A Fateful Encounter

[DhezrelSaephica]

It wasn't necessarily that she was disinterested in the busy scene around her, it's just that she was tired and frustrated.

 

The Au'ra sat quietly in her seat, fiddling with her half empty mug of ale. Can't believe it was just another dead end, she thought to herself. Flora Scarlett had traveled to Limsa Lominsa all the way from Ul'dah on a lead she received of a famed traveling minstrel, an older Elezen man who would be visiting the seaside city. 'Where the HELL are you, Haummont Tuipiere?' Crossing her arms, the Au'ra was noticeably disconcerted.

---

She was dressed all in black, a cloth was across her left eye. Her boots came up to her thighs, and the heels of them were very sharp. She wore a simple shirt, with a mid chest jacket with pouches on both sleeves. Thick leather gloves covered her hands. Her ice blue eye followed some gulls outside the open archway of The Drowning Wench as they quickly disappeared from view. Tendrils of her light pink hair fell from her shoulders as she shifted, resting her hand on her cheek and as she sighed loudly. She crossed her legs and drained the rest of the contents of her mug, setting the cup on the edge of the table and fingering the meager remains of her gil purse.

---

Flora narrowed her eyes, she knew she'd have to get some more money soon and how she'd do that was still up in the air. Most of her damn money was spent just getting here chasing a blasted ghost. She clenched the fist resting on the table, her glove squeaked with the force. She released her grip, calming herself. Her last job didn't end too well. She looked at the last pieces of gil she had remaining, her intense blue limbal ring glowed in the dark shadows of the coins looking up at her from the purse. She smiled, a menacing little grin. I remember where I last got you, I wonder if that Hyur is rotting in Hell where he belongs, little gils, hmm?

[Lightsnowe]

They moved in on her then. Abruptly, silently. One from across the bustling pub, winding like a displaced shadow between passing patrons. The other from behind a support column, drifting like morning mist. Forgettable, and forgotten. In an instant they were upon her, one blink and the vacant spaces at her little table filled with two unwelcome occupants.

 

Two chairs shrieked as they were drawn, two figures clanked upon them. They were nearly identical, grey and a dull hunter green swathes of cloth and scarf-like ornamentation coiled around coal black chain. The plates of armor covering shoulders and heart showed wear and use, deep hoods steeped over masked faces. Adventurers of every make and model strutted around the dusty city; these two may have easily passed for some secretive members of a wealthy and well-equipped rogue's guild. The only differences between them were the masks themselves. They were flimsy and thin, papier mache. The one bore the grinning face of a snarling fox, the other a wizened barn owl.

 

Flora's two new friends said nothing, merely occupying the opposite end of the table. They lounged casually, comfortable. Cocky. Confident in their unmannerly display. Only after enough time had passed for things to become awkward did the third figure emerge from a thicket of bodies, a third chair dragged over and placed between the two shinobi.

 

The chair made no sound as an elfin man scraped it along the stony floor, not even a creak. 

 

It didn't dare. Such was the weight of the Elezen's imperious air, just his presence seemed to dim the world around him. He was dressed in a finely tailored suit of deep navy, complete with a pale necktie over a dark button-up, and shouldering a sturdy black overcoat with its empty sleeves swaying at his sides. He sat with all the graceful dignity of his people, pressed his elbows into Flora's table and steepled his long fingers in front of the thin line of his mouth. The eyes that surveyed her were as stormy and unyielding as the oceans whose deep blue hue they mimicked, their intensity enhanced by a single jagged rip of a scar running parallel beneath them. The old wound traced the bridge of his nose, a warm pink juxtaposed against the pale skin. The blonde crop of his hair was short and well-maintained, pulled back over a healthy noble scalp.

 

There was a quality to him, something about the surety of his posture. There was an inevitability to his manner that portrayed power and responsibility, a long-lived aura that suggested years upon years of hard refinement. As for his two well-kept goons, Owl and Kit kept their heads tilted downward in deference. For his part, the elf assessed the pink-haired beauty evenly. Whatever judgment he arrived at, only he could know; his own face was as blank and unknowable as the masks sported by his minders. It would remain unmoved during their entire exchange, neither lifting in smile nor settling in scowl. For all time.

 

'Hello,' he said eventually, in a voice of honey and steel. 'I am Inquisitor Liore Bloodwing. And if you are who I believe you are, I may have work for you.'

