Benedict: A Hobo Reborn’s guide to misadventures and red light districts [Closed]

[Lady Whiteraven]

The day had been a long and hot one, but the days were always hot in Ul'dah and typically there is only a few ways to avoid that kind of heat, find a hole and bury yourself in it.

 

Benedict lifted his head from the bar where he found himself and smiled at the glass of bourbon already in his hand, equally thankful for the drink as he was the shade the dive bar provided. He looked around for a moment, not entirely sure how he got here or even what the name of the place was, but that happened sometimes with him. The room was dark, lit only by the stunted light coming through two windows near the door, both had a dingy yellow cloth draped in front of them to block out the light as best they could. The wall and floors were that split and dried grey wood you saw shacks built out of scattered throughout the Thanalan wastes. There was one other patron in the corner of the room, sprawled out in an old chair with his legs stretched out as far as they could under the rough cut and beat up table while his head was tossed back as far as his neck would allow and a sound like a stone mill came from his open gullet. Ben smirked at himself, "Ive been there more times than I could count," he thought to himself. As he brought his attention back to the bar an old grizzled Roegadyn came from the back storage area with a look on his face like Ben owed him money, "Ready to be settlin' up?" he asked.

 

"Shit, I guess I do owe him money," Ben thought as he smiled at the man and checked is gil pouch, counting the few coins that remained, knowing there was not even enough to cover the bourbon that he hastily finished as he looked back up to the barkeep. "Uhhh . . . How much is the tab?"

 

The older man stood close to a good foot over Ben and leaned over the bar as he watched him count his gil, "I hopin' ya got a secret stash in ya boot or somethin', the tab is 200."

 

Now, had he found himself in this situation at any other point in his life, he would have just run out the door and be gone long before the larger man could clear the bar, but . . . things were different now and he was trying to stick to a new path. A path that didn't really condone fleeing into wastes to skip out on a bar tab. His hand went reflexively to his mess of hair and began an assault on the back of his head as he looked at the Roegadyn with an expression somewhere between, "I'm sorry" and "This is going to hurt, huh?"

 

The barkeep reached below the bar and pulled out a healthy sized club, certainly notable as the man stood near seven fulms tall and was at least double Benedict's weight. Ben closed his eyes, ready to take the beating he knew was coming, when a voice rang near the front door, "I'll pay his tab."

 

The look on the barkeep's face as well as Ben's must have been a priceless image in raw confusion as the both strained their eyes to adjust to the light of the open door and the silhouette of person standing there. The man in the doorway took a few steps into the building, heavy well shod boots leading the way and leaving a distinctive deep echo in their wake. He was a highlander, somewhere between the height of Benedict and the club wielding barkeep, with broad shoulders and dressed in the kind of finery one might see at the VIP tables of the Golden Saucer. Ben looked at the man still slightly confused but now for reasons completely beyond his current predicament, "Aladon?"

 

The highlander smiled and tossed a small bag of gil onto the bar, and as it landed and let out a rich jingle of coin against coin, the barkeep smiled and put his club back behind the bar, "That'll do, alright," he said as he hastily scooped up the small bag.

 

Aladon took a few more steps towards Ben and smiled a grin that could only spell trouble for Ben, "Seems you owe me, no?"

 

Ben all of a sudden felt like he needed another drink, not entirely unexpected as he typically felt that way in some capacity, but this had everything to do with Aladon's grin and less to do with his own issues that he was constantly trying to drown. "I owe you the cost of the tab, that's it," he said as he began to make his way past the finely dressed man.

 

Aladon gave a sharp and high pitch whistle, a sound Ben could never stand to begin with, but experience had made things far worse as he knew exactly what Aladon had just done with that shrill call. Some short distance away there would be armed men ready to converge on the place if there was a second call. These men didn't care for lives or honor, only the blood stained gil that Aladon would pay them. Sure, there were only two others in here besides himself, but the last thing he needed was two more bodies to atone for because he acted hastily. Benedict stopped in his tracks, "How many did you bring, Aladon? You sure you want to waste that much money, that many men?," he asked with a flat and even tone, as he attempted to display the confidence of his past self. He knew his bluff had been called when the next sound he heard was the deep laughter coming from the man.

