly until a voice range out, “Me ears hear yeh had some fun, Miss.” The figure stopped and a small plains folk lalafell could be seen leaning against a nearby wall. The figure slowly turned and regarded the lalafell with strange empty eyes, “What do you want?” in a feminine, monotone voice. 

 

The lalafell shrugged, “Hea’rd about the riot. Hea’rd the riot. Some fellas checked it out. Quite a bloodbath. With Yellowjackets and angry folk all about.” The cloaked woman continued to stare at the lalafell, “And?” The lalafell grinned, “There were some rather interesting folk having a jolly good time of it.” Her smile widened as the lalafell cheerfully imagined the bloodshed, “They were lucky the Marauder’s Guild or Yellowjacket elite didn’t throw themselves in for the fun as they had before.”

 

The cloaked woman remained standing, while the lalafell droned on, “And the they said, at the peak of it, a weird lass screamed ‘MEND THE WOUND’, and did it in for a poor fella. A lackey of the Admiral forcing them c’elebrating citizens to the slumber.” The woman’s cloak fell off her head and a dark blue-haired Xaela with empty violet eyes regarded the lalafell. “Destroying the false one,” she responded promptly without a hint of regret. 

 

“Me thinks my ears are becoming as typical of a midlander, but did me hear ‘destroying the false one’? When did the mistress tell yeh to go ‘righting’ whether or not people are?” The Xaela woman stared at the lalafell, then with a sudden motion, slams the plainsfolk woman upward and pinned her against the wall with surprising strength. The hallway they were talking in went silent, then motion as other folk distance themselves. The privateer lalafellin woman no longer had a smirk on her face, and her saucer-like eyes were open-wide in alarm.

 

“This is personal. The mistress is pre-occupied in Ul’dah. I am here now. Out of respect for her and her family, I do not silence you as I should. If you should prove troublesome, I have no issues with disposing you as a troublesome braggart.” The Xaela woman spoke in a peaceful, even voice; the lalafell nodded vigorously with eyes wide. The Xaela released her hold and the lalafell dropped to the floor with a thud. The Xaela re-cloaked her self and with a blank stare at the lalafellin woman, walked away. ”What’s her issue. Me thinks this is getting too troublesome for th’a pay,” the lalafell shook her head and adjusted her clothes.

 

---------

 

“Next time, false one. I will reveal your truth.”

[Verad]

Deck of the Firmitas, Sea of Jade

 

“I say to you now, soldiers of Garlemald, men and women of Ala Mhigo - The Black Wolf was weak.”

 

Ulf hadn’t planned on beginning his speech with a condemnation of both his men and a legendary general of Garlemald, but the alternative was worse. The Architectus had left notes on his intended briefing before setting off with the crew of the Immersabilis for its next shift, but those had read more like a training manual than an inspirational piece. There were discussions of maximum depths and ceruleum efficiency output and a large section labelled Projected Casualties. There were graphs.

 

Faced with over four hundred soldiers on the deck of the battleship, arrayed in full dress per Virgil’s instructions, Ulf had chosen to improvise, discarding the small set of notes and removing his helmet for the marines to better see him. He made for neither an imposing figure nor an impressive one, being of average height for a Highlander and possessing a face Thunderfell had described with all the affectionate cruelty of a sibling as being like a shorn couerl. But he preferred the ability to meet his soldiers’ gaze with his own, and have them know it, and it was a fine day with a light breeze.

 

If the men were shocked by the claim, they did not show it, standing at attention in dutiful obedience, expressions impassive. Perhaps they had heard something before while serving in provinces abroad. The “Eorzean Problem” had led to many a speech about the failings of Van Baelsar amongst those who dreamed of supplanting him. Ulf was sure his was far from their first.

 

“He didn’t begin this way,” he went on, pacing the small staging area of the deck that served as one of its flight platforms. “The Legatus freed us from the tyranny of Theodoric and Rhalgr.” He swept his hand across the assembled cohort. “Those of you old enough to remember his conquest, you know this well. Those like myself - we who have only the dim memories of early youth - we remember the losses at the hands of the king’s men, at the hands of the Fist. It was Van Baelsar who ended that, who freed us from old gods and kings, who shepherded us into the security of the Empire.

 

“We were his greatest victory in Eorzea.” Ulf pressed his fist against his chest, as if the loss were a source of pride. “But he learned nothing from it. Instead, he followed Van Darnus’ path, clashing fruitlessly against Eorzean ‘might’ until it cost him his life. And for what reason?

 

Because he followed the White Raven in more ways than one. Even after the failure of the VIIth Legion, he took up the same mantle, hunting for artifacts and weapons that could end the war in a supreme display of force. Dalamud, the Ultima Weapon, even - “

 

Ulf paused. What he said next may well have been troubling even where criticism of the Wolf was not. “Even the Emperor’s expedition into Abalathia’s Spine - all of it is a step down the wrong path. And for that, the Black Wolf sacrificed himself for nothing but failure.

 

“And why did this happen? Why do our greatest generals throw themselves at Eorzea like this, seeking for that one special weapon without end?” Ulf had begun to pace. Fearing he was losing his crowd, he turned and swept both hands to indicate them all. “Because they have forgotten you.”

 

“Ala Mhigo was not freed by an all-powerful weapon, but to soldiers. It fell to sound strategy and better tactics, and the strength and will of the men in his army. It fell because the Black Wolf waited for the right moment, when our oppressors were turned against each other, before he struck.

 

“Were there better weapons? Aye, certainly. Reapers and airships, piloted by men, crafted by the hands of men. Not relics of ancient Allag, dangerous and unknown, but machines of our own making, from the lessons Allag gave us. I’d be fool, where I stand - “ He stamped his boot on the deck sharply enough for the Garlean steel to rattle. A few men chuckled. One snapped awake where she seemed to have nodded off.  “To say that better weapons than the enemy aren’t an advantage! The Immersabilis is proof of that.”

 

“It’s not without its flaws,” Ulf raised his eyebrows in the direction of the submersible’s off-shift crew, to a number of more genuine chuckles. The technical problems and maintenance difficulties of the whale-ship were well known amongst the cohort. “But their ships sink beneath the waves all the same, lost to sea serpents or beastmen in the eyes of Eorzea. And even that would be little more than a toy without you marines, those of you brave enough to sink below the surface time and time again.

 

“That bravery, and that success, has not gone unnoticed, not by myself, nor by the Viceroy.” This was at least some good news that he could offer, something he had kept unedited from Virgil’s notes. “Not a one of you is anything less than duplicarius, so there will be no direct promotions - we all know what happens when there are too many Optio in a cohort.” His tone was confessional, just between he and the men, and there was a genuine effort to suppress laughter among the ranks. “But for those of you who have crewed the Immersabilis, I am privileged to inform you that your families have been granted the rank of Lower Citizen. When next you speak to your loved ones and your children, you will refer to them as Bas.”

