Bulletin Board

[Whittledown]

The fire burns orange and red and smoke winds into the clear night sky. It is the only light for miles in the desolate waste of Thanalan. A deeply tanned hand reaches out and claws through the smoke. Blackened fingertips curl and two fingers that have been crafted to be more claw at the tip than nail slice through a tendril of smoke to set it loose on it's own.

 

Cloudy eyes watch the smoke for a moment, seeing the gesture and twist as it moves through the air. Another wave of that hand and it is gone and a low, animal snarl finds the air.

 

"The flame is hiding in the fire... but I find you... I find you..." A low voice grates like gravel in a can as attention turns back to the flame. She can see the flame. The flittering flame that dances through the fire like a rabbit trying to avoid the hawk. She needs only to find the smoke from that flame and the path will come clear.

 

Find the flame in the fire. Chase the smoke. It was close. So very, very close. It drew her closer and closer to Ul'dah. To civilization. To all the light and the noise. She hated it but the flame was guiding her now and she trusted it. There was no truth greater than what the flame had shown her in the past. Yet now it played coy.

 

But she would find it. She would find him.

[Jancis]

Jancis managed the early morning with a light smile. Luckily Aya had been in her path, sweet woman as she was had the power to always carry a smile despite the look of terror that had been on her face bells earlier. The cheerfulness and promise to speak of better times were heartening.

 

Time had slipped past her and Jancis wasn't really sure how long ago she had seen the look of terror on the lady's face, how long ago Cici had called her name in panic to no avail, how long she had been running through the canyons and valleys of the desert in search for the black-haired highlander responsible. Her legs and feet were aware of how long it had been, but they did not state their case too loudly.

 

In the end, Jancis came up with nothing useful, though rumors and words still danced in the air of the city. Some say she got away, some say she was caught, some didn't care if the woman got away with it regardless of her motive of provocation.

 

But she would care, Jancis' mind wandered to the red-haired paladin as she washed her dust-coated and sweaty clothes as best she could with a washcloth. 

Cici would care that such an action happened right before her.

 

The sun was already rising, which was good enough to dry the simple doublet and pants in the sunshine of a window ledge. Washing herself up in the same manner, she closed her eyes for a few hours rest. Sir Yigir would have more answers once Jancis could find the axeman.

 

It was not your fault nor responsibility, Cici. Thaliak shall allow this woman to know such. Pray Sir Castille speak such wisdom to her. Pray she sleeps now.

[cuideag]

There were people, Delial knew, who made their fortunes minding the fortunes of others. Men and women in neat little suits and dresses, spectacles perched upon their noses, full to the brim with the scent of hard currency. Said people existed throughout Ul'dah, the city where the wealth of the wealthiest converged into a sea that might, in some what, rivaled the glittering sands of the Sagolii.

 

She did not trust them.

 

She sat in her room and she counted again: One, five, ten. One, five, ten. One, five, ten. Her frustration grew with every pass of every stack of gil so carefully counted before, sorted into manageable little piles that slid back and forth as she checked, double-checked, triple-checked herself once, twice, and again. Of course she had been out on her own for quite some time now without much contact with her previous benefactors. Of course she had incurred costs: a place to sleep, food to eat and drink to drink, and a modest wardrobe as not to appear too plebeian. Of course she scrimped where she could: there were times she did not stay at the inn at all and it was still easy enough to earn a meal with the right sort of smile and just enough feigned interest.

 

One, five, ten. Twenty. Thirty. Two-hundred. Thirty-six. Delial stared and rubbed her fingers at her temples. She could not go home with that, no, and even if she did her house would likely not even be hers with its occupants two - no, three years gone. Ul'dah would drain her and quickly. Fingers rapped on the table, drummed out a rhythm of her irritation in a vain attempt to distract her from a most dreadful thought.

 

Just what exactly do normal people do for a living?

[Jancis]

Jancis smiled down at all the little faces around her. She had brought what they requested: parchment, charcoal, and pigment.

 

While they didn't really get the whole idea down and some dye was spilled all over the entire stack of parchment, the children decided it was best for someone else to make their vision come to life. As best she could, Jancis outlined out their beloved mascot.

 

The kids joined in, covering their hands in charcoal and touching the paper. It was completed and the little ones were overjoyed to create something for their hero!

 

With a sincere promise to delivery the present, Jancis walked off with the precious cargo, looking across the streets of Ul'dah and the Goblet for Missus Cornelia Snickerdoodle's Hero.

 

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[Banquo Viaquo]

"I assure you, all necessary preparations have been made." The young man appears to have taken pains to extract himself from Gridania's central clumps of travelers and passersby, but he can still be seen, coolly speaking into a linkpearl - his posture straight and formal. "Sir's concern is quite kind, though I urge you accept my word that it is wholly unnecessary."

 

He listens a couple moments longer, a placid politeness still visible in his expression, then gives a brief laugh - curt and clipped. "Well, if they do, sir, you may also rest assured that I will be fully prepared for them. My years in the young master's employ, you may recall, did not leave me completely incapable of defending myself - nor, I should think, of providing. I only apologize that, for both our sakes, I will not divulge my current location."

 

Another pause, then a patient sigh. "Master Iosaphonn, I humbly advise you to erase whatever records you may have of our contact. I am sure you have no illusions of what measures my pursuers might take, should they discover our correspondence - and moreover, I am beginning to believe you are incapable of speaking to me without fussing. I am afraid I cannot be dissuaded. The young master deserved -" He hesitates, face freezing for the slightest of moments. "- deserves justice, and as long as that is the one thing I can yet provide him, I will seek it out. Regardless of how long it takes, or what it may require of me." His expression has grown hard. "I am the young master's second in all things. As long as I yet retain duties to perform, young sir, I will perform them."