 

"That was worth this whole trip," still laughing, Aladon leaned on the bar to address the Roegadyn, "Whatever he was just drinking, he always had a nose for the best swill in whatever hole he found himself in. No offense there, barkeep," he finished his laugh while tossing a few more gil the barkeep's way.

 

Once the older man poured the drink and handed it off he collected the gil and quickly found himself on the other end of the bar, busying himself with some senseless cleaning. There was something overly dangerous about these two men and he had decided that he wanted no part in whatever their business was.

 

Aladon took a sip of the bourbon and nodded, "See, not bad, all things considered . . ." He turned back towards Benedict who still stood frozen in place in the middle of the room and began a slow clap. "That was perfect. I mean, really . . . I wasn't sure if you were going to try that line, but I was so hoping."

 

Ben stood there, trying to still the blood that raced through his body and the sound of his own heart that pounded in his head like the jungle drums of some of the miqo'te tribes. He held his fists at his side, clenched so tight that his knuckles were a line of pure white. He spoke through his locked jaw, "What do you want?"

 

The well dressed man moved from the bar as he continued to sip his drink at a casual pace, and came to stand next to Benedict, "You, of course. Why else would I even come anywhere near this deathtrap? You know, I heard rumors that you had given up fighting, and I truly didn't believe it until I saw you in here with no weapon in sight, that I thought maybe the rumors were true. Now, we both know weapons aren't needed but . . . that little speech, that sealed it for me."

 

Ben turned his head to face the grin that still played across the other man's face, a grin that he wanted to knock to the floor with every fiber of his being . . . well almost every fiber. Deep inside he reminded himself of the man he wanted to be and part of that was coming to face the mistakes of his past and Aladon was certainly one of those. "So, what do you want with a sellsword without a sword and who doesn't fight? Unless you have a keg or two that you need drained in a hurry I'm not sure what I can do for you these days."

 

Aladon finished his drink and placed the glass on a random table as he passed, "We have a long way to travel, I'm sure you remember it is a bit of a trek from here. I'll cover the details on the way, but it if it helps you get moving, it involves Elise."

 

"Elise? But she left . . " as he began to ask the question he was cut short by the sadistic grin on Aladon's face. Slowly he let himself be walked out the door, his mind was racing backwards to a time long ago, back when he was a young man with the whole world open to him and life was simpler, or at least he thought it was . . .

 

================End of Prelude======================

Special thanks to Deahfel for inspiring the title

[Lady Whiteraven]

*Chapter 1: Man, I need a bath . . .*

 

The year is 1560, Ala Mhigo was recently captured by the Empire a few years back, Ul'dah is flooded with refugees as some look for shelter, work, and others whatever they can take by force. Tensions are high, tempers are short, and the summer heat only serves to make matters worse. Benedict is a young man of his 17th year, working in the The Coliseum as both a successful fighter of small renown, and a custodian to pay the way for his boarding and training.

 

 

A sudden splash is never the best way to greet the day, less so when accompanied by the smell of dirty floors, day old sweat, and the shrill laughter of a lalafell.

 

Benedict shot up straight from his bed, soaked to the core and smelling like the used end of a latrine scrubber, "What in the nine hells?!!"

 

Artaegyl, Arty to his friends, was at once rolling around on the floor in front of Ben's cot, gripping his stomach and gasping for breath as he continued his laugh at Ben's expense for a few moments longer before he rolled to his side with a wide grin, "You left the bucket full again last night, so I asked Master Rycharde if I could use it to wake you. He loved the idea!"

 

Shaking his head and clearing the putrid water off his face with his hand he looked at the still slightly giggling lalafell, as a smirk began to form on his face. Suddenly Arty noticed to look on Ben's face and his own laughter stopped immediately short. "Oh shit . . .," Arty exclaimed as he scrambled from his current position in order to get to his feet as fast as he could. Arty was short, even for a lalalfell, but what he what he lacked in height he more than made up for in the raw power of his limbs. He sprang to his tiny legs in a flash, his blue and orange tinged mess of hair flopping before his eyes in his hurry and that is when disaster struck. Benedict leapt out of his cot with all the agility of a jungle cat and slammed the lalafell to the ground and proceeded to rub his foul smelling shirt against the smaller man's face.