 

The reward wasn't quite what Ulf had hoped. In his reports, he had recommended a promotion to the Upper Citizenry given the danger of the work. But that didn't matter to the soldiers. The cohort broke into a shocked murmur, partly envious of the submersible crews, partly overjoyed at the prospect of circumventing the travails of Garlean citizenship. Ulf let this proceed, let them soak in it, before he called for calm with an outstretched hand. “And,” he began, repeating himself until their eyes were back upon him. “And, before men fight to sign up under the Architectus’ command, know that upon the successful deployment of the Firmitas, that rank will be granted to all of your families.”

 

He had no hope of keeping them controlled at this point. All he could do was rise above their cheers. “Let us show Eorzea our true strength! Let us show Garlemald that it is the soldier who wins the war, not the weapon he wields! Let us take the first step to victory where not even the Black Wolf could succeed!”

 

There was nothing more to say, and he turned sharply on his heel to step away from the flight platform. Behind him, he could hear the Centurions, having already been briefed, calling for calm and issuing orders. By the end of the day, the Firmitas would be at sea.

 

A staff officer held out Ulf’s helmet, and he frowned as he placed it over his head. It was an uncomfortable thing, built more for a Garlean frame than a Highlander’s, but it served well enough.

[Melkire]

Arrzaneth Ossuary had, in his experience, always been a dreary place. That it was “dull” was not something he could claim. The seat of power for both the Order of Nald’thal and the thaumaturges’ guild was anything but dull. The trouble, he’d found, was not his lack of interest in the texts, the studies, the techniques, sometimes even the laws… but rather in the atmosphere of the place. Walking into the Ossuary always felt like leading your own funeral procession. Fittingly so, aye, but it was discomforting all the same, even for one so intimate with death such as himself.

 

This sun was no different. Mages scurried this way and that across the floor, and a line of supplicants eager to devote their souls -- and their gil -- to Nald could be seen standing before his effigy. The guards at the doors looked him and his companion over; there were a few raised eyebrows and some shifting of feet, but they allowed Osric Melkire to pass, and the Lominsan led Aya Foxheart inside. At least they were no longer out in the open; dark clouds had blanketed the sky all sun long, and they promised an inevitable deluge of rain.

 

“Hisa,” he said to her as they moved further in. “Was all the man gave me. No description… but it sounds ‘fellin.”

 

Hisa had, in fact, been the name he’d been given when he’d approached the captain helming the Golden Fleet vessel. He’d been shocked to recognize a galleon of Ul’dah in La Noscean waters, and given the circumstances he’d felt obliged to inquire after their business there. Alas, he’d been turned away and told that he’d have more luck speaking to an official if he wanted to know anything about their orders.

 

“That or Doman….”

 

That drew him up short; he’d been about to retort, but on second thought she had a valid point.

 

“Hadn’t thought o’ that, I must admit.” He chuckled. “See? Knew bringin’ you was a good idea.”

 

She nodded at him. He grinned at her, so she beamed back. “Of course it was!”

 

They ended up spending the better part of a tenth-bell asking around; Lalafell were the most populous race in Ul’dah, rivaled only by the Hyur; that distribution was even more apparent here in the microcosm that was the Ossuary. At last, though, they found themselves in one of the far back corners of the main chamber, looking down at….

 

Her lalafellin ears perked up as they approached, and she turned towards them. Her dress was not at all modest compared to the adepts that bustled about; the garments were decidedly Near Eastern in appearance, and the turban that covered her head and veiled her face looked thick and expensive.

 

“Ah.” Osric pulled up short again. “Excuse me, s--”

 

He paused as he noted the dress. Dress. Not a robe, not a vest with slops or breeches, not leathers… a dress. A revealing one, in fact.

 

"And who might you be?"

 

"...'pologies, miss, but I was pointed 'ere t'ask after a Madam or Miss Hisa? We've come a long way, m'friend 'n' I...."

 

He bowed to her, even as the Lalafell turned to regard him. Aya cocked her hips as she settled into a resting pose. The blonde winked playfully to the little woman with a knowing grin.

 

"I am Miss Hisa. What does a ill-dressed man needs with me? And you must be Miss Aya Foxheart. Far from the Quicksand, are you?"

 

"--ahh,” Osric glanced over his shoulder at Aya. “Shite, you been back that long? Thought mayhap y'came straight from Limsa, same as I did...."

 

Aya glanced back at him. "Ah! I've been back and forth so much lately! But Madame Momodi doesn't let me miss every shift!"

 

The Lominsan rolled his eyes and turned back to Miss Hisa. "We were hopin' t'inquire after the Golden Fleet's interest in current on-goin's on Vylbrand."

 

Miss Hisa stared at them in silence for a moment or two. "What do you need? We're only protecting our interests in the region. As you may know, Ul'dah does not share a peaceful history with the dirty pirates of Limsa."

 

Osric's lips twitched. "No... no, they don't."

 

"Then it would be reasonable for Ul'dah to protect her own coin and countrymen, as well as her fellow member of the Eorzean Alliance."

 

The woman sneered up at him. It was barely visible, given the veil, but it was there. It showed in her tone, as well, which made it impossible to miss… but he let it pass without comment, and only nodded. Aya, however, seemed to be fighting to hold onto a warm smile as she asked--

 

"Protect from what, Madame?"

 

Hisa looked over at the woman, "From renegade pirates and scum. The admiral can barely control her own hounds, much less the wild wolves that prowl the Sea of Jade. Suns ago, a few pirates decided to lay themselves down in front of Syndicate investments in Costa." She frowned deeply, and then that frown twisted into another sneer. "Of course, that problem was apparently dealt with."

 

"Yeah...?" Aya’s eyes opened a little wider. "What happened?"

 

"Heard about this,” said Osric. “Some ghost ship settled matters, aye?"

 

"Yes,” said Hisa. “A most intrepid 'pirate', typical of the lot. Saw his chance to make a name and blew the other pirate to the Traders’ Realm."

 

"That sounds so familiar...!” Aya seemed genuinely interested. “But that wasn't a Golden Fleet ghost ship was it...?"

 

"I've heard this is a common means of 'succession' among the pirate folk,” said Hisa. “And no, it was not."

 

"Nahhh,” said Osric, “some folks've been claimin' it was the Revenge. But that's hogwash. Damned thing doesn't exist."

 

Hisa stared up at Aya for a moment. "The captain was named Simb'a Fuckintia, if I recall."

 

It took all of Osric’s not-so-inconsiderable willpower to keep a straight face as he turned back to Hisa and bowed again. "Puttin' aside the matter o' Seeker scum, miss, we were actually lookin' t'help, in a manner o' speakin'."

 

"In what way?" The Lalafellin woman looked agitated.

 

Aya blinked, and looked a little as if she'd missed something entirely, "So pirates dealt with the pirate problem.. and the Golden Fleet is... dealing.. with.. the pirates...?"

 

"The Golden Fleet deals with Ul'dahn investments,” Hisa explained. “We cannot allow shipments… we cannot allow our trade to be jeopardized."

 

Aya looked a little satisfied with that for the moment, if not entirely so, so Osric grunted and barged onward.