 

He listens for a long moment more, face shifting gradually from a cold determination to a tired softness. "I understand. Sir's support is... most appreciated." He hesitates, then finally smiles, exhaling in an almost involuntary half-chuckle. "...Do take care of yourself, Rhei." There's a couple seconds' pause, and he quietly cuts the connection... quickly turning, eyes sharp as he casts around for listeners before making his way out into the green.

[Coatleque]

Coatleque sat on the edge of the bed in her room at the Hourglass, he head in her hands. What was she doing this past seven-day? Everything was falling apart since Tane's murder. Warren despised her, her shield brothers were avoiding her, new recruits seemed to be flooding the doors and nobody was keeping them in line. And now there were at least three days she could not even remember.

 

She had glanced over Natalie's report without even reading it yesterday. For some reason she just had no care or ambition as of late. Then Ser Sadowyn had told her about the prisoner's execution. They sat across from each other at a table in the lounge as Natalie explained her actions over the Linkpearl. "I need you to bring them both back alive.", Anelia had told Crofte. "If Roen gets in your way, you will have to arrest her to. She is now complicit in hiding the location of a known smuggler and pirate." The Knight could not look her superior in the eye. "Aye, Ser." was all she could reply.

 

She reached out and picked up the small box from the table next to her bed. She opened and closed it a few times, thinking quietly to herself. The contents were still empty, her prior letter had as of yet been unanswered. She looked up to the now half-empty bottle of whiskey on the dresser across the room and shook her head. This trip would be made alone. For the first time in a long while she was looking forward to leaving Thanalan behind.

[Nero]

Things were proceeding smoothly. So smoothly, in fact, that the Twelve should ordain something go horribly wrong within the next few moons.

 

The flame of the candles flickered in Nero's cabin, and several maps were sprawled out on his table. One was a map of the Rhotano Sea and the Strait of Merlthor. The other was a map of Vylbrand, and the last was a map of Ul'dah. He took a sip from a nearby bottle of brandy, grunting as the warm liquor spread through his body.

 

Since Natalie had effectively chased him out of Thanalan, to say that he was expanding his operations aggressively would be to say that Ishgard was mildly devoted to fighting the dragons. His operation was beginning to grow too large for him to manage on his own; several times a day Nero found himself having to swap linkpearls in order to receive updates and information, and sooner or later the amount of assets registered under his dummy company would begin to receive attention from the authorities. Nero was an adherent to the belief that the way to get things right was for him to do it himself, and yet there was simply too much going on at once that demanded his attention.

 

The longer he spent outside of Ul'dah, the more his plans there had a chance of failing. Scythe had agreed, in exchange for the Limsan weapons, to adhere to Nero's timetable for now, but the gangster was an unstable element. Nero also had to expect that he would not necessarily be safe in Limsa as well; his strikes against the Thanalan merchant ships continued, even if the Second Forte was almost never directly involved anymore, and Merlwyb was allegedly being pressured by Raubahn to keep the pirates under control, which would draw the Maelstrom into the situation.

 

The smuggler examined the maps again. There were many, many factors to account for. Merlwyb would probably react as she always did: an iron fist and cannonfire. If the situation deteriorated enough, she may end up sending the Maelstrom against the Bloody Executioners and the other free pirates of the city. Such a conflict would put Nero's plans to an immediate halt, as he was relying on the free pirates to make the raids for him, not to mention that the Forte might also be involved by virtue of technically being one of said free pirates.

 

And what of the Monetarists? They were shrewd enough with their gil that someone, multiple people, would be sent to Vylbrand to investigate who was beginning to choke out their sea trade, as the ports from Vesper Bay and Crescent Cove accounted for nearly a third of Ul'dah's trade. The Monetarists themselves cared for naught but the loss in gil. What mattered was who they would send. If it was simply one of their thugs, then Limsa Lominsa would chew them up and spit them out, as it usually did. 

 

Assassins? Unlikely, not unless the Syndicate knew who their targets were. Adventurers? Improbable; adventurers typically didn't interfere with the political happenings. The Sultansworn? A very distinct possibility. Nero was now convinced that they were firmly under the Syndicate's thumb; they might provide lip service to the Sultana, but the fact that Nanamo ul Namo held no real power obviously gave way to the Syndicate's authority. Though, Nero had to admit that "Syndicatesworn" didn't roll off the tongue quite as well.

 

The Hyur sighed as he rubbed his forehead. He may have to deal with a cadre of knights storming into Limsa Lominsa, assuming he didn't need a bodyguard to deal with potential assassins.

 

There were so many elements to account for. The Maelstrom, the Flames, the Sultansworn, the free pirates, the Brass Blades, the gangs, the bandits, the merchants, Merlwyb, Raubahn...

 

Now Nero had a headache.

[Aldotsk]

Anelia just couldn't sleep for several days because of Natalie's interrogation and Roen's grudge with her. Among with all of this case was all due to one particular person,

 

Nero Lazarus

 

She is not sure who the man is, but she is aware that the man is responsible for making monetarists upset. She feels that even though the man maybe a smuggler and a pirate, he could be a great asset to possibly push back the monetarists from gaining power over Royalists. 

 

Anelia also feels worried by Natalie's actions from the interrogation. She understood that what the Miqo'te Sultansworn had to do was necessary by the order that was given to her and Anelia. But her feelings toward this order was not at ease in her heart. She felt extremely guilty towards Roen that she couldn't do anything again, and she is concerned that Coatleque won't be enough to stop unnecessary bloodshed. 

 

She needed to make a decision once more. Syndicates who have ordered Natalie were possibly monetarists who want this man dead for personal reason. The crimes didn't seem to be extremely high enough for a death penalty for him, and the first mate. 