 

There was the sound of a crack in the air that was unmistakable to the two men, it meant they were in trouble again. Both stopped their small tussle to look up into the cold eyes of their doctore as he held his signature bladed whip, he was midlander who stood a good half-fulm above Ben's head, with long black braid running down past his waist and bright green eyes that always seemed to stare through his pupils when he was addressing them. His body was a deeply tanned ranged of tight sinew and various snake tattoos covering most of his arms, legs and chest, even making their way up his neck to end in open jaws above his eyes. In the Bloodsands he was called "Garram, the Viper," and was great in his day but age and wealth had taken him from the pit and had left him in the role of doctore to younger men who sought the glory of the arena.

 

"Whiteraven, . . . Slingshot," grunting as he struggled to get lalafell's chosen stage name out, "the First Sword wants to have a word with both of you. Now, and when you are done, clean this mess up, it reeks in here."

 

Ben let go of his friend and stood up, his cot was pushed into a small closet in the Coliseum. It held all the tools he used to clean the living quarters and tend the weapons of the other gladiators, and a small chest for his own clothes and belongings. It was modest to be sure but far better than living on the streets as he had before he was taken in here and it was all his, even if it currently needed to be scrubbed down thanks to Arty.

 

For his part Arty just dusted himself off and looked up with mock anger on his face, "Ughh, now I smell. In fact, I smell like you! That is just horrible!"

 

"Well, I guess we both get to smell like darkside of a gladiator's small clothes as we go see the First Sword, yeah?" he smirked at his friend in reply.

 

"Yeah, yeah, remind me to shoot you in the ass in our next bout, the crowd will love that," the lalafell said absently as he walked out the door to the small room with a wave of his hand, "let's go see what punishment you've put on our heads this time."

 

"Me? I was sleeping!," Benedict shouted as he hastily put on a new shirt to chase after his friend.

 

The duo arrived at the door to master Swordsong's office and exchanged unsure looks before Ben knocked on door. A moment later they hold the voice of the elder gladiator bid them to enter. The walked in, the office lacked the luxury and frills of Master Rycharde's, as the walls were only adorned with various weapons with nicks and cracks in them, trophies of hard won battles in the Bloodsand. The man looked up with his nose crinkled in a look of pure disgust,

 

"By the Twelve, is that smell coming from you two? Have you been rolling in the latrines?!" he asked, obviously not putting such a thing past either one of them.

 

Arty was the first to speak up, only halfway able to curb his own laughter as he recounted the tale of finding the full bucket, asking Master Rycharde's permission to wake up Benedict, and then the ensuing scuffle. By the time he ended his little tale he was wiping a tear from his eye, obviously quite amused with it all. It wasn't until he stopped talking and looked at the First Sword that he had any clue he was the only one laughing.

 

"Why do you two insist on turning this place into your own personal fun house? Look at Raubahn, he trains harder than anyone and is building quite a reputation for himself, why can't you set your sights on that?"

 

All the two could do was look awkwardly at one another and then back at Master Swordsong with an unknowing shrug.

 

Throwing his hands up in frustration he took a deep breath and looked back at the two, "Well, I hope you can manage to do better to represent this arena on the road. There is a wealthy merchant just outside Limsa who wishes a private show and I'm sending you two. You are both fair enough combatants and you have a knack for amusing the crowd. Go pack your things, the cart leaves on the next bell. And you WILL do your best to present this profession with dignity, am I clear?"

 

Both men smiled at the First Sword and nodded like a pair of children who were just asked if they wanted another piece of candy. Despite his gruff words and their often times ill-timed antics, the older man held the two rather high esteem for their skill in battle, energy they showed the crowds, and their dedication to one another.Their minds began to spin with images of a private demonstration, and the glory and gil that such ventures had a way of bringing in. Master Swordsong waved his hand in dismissal and both men rushed off to clean up as best they could and pack their meager belongings for the trip.