 

"Have it on good authority.. 'n' not the Admiralty's kind--" He sneered at the mere thought of Merlwyb. "--that a shipment o' ceruleum was delivered t'Limsa not too long ago. The independents who claimed 'n' paid for the lot... well... records 'n' logs have 'em as Gridanians."

 

"And?" Hisa sneered at him again. She seemed overly fond of sneering. He was tempted to warn her that her face would freeze that way. He didn’t. "You still haven't told me exactly what you are asking for, Mister... Red Shirt?"

 

Osric waved his hands, idly musing for a moment on how many folk seemed inclined to identify him by his clothes rather than his features. "Now hold on, let me explain, aye? Might've been born a son o' Limsa, but I grew t'love the Jewel. I don't want trouble brewin' between the two of 'em, but someone's seen fit t'smuggle ceruleum from some new field somewhere onto Vylbrand 'n' then off to the Twelveswood. Is it truly in the best interests o' Ul'dah for Gridania t'come to the fore? Think of it: another field out there somewhere, t'rival the rivers 'n' deposits o' Northern Thanalan...."

 

Miss Hisa, thank the gods, finally looked a little interested. He sighed with relief.

 

"Ain't good. Ain't good at all. No profit. Missed opportunities, 'n' swellin' rivals."

 

"And what do you propose, Mister Red Shirt…?"

 

He smiled. "Tracked down the name o' the family what owns the venture. Figure I'd point the Golden Fleet towards 'em 'n' let a proper family sort matters out."

 

"And the name?"

 

Osric looked up and over his shoulder at Aya. "Eglantine."

 

Miss Foxheart was listening intently, of course, though an expression halfway between a friendly smile and slight confusion marred her features. She met Osric’s glance with her own at the mention of the Eglantines. Miss Hisa, however, looked very confused, so he went on.

 

"...prominent family with long lineage, settled on Vylbrand ages ago. They're some o' the few who could be considered merchant-nobles, if they were Ul'dahn."

 

"Never heard of them." She stared up at him with a straight and almost unmoving face.

 

He grunted. "Was worried about that. What would it take t'convince you t'look into the matter 'fore Ul'dahn interests begin t'lose their footholds in Limsa?"

 

"Who said we have footholds? Ul'dah is a member of the Eorzean Alliance. We respect national boundaries. At the moment, there is but a single ship in Limsa. It is there to protect our interests, but jurisdiction still falls to the Maelstrom."

 

He didn’t buy her denial, not even for a single moment. That she wasn’t in deep with criminal elements? Passing up profit was not Ul’dahn. That said, he allowed his face to fall even further, as though he were genuinely dismayed.

 

"Boundaries... o' course you do. Apologies for insinuatin' otherwise. I've... tried to take this to the Maelstrom. They won't hear me out. Too much coin, too much pressure from the thalassocracy."

 

"And what do you have to say? What proof do you have of your allegations?"

 

Aya’s seeming confusion manifested again as she asked, "What's the ship doing there, anyway..?"

 

"It is there to protect my and other Ul'dahn investments, since the Maelstrom is... preoccupied. Something about a mutiny and a hanging."

 

"From what... unnamed pirates?"

 

"From renegade pirates, from Sahagin and their Serpent Reavers, and others."

 

"Rioters, too,” interjected Osric. “The whole o' Limsa is up in arms about this, each 'n' every deck." He shrugged. "Things were... unpleasant, when I left."

 

"Those Lominsans should hurry up and hang whomever it is, so that everyone can get back to business,” Hisa mused. “A few of my associates were displeased when they learned that the hanging had been delayed."

 

"Sounds like a normal day in Ul'dah," Aya all but groused.

 

Osric chuckled. "You asked for proof. I've the pages from the ledger what logged the Gridanian merchantman. Follow the names 'n' the coin long enough, 'n' you'll come to the same conclusions I did. I can't prove that the ceruleum was there... but you'll note that she docked for all of a sun, 'n' for nothin' noteworthy. Not even shore leave; they had plenty o' that huggin' the coast the whole way there."

 

Miss Hisa held her hand out, and Osric reached into his shirt and pulled forth several loose pages of parchment that looked like they’d been gently ripped from whatever bindings had once held them. He passed them over to her, and then stood in silence as her large eyes scanned the contents.

 

The pages were, in fact, torn from actual Maelstrom ledgers. The Gridanian vessel was easy to pick out, as the name did not fit the usual conventions for sloops and brigs of Limsa Lominsa. There were accompanying pages that linked the vessel to prominent merchants, fences, servicemen, nobles... to those in high society, it was telling that many of those individuals shared a single association in common. Eglantine.

 

The information seemed legitimate, and matched the Hyur's claims. There was, as he said, no proof of ceruleum, but the rest was there.

 

Hisa’s faced remained emotionless as she perused the pages. At last, she looked up. "I see. This is, in fact, authentic. However, there is no mention of ceruleum. Most ceruleum is processed and moved by rail or airship. It would also seem strange that Gridania has a ship registry at all, considering how much wood it would take to build a ship."

 

"Does, don't it."

 

"They won't let us poke one of their trees, much less allow others to carve a galleon out of them."

 

Osric crossed his arms. "There's a field out there somewhere, on the seas. Hells, put aside the ceruleum for a moment. They were clearly there for somethin' o' worth."

.

She gazed up at him and seemed to reflect on that. "And you want my… you want our ship to help you secure it?"

 

He shook his head "...I'd like your help in seein' to it that Gridania leaves Limsa t'clean up its own mess, free o' interference. Ain't right that the Twelveswood should profit off the turmoil when it's causin' business woes for Ul'dah."

 

"So you want us to open up discussions with the Twin Adders? Regarding a ceruleum field?"

 

"Regardin' a field, aye. M'friends seem to think it's out on the east coast somewhere, 'long the Sea o' Jade. The field... 'n' regardin' the Vylbrandi family what forwarded the capital for the venture."

 

"Under the Eorzean Alliance, if said field exists and disputes arise, it would be treated as a collective resource. At worse, they'll float a platform out there and have each of the Grand Companies maul each other for resources, as they have been doing."

 

She laughed at the insanity of it all, and Osric smiled.

 

"That's all we want. Fair shares 'mongst Eorzeans."

 

"And so.... what do you want me to do?"

 

"...pull strings? You were the lady we were pointed at, when we approached the Fleet regardin'... y'know."

 

"I have a lot of strings. Some I can only pull once. Others take a little more force. You need to be more precise, Red Shirt Man."

 

"A letter of complaint!” Aya looked rather enthused and adamant as she spoke up. “That seems the Ul'dahn way!"

 

The Lominsan couldn’t help but bark a laugh at that. "Suffice t'say that we'd like you t'look after your own interests. Just so happens that ours coincide, 'n' so I wanted it brought to your attention. What you do with it is up t'you, in the end."

 

"I suppose so,” said Hisa. “On the other hand, what do you know about a mysterious metal beast that's been prowling around the area?"

 

Osric's eyes widened a little and he grunted.