 

She remembered she ordered Crofte to arrest Roen should the young paladin points a blade at the Sworn, but that's the last thing she wants to happen. The only way Anelia could do is to get in touch with the man behind all of this. 

 

She packs up from her room with her former wig and her goggles to disguise herself as Marila Averlyn, a wandering mercenary to monitor all of this without being seen. As long as Coatleque would not find her.

[Jancis]

Jancis stood there outside of Gridania in the river, letting the current rush over her in the early morning. She was grateful to be in the Twelveswood and feel the backlash of aetheric power flush away.

 

She looked at her hands and curled them; it took all night to recover from her blunder the previous night. Lady Tsubasa had something quite unnatural, a corruption written in aether flowing in her veins. Though Jancis tried to overpower it, she slipped up and her force was flung back at her. Luckily, she only had to deal with a bruised back and the poisoning. 

 

The thing that felt the worst was failing the girl. Jancis still heard the girl's quiet plea. Tsubasa had lost control of her own limbs and put some of her companions in danger. Master Vann was beside himself with dealing with the situation and lost on how to properly help.

 

That man, Jancis was lost on the curious lifestyle that was beyond most things she had ever experienced or read about. He was so unlike the heroes, the dignitaries, the royalty of any story. He was an oddity, surely, but so was she. This man was like a river within a city, making gil flow like water, and supporting that purpose was important.

 

Turning her thoughts, she looked out into the trees. She was here for another purpose. She was following the rumors on the wind, back in Ul'dah here to Gridania, about a dark-haired miqo'te she was desperately searching for. The wild one had called him her hunter. She took that title to heart and it emboldened her.

 

Standing up and returning to Gridania, she continued her pursuit of her hunter.

[Berrod Armstrong]

((From an older Agent arc, but posting it anyway!))

 

 

 

The Paladin's knees hit the sandy rock with a ringing metallic din.

 

He could feel the thick, sticky warmth of his own blood running down his stomach, past his waist and down his legs. It escaped the openings in his armor, painting red lines on the glittering silver-sigiled plate. Life was leaving him along with it, that much he knew; no amount of healing would spare him the death to come -- not that he could manage in his state. There was no one else to attend to him. They were all dead.

 

With increasingly blurred vision he looked around at his fallen companions. The Conjurer, whose white robes and hair were now a matted red, face down in the sand. She had shown such promise. The Pugilist, whose shattered limbs appeared to have far too many joints. His neck had been snapped so badly that his head faced the wrong way. The Thaumaturge, who was now but a charred, fleshy smear singed onto tatters of dark cloth. The sand had been burned to glass underneath her remains.

 

The Paladin grieved for them; long had they been his companions. They had trained together, adventured together...and now they would die together. It seemed fitting to him, but not at all satisfying. A cough interrupted his thoughts, sending agony shredding through his body; a cruel reminder of his grisly wounds. How the enemy had managed to slice so cleanly through his armor, his protective enchantments, and through the lithification of his flesh was lost to him. Perhaps it was the latter of the two that had prevented him from being cleaved cleanly in two.

 

The wound was deep and seemed unmitigated to the naked eye. From his right shoulder to his left hip he had been slashed; so dire it was that his labored breathing caused the edges of the raw cut to pull apart. Everything below the wound had become red. Numbness began to wash over him, and his vision grew dim. The voices of the two men before him seemed far off, though they stood terrifyingly close.

 

One was clad in ornate white and gold robes, tall, slender and radiant. He carried an almost effeminate air to him, such was his elegance. Marble white skin nigh glowed, exposed only at his face, neck and the deep dip at the front of his shirt. Pale blue eyes peered from between smooth curtains of straw-colored hair, the most defining features of what appeared to be a pleasant, merciful countenance.

 

The Paladin knew that it was not so.

 

His companion more accurately reflected the danger they posed; dressed in fitted black studded leathers, he stood a little less in stature. There was no question of how much more menacing he seemed, however. Athletic in build he stood, with broad shoulders and large thighs. A ragged mop of ebony hair sat upon his head and dropped on either side of abyssal, dark eyes. His expression was indiscernable, owed to the high closed collar of his tunic that reached up to the bridge of his nose.

 

They were waiting for the Paladin to die and he knew it. To his dismay, he knew he would not disappoint. The feeling was gone from his arms and legs, causing him to topple to the side. It didn't hurt. The time for pain had passed. He kept his eyes on them as long as he could, meeting their gaze with what little defiance he could muster. The one clad in white tilted his head with what looked like cold pity, while the other stared with hungry anticipation.

 

Death came more suddenly than he had expected; instead of a slow fade into darkness he was snuffed out the moment he decided to glare them down, his pupils dilating as his expression slackened. Ingloriousy he laid amongst his companions, defeated utterly with no song or drink to their name.

 

"Such a waste," The man in white cooed quietly. He ran a slender finger to the threads of his hair and aimed a bored, half-lidded look at his companion.

 

"Disappointing," The man in black rasped hoarsely. "I expected better."

 

"Well," The man in white offered, "We've drawn the right sort of attention, so there'll be more for you to play with soon, Joshua." Gracefully he turned and began walking away, his hips giving an ever-so-slight sway. A coy smile was tossed over his shoulder in beckoning.

 

Joshua the Black spun on a heel and followed behind in an oddly fluid, silent stride. "I hope so. Playing doesn't have a point if it isn't fun. Isn't that right, Jacob?"

 

Jacob the White nodded with a pleasant smile. "That's right, Joshua. We'll play more later though. Right now we have work to do."

[Melkire]

Melkire sat at his desk with two distinct envelopes, filled with two distinct sets of parchment, cradled in either hand.