Edited March 13, 2020 by Lightsnowe

[DhezrelSaephica]

Flora was bewildered. In the middle of her private brooding session, two men had descended upon her table like wolves and were now sitting in front of her. She snatched her Gil purse and immediately shoved it back into her pocket. The Au Ra paid no attention to them, turning herself in the chair to get a better view of the sea outside. She put her hand to her bottom lip, the worn texture of the gloves grounded her in times like this. What the hell do they want from me, she thought, her blue eye was strained hard in their direction. They must want something. The tension in the air rose more as the time passed, with no words spoken between any of them. Oh how badly she wanted to tell them off, but causing a scene here would be a bad idea. She finally looked back to steal a quick glance at the pair, and did a double take. How confident and pompous they seemed! God damn bastards, are they taunting me?

---

Her eye twitched, but she noticed a third man approaching, and Elezen. This was the make or break point. The woman turned her head again, resting her blinded side on her fist as her elbow laid on the table.  Silence ensued for a short while, until the man had spoken. Flora hesitated for a moment, but finally turned her gaze to meet his. An icy blue eye met his with an unbroken stare. Leaning back and crossing her arms, she spoke for the first time. "I'm listening, Liore. What's the job and how much does it pay?" She had a confident tone, one with no fear behind it. The Au Ra was also curious to his knowledge of her, but assumed that if he intended to arrest her she'd already be in shackles.   

[Lightsnowe]

Owl and Kit did their best statue impressions, while the boss took his time. Giving the pink-haired cyclops the once-twice over. If he was impressed by her audacity, it didn't show. The chilly impatience of her stare lost much of its sting in the presence of his tranquil gaze, like an icicle melting away before its sharp length could pierce the unsuspecting skulls below. An apt metaphor; left to its own devices this particular little sliver of frozen nature would undoubtedly stab somebody, for fun or profit who is to say. Inquisitor Bloodwing was if nothing else pragmatic. The other members of his august organization would chastise his ethically murky methods, but the results of his work spoke to their efficacy.

 

So when he found himself staring down a borderline psychopath, all bright hair and suede eyepatch and impatient stares, he could only see potential. Opportunity. The kindred glow of a soul unashamed of doing what needs be done, damn the cost.

 

At least that's what her case history showed. There was always the possibility he had the wrong girl. He would know sooner than later whether he would have need of the silver cuffs tucked into his wool overcoat. When he spoke, it was privately. By some mechanism or magicka, his voice reach her ears and her ears only.

 

'Direct. I can appreciate that. In approximately...' he turned his wrist over, inspected the analog time-piece strapped therein. 'Two hours fourty three minutes there is going to be a break-in at this address. You will recognize the estate as being the 'Inshabel Manse', a residence of the very same Raeph Inshabel. You may know of him, a minor political player in this salt-forsaken city. Raeph has a great many things stowed away in his private vaults and libraries, earning the interest of some very powerful people. The sort of people who would hire the best talent gil can buy, the sort of people whose careers have been spent invisibly. A group of such professionals will be hitting the manse, and I expect you to use that opening to procure -this- from Raeph's primary library.'

 

Liore had held eye contact the entire time he had been speaking, blinking slowly and deliberately whenever he saw fit. He was unrushed, explaining in a manner that would be easily memorized. While doing so, he had begun scribbling something out on Flora's napkin; firstly an address, followed by what appeared to be an ornate leather satchel, and at last an amount of numbers followed by an improbably amount of zeroes. Presently he tapped the satchel with the tip of his pen.

 

'You will not open the satchel, or otherwise peruse its contents. You will keep it on your person until such time as I collect it. The other intruders, cold-blooded thieves and bastards to the core for a certainty, mustn't know you've followed them in. Sabotage their goals if you must, I do not care. We would prefer the authorities believe the hired hands responsible for the disappearance of my little.... item.

 

'Do this thing for me and I will reward you with this amount,' he tapped the ungodly sum on the napkin, circled it with a deft flick of the fingers. 'Do this thing -well- and I will see about persuading my peers into looking elsewhere with regards to your latest.... excursions. You know the ones.'

 

His fine blonde brow twitched once. Whatever he knew, was impossible to judge. He may have been a gargoyle, for how little he emoted. And nothing of this conversation left room for argument or negotiation. There was neither any manner of threat, should the free-willed woman decide to make a fuss. It spoke to the confidence, arrogance perhaps of the Officer of the Holiest Inquisition that he hardly seemed to have considered she would argue.

Edited March 17, 2020 by Lightsnowe