 

Aya’s eyes widened a little, too. "Sounds mysterious!"

 

"...Garlean-make, 'swhat I hear. Folks shouldn't sail 'long the shorelines o’ Rothlyt Sound. It's why enlistin' the Adder's help would be better, in the end."

 

"Some drunken sailors from the 'ghost ship' have been spreading rumors,” said Hisa, “and there are whispers from up north about a recent encounter."

 

Osric smirked again. "Aye. I was there for that."

 

Aya did not seem convinced. That she didn’t roll her eyes was, in Osric’s opinion, a minor miracle. "Oh yes, ghost sailors and their rumors!"

 

Hisa looked a little skeptical, but not too skeptical. "... I said it was a beast. You means to tell me... it was a Garlean contraption?"

 

He shrugged. "What else? Leviathan's been stilled again 'n' again. Damned thing is keen on wreckin' Limsa, not some coastline malms to the north. 'n' besides Llymlaen's Serpent, I can't think o' any other beasts what'd match. Ain't no kraken, that's for certain."

 

"Is it another of their autonomous machina? A sea serpent-like mammet?"

 

"It could be some ancient monster..."

 

Osric shook his head at Aya. "Leanne got a good look at it, 'n' so did I. I trust her eyes, 'n' mine are rarely fooled."

 

"Would an Allagan monstrosity look any different?”

 

"Mayhap it would."

 

"Who is Leanne?" asked Hisa in the most innocent tone imaginable.

 

He glanced at the Lalafell. "A friend. Apologies, Miss, 'n' thank you for your precious time. We've other business t'see to, 'n' our own time grows short. If you'll pardon us...?"

 

She nodded to him, even as she stepped forward and held something up for him to take. She laughed a little as he took it from her and looked it over. A smile lit up his face, and he too nodded.

 

"You have a very interesting story, Red Shirt Man. I'll be sure to pass it along."

 

“M'thanks. Nald favor you, Thal look elsewhere, 'n' may your Scales always find their Balance, Miss Hisa."

 

Miss Hisa motioned to dismiss the two, like a proper pompous rich girl was wont to do.

 

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Madame!"

 

Hisa nodded to Aya even as the part-time waitress bowed her head politely and offered a partial curtsey.

 

Osric Melkire led Aya Foxheart back out of Arrazeneth Ossuary and onto the streets. His eyes scanned the shadows as they walked. Soon enough, the clouds overhead proved good on their promise, and their walk turned into a jog as they sought out shelter. The overhand they found wasn’t the most private of spaces, but it would have to serve. He had one final word to share with Aya, with regards to this business, and it was important.

 

The man who’d once been Dirk Problemsolver was fairly certain that, at some point or another during his youth, he’d taken on at least one job -- one mark -- at least one contract that had either been drafted for or else requested by Eamon Eglantine. He’d never been able to prove it, but it seemed far too coincidental that, every so often, he’d hear rumors that the reclusive family had somehow benefited from the mysterious disappearance or the untimely passing of so-and-so, wasn’t it a shame, too bad so sad. So he was familiar, to an extent, with how careful and how shrewd the head of household could be.

 

If the Eglantines truly were involved, then they needed to be taken off the board before they could make matters any worse than they already had. He had no confidence in his ability to persuade, threaten, bribe, blackmail, or otherwise influence Eamon. It would have to be Edda, his daughter, that they appealed to, and they would have to hold fast to hope that she’d be able to convince her father to change course. Osric showing up on the family’s doorstep himself was sure to cause a scandal… so he’d send Aya, if she was willing.

 

It turned out that she was.

[Verad]

Slaeglac’s Island

 

“Hannah, You bastard. You swivin’ bastard of a whoreson.” Everard had rarely seen his captain sweat as much as he was right now, as rivulets of perspiration poured down Slaeglac’s face, collecting in his scars and following clear and simple patterns. The weather couldn’t account for it - it had to be stress. The crowd surrounding the confrontation surely did little to help matters.

 

“Don’t tell me you weren’t expecting this, Captain.” Hannah Half-Gil flashed a brilliant smile, the gold in her teeth managing to catch sun even on a cloudy day. The Lucky Lord had only made its way into the colony harbor not twelve bells ago, and she had already made her move. “You know I don’t play without an angle.”

 

“Damned if that ain’t so, Hannah. Wildest gunner I ever had, an’ even this’s a longshot.” Slaeglac paused to wipe his brow, and raised his hand to the sky for a too long of a moment before bringing it back down to the earth. Everard had little faith, despite the hopeful gesture. The captain had only two moves left to him, and neither promised an easy victory.

 

The crowd gasped. Even Half-Gil looked shocked for a moment. “Thordan? When in the seven hells did you get him in your deck?!”

 

Slaeglac said nothing, a smug expression on his face as card after card shuffled from red to blue in the captain’s favor. “And what’s the trouble with that? It’s a reliable card! And the rest is your own damn fault for wanting to play with Same.”

 

Frowning, Hannah threw down her last, a mere chocobo. Fallen Ace ensured she captured Thordan, but it was a poor comfort in the face of the upset. She pushed away the board and shoved a small sack of gil in its place. “Double or nothing?” Her words were almost unheard amongst the cheers of the colonists.

 

“Ohhh no, Hannah. I know better’n to play more’n one round of anything with you. You can fleece anyone else in the fleet if they haven’t the sense to say no, but that’s it.” Forcing himself to his feet with a grunt, he helped the captain of the Lord up and clapped her on the back as the crowd broke apart to their normal duties. “Glad you made it. After the Dirge ne’er showed I feared the worst.”

 

“Like I’d pass up this kind’ve bet, Slae. No, we caught wind of a Sister in the ranks on the way back from Garlean waters, had to sail in circles till we found ‘er and tossed her over. An’ a good thing we found you, hey? Guardin’ the place with but two sail an’ some sunken tin-can.”

 

She sucked on one of her teeth as she glanced out to harbor. Everard silently agreed with the assessment, but did not share Half-Gil’s confidence that her arrival would make all the difference. The Lord made the last of the invited vessels. The Dirge’s continued absence suggested she had declined, as had all of the crew of the Warbull save Balther Wright. And the tragedy of the Maiden’s Wound had come to them over time. Slaeglac had excused himself and drunk himself half-sick that evening.

 

All told, they had half a squadron amongst themselves for defense against the Maelstrom’s nine and the Foreign Levy’s hordes. The Garleans lent a hand, as they’d promised. The captain seemed satisfied with that - secrecy, distance, and whatever chaos was roiling in Vylbrand as brewed by the Merchant and the Marine seemed to be helping.

 

In Everard’s view, it couldn’t last. Limsa was chaotic, but if they felt a threat severe enough to threaten their sovereignty, the ships would come together, and that would be the end of it. All the more reason to ensure their resources were sufficiently indispensable by the time the Maelstrom’s troubles settled.