 

On the left: orders. Orders to depart post-haste for the Ring of Ash. According to his papers, the sergeant routinely in charge of Amalj'aa relations, one Anzio Zansio, was currently unavailable and therefore unable to tend to his duties. Osric didn't buy into that tripe for an instant: Zansio was Yataghan, and the Yataghans, though a relatively reclusive lot, were exemplars of service. If his fellow sergeant was unavailable, it was because Command had made him unavailable. This was likely Swift's latest scheme to breed redundancy in the grand company: the more Flames the beastmen grew accustomed to, the better the relations; and if every unit had a liason available to send to the Amalj'aa, all the better.

 

On the right, though: a register. An in-depth listing - compiled, kept, and maintained by the Maelstrom - of every known smuggler, smuggling crew, and smuggler's vessel to have sailed the Rhotano Sea, the Strait of Merlthor, or the Sea of Ash within the past six cycles. The register contained detailed descriptions of appearances, activities, and suspected whereabouts of many of the listed entities. He'd had to call in too many favors and pull too many strings for his comfort to acquire this packet, but he'd deemed it necessary. The logic had been irrefutable: each and every word that Roen had let slip had led him to the conclusion that her associate was neither a local merchant nor a more exotic cousin from the north. Not Gridanian, most certainly not Isghardian, Ala Mhigo was no more, and Sharlayan had not been heard from for far too long... which left Vylbrand. Limsa Lominsa, or one of the lesser ports.

 

Osric pressed the envelope in his right hand up to his forehead and closed his eyes, thought long and hard. Something was still not right, something in Roen's story didn't quite jive with reality. The one question he kept coming back to was this:

 

Where's the profit margin in his personally retrieving relief supplies from the Blades?

 

There was none, of course, which raised another question:

 

Where's the profit margin in shipping only relief supplies?

 

Again, none, which led to:

 

What else had been confiscated?

 

He must have been shipping something, something he couldn't afford to lose, something that had been mixed in with and hidden amongst the goods for the refugees. Osric did not believe in altruistic businessmen; in his experience, there was no such thing as "true" altruism when it came to finance and capital. Whatever that unknown commodity had been, it seemed reasonable to assume that it was inherently related to this sudden push for reform.

 

When Osric had presented the possibility of reform to Roen sevendays ago - more than a moon now, to be honest - she'd seemed disinclined, and he couldn't bring himself to blame her for wanting distance from a corrupt and seemingly unsalvageable city.

 

So what changed?

 

Something, some notion, some idea had captivated her... or some one. This associate, perhaps. Anyroad, what mattered wasn't that it had happened; what mattered were the potential repercussions.

 

In his experience, there were no honest merchants from Limsa who'd go out of their way to mire themselves in politics this way... which meant a smuggler, or a pirate. Goods said smuggler. Smuggler meant there'd be records to be found with the Maelstrom.... so here, now, the envelope in his hand that he'd be taking along with him, that he'd spend bonfire-lit evenings poring over, committing the contents to memory.

 

Three suns. Three suns spent half a desert away. Roen, you'd better step lightly 'til I get back.

 

He'd already called Kanaria over their personal linkshell to let her know where he was going, already notified his company where he was going by note. Osric did not want to be here when the captain learned that the commander had gone over his head by taking away one of his soldiers, even if only temporarily. Erik would not take this well.

 

Chief Flame Sergeant Osric Melkire stood, dropped both envelopes momentarily onto his desk, walked over to his armoire, retrieved his soldier's uniform, pulled the overcoat on over his Red Wings doublet, pulled on boots and gloves. He hated formal dress, but the situation called for it. Beastmen relations... touchy, those.

 

He plucked the two envelopes from atop his desk, tucked them under his arm, and headed out the door.

[Kage]

A crumpled form of a miqo'te slumped outside of the quicksand in the alleyway to Pearl Lane. The clothes were nice and pressed. Nice attire. Nothing quite stolen or out of place.

 

However blood ran down his blood-drenched hair down his cheeks. His blue and red hair slicked and covered with glass shards and blood. His sword and his scutum lay by his side, the sword only just pulled out. Broken remains of a bottle or two lay strewn around the area. All evidence showed that at the very least the miqo'te had been hit in the head several times by more than one bottle.

 

It seemed all might thought the miqo'te was dead or just a drunkard, getting in a fight at the wrong time.

 

But he wasn't dead at least.

 

With a groan and a blink the miqo'te started to return to consciousness. He looked around, wide eyed and confused. He took what he had and made his way out, stumbling and holding to whatever could keep him up as he headed out of the lane.

[Aldotsk]

While Anelia was back in Ul'dah to settle the matter against unknown attacks in the Ossuary, she wakes up and rubbed her forehead. She checks her wound on her side carefully, and notices that the cut was no longer swollen or showing any sign of particular deep scar. She takes off her bandages and notices that all of minor cuts were gone, thanks to the conjurer that was with her at the Ossuary. 

 

The whole situation about her family bloodline was also a mess too. Overall people, she never thought she was partially a Highlander. At least, she thinks her parents lied to her or she never really asked about their family ancestry. It was rather a shocker when she discussed with Erik and she sighed about it.

 

Another issue was that Anelia was really concerned about Natalie pursing Nero. If she kept trying to stop Natalie from attacking a pirate that is no longer a threat to Ul'dah as of right now, she maybe challenging Syndicate's authority. But her heart remains as she is there for Ul'dah and Sultansworn's interests... and as a paladin's code. She stares at the window, unsure of what to do. But she remembers what Erik has told her to go with whatever she believes in. She knew that  as long as she is a Sultansworn and she is working under Ul'dah's politics, she has to comply to the order she's given by them. Even if it may be considered as a sinner's blade.

 

Anelia receives a letter from the Syndicates for a small council. Perhaps it maybe related to Lazarus, and this time - she cannot have any other choice but to side with Natalie to arrest the man into justice. This could also mean she has to deal with her former friend Roen  to resent her more.

 

'Why did you come back? Ul'dah is now a corrupted place.' The statements made by Erik while she was gone, made her wonder if being a Sultansworn was the rightful choice in Anelia's life. She came back to hope to correct the wrong doings of politics and show people the rightful justice. She obviously chose her path wrong. She also wondered if Coatleque be upset should she leave Sultansworn. Would it be similar to how Roen saw in Anelia? Leaving her behind without any words or at least thought to be dismissed?

 

'....Probably not.' She thought for a bit like that, to see if Coatleque would be upset if Anelia resigned. The red haired highlander paladin was steadfast to Ul'dah. She probably doesn't like Anelia challenging the politics and authority a lot, or at least the way she fights too. 

 

She couldn't cry, but just feel disappointed regarding everything happening around here. She basically have decided that if she left, she will leave with a resolved mind without looking back. But until then, she will remain as Sultansworn and protect Ul'dah.

 

She sighed as she dresses up with her armor and heads to the Husting Strip to discuss the matter with Syndicates.

[Jancis]

In the early hours, Jancis stumbled into the inn room she had in Gridania.

 

The entire night had been peculiar and all the conjurer kept coming to conclusion to is she had simply wasted precious time.

 

Memeli had called out for help, not exactly frantically, but enough to warranty summons. What the next bells' had in store for Jancis was a wild goose chase that surely the crazed lalafell had planned each minute of. She had always gave a wary eye to the pink-haired woman; but most times the incredulous acts were over sweets or who got to spend time with Lady Jajara. This incident also seemed to ring to that effect, and in the end this "Riddle Queen" was agreeable if not pleased.

 

After that, Jancis was not quite sure. What had exactly happened? She frowned, trying to pull back the details. There was a lot of pink, truly, but had that not been all but a simple daydream of fancy?

 

It should have been, but Jezune had shattered that outlook on it. She realized she was standing in Ul'dah, him looking at her with intent concern and worry. His hand shaking her shoulder with conviction reminding her of their first encounter. The lancer kept checking on her. And there she was, dressed up like a performer!

 

Jancis shook off the spiraling thoughts, focusing on resting. She was oblivious to the problems in Ul'dah, who had won the Grindstone that sevenday. But at least, thanks to a kindred spirit, she was in her right mind.

 

She would have to return the favor to Jezune.

 

Though... if the haze had been truth... how much had she loved Memeli?

 

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[Kage]

The miqo'te, garbed in a blacksmith's attire complete with a hammer at his waist, sat inside the Drowning Wench eating an antelope steak. He'd had some luck finding work at a forge and earned some coin. Thankfully the master did not question him but he definitely was suspicious of the miqo'te. He'd decided to take him to the Wench to have a good time but... the miqo'te honestly had no idea what to say or talk about. He'd had no luck finding out information about himself, not even knowing his name.

 

Looking up from his meal he looked at the forgemaster who had poked him with a fork.

 

"Look, ah can't keep callin' ye lug. I needs a name."

 

The miqo'te looked at him apologetically, pointing at his bandaged head and placing his palm against his forehead. A soft voice answered the forgemaster. "Apologies. I don't know it."

 

The master sighed, annoyed but not angrily. He looked at the steak the miqo'te was wearing and tried to remember what he knew of sunseeker customs.

 

"Ah, den we needs ta give ye one. What about... A'turius. A'turius Tia. Ye sure ain't a nunh if'n ye don't gots a women or two lookin' fe ye ah reckon."

 

The miqo'te blinked, nodding slowly. "Thank ye master. I'll... I'll be A'turius Tia. Maybe until I find who ah'am."

[Val]

Val had nearly fallen asleep during the Harbingers' weekly company meeting, but he wasn't so out of it that he didn't hear the need for people to submit drink recipes for their menu. He watched as everyone filed out, the cogs in his head already turning in order to create his masterful list of alcoholic beverages. The night also ended like many nights before, with Val following Faye to her office and dealing with the various business of the members for however long it would take. When they finished, Val insisted that he stay to finish work of his own. 

 

He crept into his room and sat down at his desk, looking at the pieces of blank parchment in front of him along with the inkwell and quill as if they were surgeon's tools. 

 

"Y'got this Val," he thought to himself, "Just a bit'f writin'. Ain' nothin' hard 'bout it."

 

After what must have been a good hour of psyching himself up, Val removed the quill from the inkwell and began to write. A few more hours and a good basket full of crumpled up papers later, Val silently crept to the company board and posted his masterpiece. It read as follows:

 

[align=center]Uhnahneemuz Drenk Lizt[/align]

[align=left]

• vahdkuh - it haz vahdkuh in et n et iz gud if u wont 2 get drank fezt
  
• wyn - i luv wyn cuz it iz faevurfel n haz gud test n mm soh gud
  
• ber - plen n test lyk piz but sum pepel lyk et
  
• wizki - et iz gud 2 drenk wen faye iz med at u n u fel bed n wont 2 furgit n ur soree n u hev no ples 2 goh u r sed
  
• likor - wut i wont 2 do itz o k i gez i her wizki iz sem bot i don no i c pepel esk 5 likor n dohn git wizki
  

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[Berrod Armstrong]

"...got four of those Allagan silvers, should fetch you a pretty gil or two in the market. If you want I can go get them sold for you when we're done here. Brought back some Coeurl skins too -- real high quality stuff. Got all your other things sold, gil's in the bag. Big haul today, boss!"

 

Bruuder, recently appointed as a retainer, had always been  the last-moment sort. The tall, dark haired highlander stood before Berrod with the bar counter between them. The hour was late, and he had managed to be let in just before the Astral Headquarters closed up for the night. Drystfarr had retired a bell ago, and Berrod had been quite ready to do the same. 