 

“Sawyer!” The captain’s bark brought him out of his thoughts. “Check on the reapers, would you? I heard some of the crowd grumbling that they’re not moving like they ought. He’s a head for these things, you know, Hannah. Old Syndicate engineer. Fine thing I found him at the right moment, isn’t it?”

 

“Stands to make us all some good coin, I’ll wager.” Half-Gil grinned. Everard hadn’t noticed how much of her teeth were actually gold until just now. “I’ve some good coin for him myself, if he’s willing.”

 

“If you’ll excuse me, captains,” said Everard, whose legs could not move quickly enough. “I’ll just be off to check on the farms.” He caught a few traces of conversation.on his way out.

 

“How’d y’find this place, anyhow? Freestandin’ ceruleum an’ no Syndicate?”

 

“Aye, well, you remember that island we rousted on our first voyage? One wi’ all them odd sahagin?”

 

“No, this’s the same? Gods, it’s been years... “

 

And then it was gone. Everard exhaled in relief, and slowed his pace, taking in the state of the colony. It had grown nicely in the past moon. Any fear the sailors and their families had towards living in homes built from Garlean steel had passed after the first hard rain, and now they went about their business as if nothing was awry. The pirates had grumbled about farming at first, but faced with that or living on shipped supplies, they’d taken to a few crops that seemed to suit the climate: popotoes and other root vegetables, things that grew quick and had a high yield.

 

Unfortunately, they had to be dug up, and that made matters a little difficult for the modified reapers the Merchant had shipped to them to aid the harvest.

 

Coming upon the farms, Everard immediately ran forward, arms outstretched. “Stop, stop, stop! Stop now.” The pilot of the reaper at the edge of the farms paused, and its legs halted mid-stride, wobbling slightly before coming to rest. A few farmers lingering at the edge of the fields, still afraid of something that was, to them, little more than a weapon of war, began edging forwards again.

 

“Let’s see.” Everard glanced under the reaper’s chassis, just between the legs. The modifications had been significant, outlined by the Merchant in instructions provided with the shipment. With the magitek cannon and photon stream removed, the interior had been gutted to allow for a rotating popoto fork and sieve for sorting out dirt. Between that and a removable sack meant for holding the harvested crop, the reaper could, in theory, carve out a row of popotoes in a fraction of the time it could be done by hand.

 

In theory. In practice, the damned thing was better for threshing wheat and millioncorn with blades in place of the spinning fork. The rotation mechanism had a tendency to scrape underneath the cockpit’s chassis, and the last thing Everard or the pilot wanted was to see a suddenly uncomfortable and traumatized farmer unable to sit again, to say nothing of damage to the reaper itself.

 

“Everything all right down there, Sawyer?” Everard ignored the call, tapping his finger against the belly of the beast. Some sort of extension mechanism, perhaps, with a smaller fork, and some way of sieving out the dirt attached to the extension . . . yes, that could work.

 

“Sawyer?”

 

“It’s fine. Dismount, and finish the row by hand.” He slapped the belly of the reaper. “I’ll pilot it out, and we’ll see about fixing it later.”

 

The man wasn’t one of the Tumult’s crew, not one that Everard recognized, but he followed the order fairly enough. One concern of his that had been allayed was how to handle command with first two, and now three captains in one colony. But there’d been no problems - people took the tasks that interested them, or that they were at least skilled enough to handle, and disputes got handled with arguments, compromises, and the occasional brawl. It was no real system of governance, he thought as he climbed into the pilot’s seat,  but as small as the island was, did it need to be?

 

“First mate! A moment, if you please!” A few seconds of reacquainting himself with the controls of the reaper, and Everard found himself distracted by a pair of figures approaching from further afield. They weren’t hard to recognize - there weren’t but a few elezen among the crew, and even fewer of those were duskwights. Slaeglac had picked them up as unrated seamen six moons ago. They were nowhere near able, but did their work well enough as long as they were kept as a pair.

 

A quick turn of the reaper’s key and the thrum of its engine died to better hear them as they drew near. “Help the two of you? No problems clearing out the western field?”

 

The woman of the pair only glared - Everard had never seen eyes that could kill the way hers did - but the man squeezed her shoulder companionably, and she glanced away. “No trouble ‘tall, Mister Sawyer. Only she and I were wondering - when’s the next supply boat?”

 

“Captain has the knowing of that better than I, sir. You want something from it, best submit it to him.”

 

The man shook his head. “Oh, nothing like that, Mister Sawyer. Only we’ve a mind to be on the next one when it leaves.”

 

Everard’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not thinking of turning tail, are you?” The captain had been clear anyone unhappy was free to leave on the supply runs, no questions asked, so confident was he in their security, but none had yet taken him up on the offer. It made sense that no true sailors would be the first.

 

The woman’s eyes narrowed, and her lip took on something of a sneer. “Easy, pet, easy,” said her companion. “He means no harm. No, Mister Sawyer, only - there’s a woman, from that crew the Captain let pass.a moon back. We’ve a mind to speak with her, see if she’ll see some sense.”

 

Sawyer grumbled to himself as he turned on the reaper again, taking some comfort in the rumble of its engine. “Let me get this out of the field, Guerrique. Then we’ll have a word with the captain.”

[Verad]

Prison Hulk Cobalt, Limsa Lominsa

 

Dominic Morris was thankful for one thing, at least, since his life had been saved after the wreck of the Wound: The Maelstrom had placed him in a hulk at sea rather than one on land. With its masts broken off and its rudder stripped, the Cobalt was no true vessel, yet it still swayed in the water with the movement of the tides. Even that was only a very slight thing, but it was enough to help him sleep.

 

Nothing else about the vessel was a comfort, but that was to be expected. Once he had enlisted on a trading ship hired out to a Monetarist very concerned with efficiency and profit margins, slashing costs on the vessel to squeeze out every last gil. The bunks had been tightly packed and the rations meager, and the captain had worried about every last missing grain from cargo as if rats did not exist. It had been a miserable cycle, and yet it paled in comparison to his present circumstances.

 

He found himself wedged between two roegadyn convicted of peddling somnus with nary an inch above or below. Half a biscuit in the morning, and half again at night. Once a sennight he received part of an aurochs cheek for meat. Some of the prisoners chose to ration it until it spoiled; he made a point of consuming his straightaway. The less said of the water, the better, especially given the lack of good spirits to cut it.

 

And the waiting, the waiting. On a proper ship, at least one busied oneself with the necessary tasks of staying alive. Leaks needed to be sealed, water pumped, sails and rigging maintained. There was work, and there was comfort in that. Here, it was nothing but waiting and wasting away.

 

But at least there was the swaying of the water. That, and the sense that the waiting would be over soon. Morris closed his eyes and tried to focus on the movement until he could focus on nothing.

 

[align=center]* * *[/align]

[align=center]“And that’ll be the last. I hear one more word from ‘er . . . “[/align]

 

[align=center]“He can’t . . . gone too far . . . “[/align]

 

[align=center]“Another step, and it’s gone . . . “[/align]

 

[align=center]“She won’t fall alone. Not for this, she won’t . . . “[/align]

 

[align=center]“Are we agreed?”[/align]

 

[align=center]* * *[/align]

 

“Rise and shine, you jolly wards of the state you!” It was customary to wake the prisoners by smashing a metal rod against a broken bell until they awoke. There was no particular reason for the custom, save that it annoyed the shite out of the prisoners. There was little cause to keep them awake, save for its own sake entirely, but wake them they did. “Rise up, rise up, and greet Azeyma for the day!”

 

Morris groaned and cursed as he rose from slumber. His hands went to his beard, as if he could track its growth by the day. He could feel little change in the way of length, although there was surely a new infestation of vilekin every day. He had since gone numb to the itching.

 

“Line up, line up, and get your victuals!” Morris struggled at the call for mealtime to work out of his bunk. His upper and lower neighbors had the advantage by dint of position and bulk, and the act was a struggle until the last of them were free and clear of their hammocks. He had his knees out of the sackcloth and his feet near the ground when a stout club pressed against his chest and forced him back.

 

“Not you, Morris.” His guard leered. Morris had hoped that there would be something to distinguish them apart, that this would matter in some way. One would talk about his wife and one would wax philosophical about the Twelve, something to make them stand apart from the harsh blows and the cruel shouts. He had not been disappointed in this regard, but he had been to learn this didn’t matter in the face of the circumstances. “You’re breaking fast at the Mizzenmast.”

 

He coughed as he recoiled from even that light blow; the hulk had done poorly for his constitution. “B-beg pardon, sir?”

 

“Aye, Morris. The time has come. Transferring for the martial. All are in place. Even hear Haelstyrmm will be presiding. Came all the way from the Sea of Jade to see you! Now that’ll be a hanging worth the wait.”

 

The leer with a guard attached widened, hoping for a reaction. Morris had none to give, and the guard resurfaced, cleared his throat. “Now’n, the Admiralty wants this done proper, so I am to inform y’ you may request members of the Levy and learned folks for your legal advisement an’ defense. But you’ll be declining that, won’t you?”

 

It would be easier, certainly. His confession still held true, whatever else the Maelstrom’d learned on the wreck of the Wound after all the delays. The trial was little more than a formality, something to show the Admiralty had a tight hold on the law of the land.

 

“Actually,” he said, his voice a rasp after a month without real speech. “I have a few names to submit. Descriptions.” He’d hang. He was sure of that. But he’d show them how little a grip they truly had.

[Verad]

The Immersabilis, Sea of Jade, 1576 Yalms Depth

 

“Prepare to dock.”

[LystAP]

Limsa Lominsa - The Night Before

 

The night before the trial. The city was silent, unnerving, like a graveyard after a burial. The festering underbelly of Limsa’s shadows flicked around the darkness, like carrion vilekin skittering and feasting in the damp recesses of a long derelict hull. Tomorrow, a man will be tried under a crimson banner; vicious untamed wolves feasting under the sham of a trial. Chakha was familiar with the like, guilty or innocent, it didn’t matter to these savages. The outcome of the trial was clear, any master of shadows can taste the tension in the air. 

 

She walked the streets shrouded by shadow, among silent whispers and drunken shouting of the filth that skittered through the rotting decks. Her horn shudder and she briefly looked up at the towers of the city-scape, it was only for a moment, but she continued on, uninterested in the petty crimes of the city, such as vandalism. Although, it reminds her of a time a centurion caught a Ala Mhigan Resistance member openly writing badly phrased graffiti in old Garlean. It is said the imperial centurion forced the insurgent to rewrite the graffiti in proper Garlean grammar from dusk to dawn. 

 

She passed a group of housewives walking home with a escort from the Sanguine Sirens, they were in discussion about what clothes they should wear for the inevitable hanging of Morris. It appears be a family event, alike the spectacles of Noxis in the Coliseum. She preferred the Order of Nald’thal’s executions, often a simple toss off Highbridge for the condemned. She moved towards the Aftcastle and noted a few individuals encamped at the area, willing to spend the night to save a place in the crowd overhearing the trial. 

 

She cased the area, noting potential hiding places she spotted from her earlier reconnoissance of Limsa. Chakha smiled under her cloak and her right hand grasped a handle. A newly constructed pistol, single-shot, but very alike the pistols utilized by the pirate scum of this nation. She learned an ideal use from that riot a few suns ago, a match for the tinder calling for blood to mend a wound. Her smile twisted further as she recalled her daggers slipping into the back of Zanzan, the Despised One. Mayhap he’ll appear, and she would have the opportune to finish her work. 

 

She has changed, since meeting with Emee. Was she trying to save her sister? Was she ridding the world of a evil voidsent? Mayhap. Or mayhap it wouldn’t matter at all. Her colors were twisted into a void that demands affirmation, a wound that needed to be mended. She giggled softly as she backed up against a railing near the Aftcastle, leaning back and dive into the ocean, a soft splash unheard by the twisting tension that may only be sated by blood.

[Melkire]

The gales came and went. The view wasn't particularly spectacular: there were glimpses of La Noscea to be had here and there on the fringes, and Limsa itself could be seen down below if he'd but draw close enough to the edge, but otherwise all that could be seen from this vantage was ocean.

 

Think. Think!

 

He sat towards the back of the relatively small recess in the marble tower, a small rucksack of spare clothes at his side. Not for fear of heights was he this far back, mind, though his shelter was hundreds of fulms up from sea level... but out of respect for the cold. He sat huddled in the grey rags that passed for his cloak, the very same rags that had served to conceal him as he scaled Limsa's beauty. Seven summers... a little more than that, aye, that's when he'd last resorted to this alcove. He'd witnessed the Calamity from this hollow.

 

Liadan Summerfield... Tiergan 'n' Lurial Vashir... Gallien Vyese... 'n' W'chaza Yheli... damn you to the seventh hell for gettin' me dragged further down into the ruttin' Deep, Tengri.

 

He shouldn't have cared. It shouldn't have mattered that a man was going to hang. He'd gotten Thomys out, had pulled his own brother from the fire. He should've been long gone. What he was considering wasn't worth the risk. He had two daughters that were depending on him, and Kanaria... it'd break her heart if he were to never return.

 

But Morris--

 

"Don't want to die."

 

"Did they?"

 

--Dominic swived-by-the-Twelve Morris was another man in the wrong place at the wrong time, by all accounts. Osric himself had once been in a similar position, although his had been of his own making. He'd been shown Mercy. Here, an opportunity to pay that debt forward... and now came Nald 'n' Thal for their due.

 

He wasn't sure if they had the evidence and the arguments to clear the man. He was certain that they didn't have the time to collect and gather more, especially not after he'd wasted the better part of two nights vandalizing the white towers of Limsa to get the locals asking questions and to get the old deckhands asking them of the Upright Thieves. He might've... been a little more patriotic and a little too... loose... with the insults and slurs that had survived long into the morning bells, but that didn't matter now. What mattered was enough political maneuvering to spare Morris and Striker the gallows, to spare themselves the ire of all of Limsa, and to spare his own gods-cursed self the Justice that he'd eluded for the better part of a decade.