 

Bruuder's report had finished; the spoils of his venture were all laid out along the bar counter for Berrod's perusal. Still, he lingered with that quiet, expectant awkwardness associated with the desire for payment. Berrod had the special coins in hand ready to hand over, but he hesitated and gave the other man a harsh glare. 

 

"Did ya  double cross us back at Hullbreaker?"

 

The question was sudden, and blurted in a tone that betrayed hours of brooding on the possibility. While usually indignant about his own affairs, Bruuder's apparent guilt about being conveniently late that day forced him into a defensive stutter. "Wait -- what?" 

 

A few days ago he had been hired to take a group of three of Berrod's Colleagues to Hullbreaker Isle on a simple treasure hunting mission. Nothing too grand or world-breaking, they just needed a guide to help them find things that other adventurers had not. Bruuder, having been there a few times before, had been a perfect candidate to see them there and back. He had been instructed to meet them at the ferry. 

 

Someone had met them there. Someone who looked and sounded exactly like Bruuder, forced Ul'Dahn accent and all. That Someone claimed the retainer's identity as his own and took the group to the isle, where he abandoned them to what would have been a grisly, muddy demise. Fortunately the trio beat the odds and survived the ordeal -- and found out that their real guide had 'overslept'. Berrod immediately had them retrieved from the isle and held a close, tense meeting with everyone involved -- including Bruuder, who had been spoken to separately from the others.

 

The Retainer's story set the stage for a neat little conspiracy. He'd been approached by a lovely lady the evening before and took her into his company for the evening. They indulged as adults did, and as a result he slept throughout the day and missed his appointment. When Bruuder spoke Berrod had been convinced enough that the poor man had been used in their enemy's ploy, but after speaking with Athe...he wasn't so sure. 

 

Athe had brought up a worrying possibility. What if Bruuder was lying? No one knew who the doppleganger was, or if he'd shown up again, but what better way to get a mole into the company than to present a victim? The Highlander had been Berrod's friend for a while -- they'd occupied the same territory back in the days of the Lane. The moment Berrod got a break, he had tried to offer one to Bruuder as well. Would he really double cross him and his colleagues? The uncertainty was maddening, and Berrod refused to let it linger any longer. 

 

"You know I wouldn't stab you in the back like that, you dumb arse -- you pulled me off the streets! You really think I'm that much of a buggerin' whoreson?" Ah, there was the anger. Bruuder was incensed, and in his usual fashion, already primed for things to come to blows. 

 

Berrod was not always the sort to respond with reason, though he had his moments. "Yeah, that's what I know, which is why I think it's easy ta use against me. If you say you ain't though, I'm gonna hold ya to it. Here, I'll pay ya fer a couple days well. Take a few off, yeah?" He dropped the venture coins into a little pouch and tossed it across.

 

Bruuder caught it, but he wasn't wearing the placated look that usually came on the heels  compensation. The Highlander was livid, red-faced and glaring. With a quick swipe of his arm he tossed the pouch right back into Berrod's face. The impact would have been rather comical had it not been for the circumstances. "Keep your shite-stained pay, you bastard. I rather go back on the  streets then have you lookin' at me like I'm some kinda turncoat. Thanks for the break." As soon as he was done speaking he turned to the door.

 

"Bruuder, it ain't --"

 

"Cram it up your arse, Armstrong," Bruuder spat, "Word on the street is that's your specialty."

 

The insult stung, and came very close to inciting a loss of temper. Employing his usual tactic of silence, Berrod managed to weather the sudden tempest of rage that tore at his insides. He was suddenly aware of the door slamming; Bruuder was gone. Perhaps for good.

 

...or perhaps it was an act. 

 

Either way, uncertainty remained.

[B'ren Lyrgh]

"Name your desire! Anything you want."

 

 

Burning Blood had uttered that to Jak just the day prior, the Highlander youth caught immensely off guard by it and shocked even. Anything he could want? Him? The hopeless street rat given the chance for anything, any teeny tiny thing? No, surely there had to be a limit. A Hora. That was all, that was all the youth had asked for. Burning Blood had promised him lessons, to be his teacher. If Jak wanted to be anything of worth he needed to start somewhere. Be it to Blood or Luc or the strange Elezen that he had met the night before, Jak had a huge door opened for him and whatever was behind it he'd take it head on.

 

"Do you like it?" Jak's head snapped up, sitting in the guest bedroom bed Burning Blood had allowed him to stay for now. No words were said at first, a simple smile coming over Jak's face as he looked back down to the simple fist weapon Blood purchased for him. Simple as it was, it still had a shine and small blade attached to the side.

 

"Yeh, I do. S'uh, well...mean look at it!" Jak jumped from the bed, giving a very sloppy fighting stance to the tattooed Roegadyn. No stern look, no attempt to look threatening in the stance; No, Jak looked to be the happiest teen Ul'dah had ever seen standing there in new clothing and weaponry. And all Blood did was nod, hiding any joy in Jak's glee behind golden hues and stoic face.

 

"Good. Put it to good use." And Blood left Jak to his affairs, the Kidlander spending the better portion of the night fighting imaginary people, grinning to himself and eventually passing out on the bed, spread eagle and clutching the hora in his hands.

 

Ignorance was indeed bliss.

[Jancis]

Hnaba

Jancis was on the heels of the roegadyn in front of her, she didn't give pause to figure out how Tausen fit in the small passageway let alone how he managed to sprint so quickly through it.

 

Hnaba

 

 

All of them were in an underground tunnel in the central Shroud, chasing the dark-haired miqo'te after she dashed down a hidden door under the fouled rug. The house they had been was desecrated, blood and all matters of waste barely making the space visible and breathable. The very elements themselves were wary of the place and the tremor of the disturbance had reached Gridania and the padjal within.