 

It could be said that he had a talent for that sort of thing.

 

THINK, DAMN YOU!

[Aya]

Simple Plotting

 

Aya stood on the balcony overlooking the lantern-lit quay below.  The longshoremen went about their business around the clock.  If a ship needed loading, or unloading, it wouldn't wait for a better time.

 

This was C'kayah's apartment.  Standing empty and idle, it served as an easy and comfortable perch for her forays into the life of Limsa Lominsa: the city of white stone.  There was an irony in this that only C'kayah and Osric would fully appreciate.

 

Between her teeth she clenched a long, slender pipe stem, stained with lipstick marks.  Feminine fingers grasped the bowl, smoldering and fragrant, well away from her face.   She hadn't slept.  The bag of finest pipe tobacco had been nearly emptied by the night of contemplation.  A wispy string of gray-smoke rose lazily toward the heavens in the calm morning air, catching the first ray of rising sun.

 

It was only the most strenuous moments that brought forth the vice, but none could deny that this evening had struck just such a desperate chord. 

 

"Where is a Dirk Problemsolver when you really need one...?"

 

Osric was in jail.  Brash.  Foolish. What had he been thinking?

 

She turned the basics over in her mind once more:

• Morris, accused mutineer.  Had acted to resist the Garlean threat.
  

 

• Osric Melkire, a.k.a. Dirk Problemsolver, publicly defended him and is now paying the price.
  

 

• Both, arrested, standing trial: punishment to be hanged until dead.
  

 

• The city quaked, divided on the matter of Morris.  Half wished him dead, the other were not so sure.
  

 

• Elements of the 8th and 9th Squadrons were already preparing for a joint strike against the island, center of the Garlean foray and its pirate allies.
  

The politics:

• The Admiralty was unconcerned with justice, or innocence.  Only the well-being of the Maelstrom, and Limsa Lominsa would weigh upon their hearts.  The members would act in accordance with their duty toward their charge: no different than if it were a ship, or a fleet.

 

• But the Captains are prideful men and women.  Nothing could sting them more than the threat of humiliation.  One weakness.  One crack into which a lever-arm could be thrust with enough precision.
  

 

"Where is a Dirk Problemsolver when you really need one..." she wondered aloud in her light voice, the tone of rich Ishgardian accent playing upon every soft, sighing note.

 

If such a man were to make a grandiose appearance, it could complicate matters for the Admiralty  who thought they had the elusive fellow in their cells...

 

But what of Morris.  She sighed.  The fate of Morris had not meant much to her - but it clearly meant something more to Osric and their collective friends.  Perhaps, she wondered, Limsa Lominsa could not withstand the Garlean incursion if it began by extinguishing those who took first blood on their behalf.  But that was all too romantic a notion - still, when they cared, she could not help but care as well.

 

The mob was angry--furious.  She knew such energy was not, quite, directionless, but that it could be channeled more easily than it could be diffused.  It was not inconceivable that anger toward the mutineer could be redirected into anger at the Admiralty.  An Admiralty that pulled the wool over the eyes of the people of Limsa Lominsa.  That obscured the Garlean threat, in a poorly-conceived bid to maintain order in the city.  An admiralty that played loyal Officers as pawns, and loyal citizens as dupes to be fooled.  It had the added benefit of being true - Haelstyrmm having readily confirmed it during the proceedings.

 

She shifted the pipe, nearly chewing on the mouthpiece as the familiar taste hung upon her lips.

 

What Morris could use--what this city could use, is a demagogue. 

 

"Where is a Dirk Problemsolver when you really need one...?"

[Verad]

Items of Interest in the Harbor Herald

 

The Battle of the Gilded Ship

One of the top stories of international interest not currently related to the buildup of forces along Baelsar’s Wall is what is becoming known as “The Battle of the Gilded Ship,” in which a crowd gathered at the Aftcastle to hear the verdict in the Dominic Morris trial devolved into first a riot, and then an international incident in which security forces aligned with the Immortal Flames attacked Limsan citizens, and a ship registered to Ul’dah’s Golden Fleet fired shots at the city itself.

The most likely cause of the initial riot, according to the article, comes from agitation at the hands of the Hellfist Foundation, a group pushing for improved rights for privateers in honor of their titular leader, the deceased pirate Jenny Hellfist. This agitation led to the blaming of Hellfist’s death on Ul’dahn merchants. Limsan citizens began accosting the merchants, only to be set upon by members of Ul’dahn security teams before the Yellowjackets could intervene. Fighting was eventually quelled by the arrival of multiple Maelstrom crews following the trial’s conclusion.

Further investigation found no damage to the city following the ship’s cannonade, which is now believed to have been nothing but smoke and powder meant to intimidate the crowd. Both the ship and the security teams have been traced to East Aldenard Distribution, Inc.,  a subsidiary consortium of the East Aldenard Trading Company.

Commentary from captains and representatives of the Maelstrom cannot be printed because of the extremely liberal amount of uncouth language. A spokesman from the East Aldenard Trading Company has expressed regret for the actions, attributing them to “Independent and misguided action by low-level executives of the subsidiary.” Both the ship and its command have been recalled to Ul’dah, where Hihijewa Cacajewa, head of the subsidiary, is expected to face severe punishment. “There is no excuse for nepotism in the effective management of a business,” claimed the spokesperson.

The Syndicate is expected to provide compensatory funds for damages to the Aftcastle and injuries to the crowd, both Ul’dahn and Limsan alike. The general assessment is that this gesture has gone a long way towards smoothing over what could have been a souring of relations between two members of the Alliance at the worst possible time.

Morris Imprisoned

The court martial of Dominic Morris has concluded after two days of deliberation between a five-man board of Maelstrom captains and Morris’ legal counsel, headed by Lieutenant W’Chaza Yheli of the Maelstrom. Ironically, the fate of the accused, which had captured the interest of Limsan citizens, is given only minor attention in the current issue of the Herald, which is now focused on Baelsar’s Wall and the Battle of the Gilded Ship.

The court reports that Morris has been found guilty of participating in violent mutiny on the open ocean - a serious crime because of the risk it poses to ship, crew, and cargo - but was determined not to have been one of the original conspirators. This has significantly lessened his sentence, and he is expected to receive one hundred lashes in a public ceremony at the Aftcastle, followed by imprisonment in Limsa’s prison hulks. A formal date for the flogging has not been set.

Asked for comment, Captain Holskstymm Faezsyngson of the 3rd Squadron replied “I am happy we found an appropriate sentence for the accused in light of the circumstances on board the Wound while still respecting the laws of Limsa Lominsa.” Defense counselwoman Yheli agreed, adding “I hope this suffices for the people of our fair Vylbrand. With the trial settled, we may focus on greater goals for our peoples and ensure both our freedoms and improving the economy for Limsans of all backgrounds.” 

The presiding judge, Commodore Haelstyrmm Eynarhmsson of the 9th Squadron, declined to comment.