 

The search for her fellow company mate, her hunter as she had been told, led to this obscene house and to someone she had trusted before. She had broken from the group to find out more information. She had been at this house before them. She had claimed to speak to the guards mere minutes before they did. She had a personal article of their quarry. And now she dashed, hoping to elude them.

 

Jancis did hope the elements would aid her at where ever they ended up. Thaliak only knew what would happen if he was not there.

 

There was a gloomy ray of light as Tausen, Naga, and Jancis jumped from the tunnel.

 

And they found themselves in a tomb...

 

Hnaba!

[Whittledown]

Blood and Ash

 

Kin and Smoke spent perhaps 20 minutes in the Castrum. Two moved quickly where more would have stalled. They found the man. The target. The servant of the Storm Witch. Smoke swiftly ensorcelled him before the pair took him and fled. They returned to the home of the Order. What needed to be done could not be done inside. The others could not see what Smoke would do.

 

They found a space outside and behind the headquarters. Kin provided a nearly collapsed piece of wood from the fire. The ash would be needed. Smoke sneered a warning to Kin as she crumbled the burning ember with her bare hands. She cut her palms. Her blood mingled with the ash. A paste began to form. Kin retreated into the house.

 

The soldier's armor had been stripped off, his upper body exposed. Smoke worked a subtle aether under his skin to seize his muscles and paralyze him. She straddled his hips and begain to smear the blood and ash past onto his bare chest. Symbols of power and purity were drawn over his skin. The heart would be stronger this way. Better. Cleaner.

 

She chanted the old words before pressing her thumbs gently to the mans eyes. She could feel the motion of his eyes beneath the eyelids. He was awake but perfectly immobile. She smiled and leaned close, whispering to him in a kind voice. "Servant. You heart belongs to Storm Witch. But now is mine."

 

He didn't scream, he couldn't, as her hand pressed into his chest. Hisses of smoke as his flesh and blood sizzled against her skin rose into the air as her fingers sank deeper. He was still as his paniced heart flailed in his chest. Her hand slowly twisted to cleanly carving out a hole in his chest. Her fingers closed around his desperate heart. She did not let it go still before she pulled. A spray of blood and the sound of snapping tendons and the man was gone.

 

She cradled the heart in her hand, examining it closely before smiling and pressing a soft kiss to the organ. It was good. Pure and clean. Perfect. The ritual would wait no longer. There were preparations to make. The Storm Witch would not escape again.

[Val]

Val hadn't been able to get much sleep since that day in the Quicksand; the one where Verad had proclaimed himself to be Eorzea's Greatest Lover. It rubbed Val the wrong way. How could that man seriously call himself the greatest lover. If anything, it should be him! Alas, Verad had pointed out something very true: There were no books written about Val's exploits in making love, whereas Verad had at least one (that he'd no doubt written himself). 

 

...Val wasn't much of a writer, nor did he really know his way around books. He didn't even know how to go about getting one written, much less published and sold throughout Eorzea. Honestly, Val didn't even know what "publishing" was. What he did know, however, is that Verad had sold a giant pile of Lalafel lust novels to the Company upon their first meeting, something about a shipping error--whatever that was. Luckily for him, Val knew precisely where these books were kept.

 

For the next few days, Val would remain late in his office to "finish up paperwork," which wasn't entirely a lie. He would pull one of the large sacks out from under his bed, which contained only a sampling of the total books, and write in them with ink and quill. When he finished, he tore the original cover off and used his own sewing techniques (which were actually quite impressive; another skill he'd never admit to) to bind a new cover to it. The title was simply, "val nunh iz gratizt luvr in eyorzeeuh".

 

He repeated this process for each book until he'd finished and, when Verad was out one day, slipped into the man's room and dumped all of the books in his floor. Should Verad happen upon them and decide to actually read them, he'd find that only the first page was written on in all of them. They all contained different things; it was a volumed set! First edition, all for Verad! They contained marvelous things such as:

 

"val nunh iz gretizt luvr"

"val nunh iz betr et luvn den vehraid"

"nu won cumperz 3 val nunh en behd"

 

 

Some seemed to be written from the perspective of others:

"wun dey i wuz en brahnz laik n i thot titen wuz ataken but den ey herd fey mone n new it wuz jest val shayken wirld wif hiz luv"

"i herd hi mekz fey soh wet dat luhveyuhthan gitz jeluz"

"dey sey hi mekz hur screm soh lowd itz liek siren iz sumond i pee uh litl sumtimz cuz i thenk shi iz"

 

After a while he seemed to have gotten bored, drawing little squiggly lines next to them and often showing crude stick-figure diagrams to illustrate precisely what he'd been doing during his personal time with his ladies. Some of the phrases were written horizontally, some vertically, and some diagonal. Some had smiley faces drawn beside them, and some a circle with an oval at the top that might have been a thumb's up.

 

Val left the office with a smile on his face. That'll show 'em.

[ZindelloTarantella]

"Are you sure this is the kind of thing you need? Not that I don't mind being done with this whole business, Ser Tarot, but I don't understand why you feel that this is worth all the--"

 

"Ah, so you WANT to stay in debt to me?"

 

The blacksmith blinked then shook his head. The typically smug and coy tones of Crooked Tarot's voice had been replaced by a cool and calm vibration. It rang deeply in the craftsman's heart and it honestly wasn't a nice feeling at all. There was danger there and he fell silent as he moved to pick up the long packing box that held Crooked Tarot's order. It wasn't heavy at all, lighter than even a sword. It was an odd request--oddly specific and oddly placed. But again, he dare not overlook this chance generosity from Tarot to have his own debts with the man wiped clean if he did this one simple thing for him and told no one of it.

 

Ever.

 

The dissimilar eyes of the merchant looked at the box before taking it, opening the lid and looking inside with a grim sort of satisfaction. "Yes, this will do nicely." Lips turned up at the corners, eyes glinting with that same cool thoughtfulness, as if he'd just told a joke. "I won't lie to you--this piece of work will undoubtedly leave quite an impression."