[Anstarra]

Dear diary,

 

Anstarra immediately tore the page from the journal, crumpling it up and tossing it aside. So trite! As if a journal had anything useful to say. You wrote journal entries to yourself, after all, in order to review later, and understand your thoughts.

 

She dipped the pen in the inkwell, and started again.

 

Dear Anstarra,

 

"Ugh!" Rip, tear, crumple, toss. That was even worse, talk about self-indulgent. Not a trait she wanted to admit to herself, certainly not in any long-term capacity like this. Dipping the pen again, stirring it, she let it drip as she frowned at the sheet. Then looked around the room. At her semi-luxurious quarters, inside her own ship. The rewards of effort, of station, of... fortune. Luck.

 

A new frown (she was frowning more lately... no, don't frown about that, too!) as she considered this train of thought. Questions of whether she deserved her post, her rank, had rarely crossed her mind. Life was too haphazard, too filled with terrible highs and lows... she remembered well the day she had been offered Captaincy, and a ship. So soon after the terrible battle in the sky, the laying low of Ratatoskr's Summoned countenance... it had the air of reward, and that reward was, of all things, consistency. For being a Captain was something that had always seemed, to her, to be a desk job, removed from the mad whirl of happenstance.

 

Fingers drummed. Here, then, was her desk... yes, it was nailed to a ship, and hardly a mundane ship, and that ship plied the waters of the inner sea. She had not yet requested a privateer's commission, though some of her men had hinted at it. She understood them. The Iron Bitch was a fine ship, and surely would do well against Garlemald's own. And yet... yet here was the consistency she had craved. The mundane roll of patrols. The necessities of logistics. Reports, charts... logs.

Captain's Log. First Entry.

 

I have long considered myself a true child of the Alliance. Adopted to Gridania and living in Ul'dah, trained in Ishgard and serving Limsa Lominsa. Any who know me, however, will understand where my heart truly lies, and that is where I give my personal allegiance, to the city above the sea whose call of freedom embraced by loyalty was the one I heeded and have not been given cause to regret. Limsa Lominsa is my home, as much as any place can be.

 

In becoming a Captain in the Maelstrom's fleet, I have come to understand greater depths of what makes up this great nation, and found

 

 

She stopped, staring at the paper. What was she writing? What was she going to write, just now? Flashes, through her mind, of the courtroom. Of the dusty light, of the stoic, formal clothes and uniforms. Of the coldness and practicality with which had been weighed and measured the fate of a man.

 

Just a man. How many had she killed, in the past? Why did it matter so much? But she knew the answer. It mattered because of how it was done, it mattered because of the formality, the deliberation

 

"One hundred lashes, and three years' imprisonment."

 

the finality with which a gavel was dropped. Was this her world now? Could she do... that? She closed her eyes, and envisioned herself, sitting up there in Haelstyrmm's place, casting judgment. Based on whims, based on fine argument, on bits of evidence... or lack thereof.

 

And shivered, because it was easy.

 

 

and found

 

 

She stared at the half-completed journal page, feeling... sick. Troubled. Confused and.. afraid. What if this log was found? Read? Things she wrote could be used against her. She could end up where Dominic Morris had sat, just as easily. Accused. Tried. Condemned. Truth manipulated or presented in convenient lens... was this the Limsa she knew? The city she loved? The place of harsh but fair justice, and liberty?

 

Yet... what would protest avail her? Branded an enemy. A traitor. So obvious now, how quickly it could happen. Never mind that agents had stirred them to this... you could not exploit flaws that were not there. And more, she had others, beyond herself to worry about. Nihka, Sehki. Her crew, two hundred and fifty brave and loyal souls. She could not fail any of them, could not give reason for doubt. It would be irresponsible... disloyal, even.

 

She should only write fine things. Brave things. Inspiring things.

 

 

 

and found

 

 

 

Ink dripped from the tip of the pen, marring the page.

 

What did a journal matter, anyroad?

 

Just write. Something.

 

 

 

 

 

and found

[Melkire]

“NO! NO, DON’T YOU RUTTIN’ DARE, DON’T YOU-- GET THE SWIVIN’ HELLS--”

 

He twisted his grip. A bone snapped with an audible crack. Someone screamed in pain, even as the bellowing all about him rose in volume to match his.

 

“Keep ‘im still!” “Hold him down, hold the bloody fool--” “Navigator’s Breath!” “--m’arm, sir, he broke--!” “Marauders to the fore!”

 

Some blasted coeurl placed the barrel of a pistol beneath his chin. He wasn’t having any of that. He planted a foot on that someone’s chest and pushed.

 

“--OFF ME!”

 

The unfortunate Seeker went flying into two of his fellows; they collapsed onto the stones, even as the Miqo'te struck the far wall of the cell. The room was well lit, despite the late bell and Menphina’s soft glow… despite the utter lack of a torch. Chakras… his aether… like a beacon. If he could just… he heaved with his right arm, and another three or four links in the chain snapped--

 

Something tugged at his center, as if someone had reached into his chest and pulled at the very heart of him. What followed was an all-too-familiar sensation, and his eyes widened as he felt it happen, felt his aether leaving him… just as what looked like a half-dozen Sea Wolves surrounded him and bore him down to the floor of his cell. To his knees he dropped and, though he struggled to look up with what strength was left to him, the steel vise of a hand clamped down on his head and kept him from staring anywhere but at the stones. The pain was staggering, and it drove any thought of protest from him; his jaws seized up….

 

“Please,” he heard, if you’ll just allow us to sedate him--”

 

“No,” answered a booming voice, as if it had risen from the Deep itself. “I’m wantin’ him-- ahem. Pardon. I want him awake for this. A man should know what his folly has cost him.”

 

The distinct sound of someone leafing through several pages. The clearing of a throat. The kindling cadence of words enchanted, incantation or evocation. The press of a hand between his shoulder blades.

 

Cold. Wet. Vile. Something wormed its way into him, found the hollow cavity within him and spread, reaching out through his limbs and up through his neck. Everywhere it went, he felt violated, even as those portions of his flesh and bone grew numb with the cold. The… thing... the intrusion… it sank its fangs and claws in, drank of his blood and his marrow, and what it took of his strength it then used to lay down roots. It settled. Took hold of him. Over him.

 

Bile rose in his throat, and his stomach fell away as reality set in. There had been no mistaking the bastard’s words.

 

”Give him the Spot.”

 

Footsteps squelched, and he found himself staring down at a pair of enormous boots. The pressure on his head vanished, even as the massive Roegadyn before him dropped to his haunches and seized Osric by the throat. A twist of the Wolf’s wrist brought the Lominsan’s chin up, and his eyes met those of a true jackal.

 

“How did you put it, Problemsolver? Your exact words… ahhhhh, yes, I remember now…..”

 

Commodore Haelstyrmm Eynarhmsson favored him with a smug little smile, but the glint in the officer’s eyes promised endless oceans of suffering.

 

“...'even if I were to never return'.”

 

Osric Melkire’s jaws slackened, his voice came back to him, and he screamed his anguish.