 

"I would certainly hope so! That's what it's for after all!" the blacksmith said anxiously, risking a small smile as he licked his lip unconsciously. "I uh--I mad sure it was just to your specifications. Right down to the handle there--"

 

"Yes, I see that. Excellent work." Again, the merchant seemed to be elsewhere as he looked over the product in his hands.

 

"I--I didn't know you had business all the way up there, Ser Tarot."

 

"I've got business all over, Master Blacksmith."

 

Good. Tarot had already forgotten his name. The blacksmith sighed in relief and nodded, not pressing his luck on the matter. It was true that no one really care three damns about Dravania here in Limsa for the most part (unless they were of Ishgard stock, naturally) but it was still an odd request. "Not to pry, Ser, but--I thought you hated chocobos. Are you getting into breeding or--?"

 

"It's for another customer of mine," Tarot replied, closing the box and turning on his heel. "I hate the birds, you know that." With the snap of the box lid still ringing in the air, the merchant left the small smithy, leaving the blacksmith behind to wonder.

 

"Just what in the Hells would someone want with a branding iron--and why would they want the Dravanian brand on it, of all things?"

[Berrod Armstrong]

The Faces of Mercy have made good on their promise of war, and left little breathing room for the Agency during the past few weeks.

 

Burgenheim Rousa and his brother Heidricht Rousa were attacked by one of the Face's champions, Daudalus -- a Roegadyn martial artist who seemed to have a body hard as steel. Both brothers were defeated and left in critical condition. Daudalus went on to attack Berrod Armstrong along the Burning Wall in East Thanalan. The Highlander managed to make a retreat after suffering quite the beating. Daudalus remains at large. 

 

Tragic news came only days later as Camy Laykk discovered that her parents had been murdered by the Faces, proof that they would stop at nothing to demoralize and break their quarry. It was a strategic triumph for the enemy, given that Camy was often a reliable source of support for any agents in the field. With Camy retreated in grief, they grew bolder. 

 

B'ren Lyrgh found himself doing battle with a skilled conjurer. The pair wielded the elements against one another in heated contest and both sustained heavy injuries. At great cost to himself, B'ren managed to end his foe. Draco Ixtar had been nearby, unable to do anything but call for help once B'ren collapsed after his victory. 

 

Athe and Oscare arrived on the scene to assist, but found themselves in just as much trouble. A thaumaturge sped by on an unusual mount and triggered a devastating explosion that sent them reeling. Athe suffered critical damage to his eardrums, and Draco in her panic assaulted Oscare and ran off into the woods. The backup needed backup.

 

To that effect, Berrod, Caleb Agron, T'rhiko Tia and Tarot came to the rescue and managed to transport the shaken group back to the house for care. Draco was nowhere to be found, but Tarot arranged the help of some special friends to search as much of the woods as they could.

 

Still, the faces did not let up. The next day they worked on two fronts, sending an assassin to take care of the retainer Bruuder while he sat drinking at the bar. Alyssa Galliford was there and worked to stop him, but the assailant somehow managed to get a knife into the retainer's neck. Bruuder died on the spot, while Galliford finished off the attacker. 

 

Only moments after that fiasco across in Middle La Noscea, Oscare Iono was approached by an Elezen woman who utilized the power of charming and glamour. With it, she forced his hand into slaughtering several civilians and arranged witnesses from the Yellowjackets. Both Oscare and the woman left unharmed, but the report of the murders was sent to the Coral Tower in Limsa Lominsa.

 

The Agency is under heavy fire, and has been pushed back into a corner more tightly than it has ever been before. The outlook is bleak, but there is something to be said about cornered animals...perhaps it applies to adventurers as well.

[Jael'li]

"Daudalus," A reed-thin man, who one could hardly mistake as anything other than an Elezen spoke first in the group. "Your progress is most displeasing. The Heretic and his Company still breathe, their lives are a beacon to others that defy Her will." His voice was neither accusing nor begging explanation, merely stating fact. The glinting silver mask moulding into a serene expression belied the rage held in those eyes that peered from the thin slits that allowed for just enough viewing area. "Your brothers and sisters have nearly finished their work in this land."

 

 

The Roegadyn was garbed in a handsome surcoat that has been crafted to protect armor from the elements, while maintaining the wearer's gallant, striking appearance. Fashioned from soft wool in a deep, rich shade of purple, the coat was sleeveless and reached just below the knees in flowing folds. A leather belt gathered the surcoat together at the waist, and slits in the front and back permitted greater comfort and ease of movement during the wearer's actions on the battlefield or in the courts of intrigue and stratagem. Edged with intricate golden scrollwork, the surcoat had otherwise been left unadorned.

 

 

As he knelt, the frighteningly long staff banded with thin rings of metal was strapped to his back. There were no useless ornaments or etchings of scripture across the wood, merely notches for each man and woman he had saved during his time serving. "The Agents are a cunning lot," He said with his features folding with hurt, his one good eye downcast. "I hadn't anticipated them to react so quickly."

 

 

"And now here you kneel before your brothers." The Elezen swept a hand across the room, motioning to each and every cloaked figure donning the silver mask. They lined the rounded walls of the underground room, the soft rays of light shining through the canopy of grass seemed to be swallowed by their dark suits of armor. Each and every one of them varying in size and frame, sporting unique weapons the likes of which hadn't been seen by the hulking assassin in his life. Imagining how they worked was frightening, and actually seeing them in action was even moreso.

 

 

"I ask," Daudalus started in a tight voice, "That you lend me your aid. Perhaps you too will see what this lot is made of."

 

 

The room fell silent as they focused on him, watching him rise and adjust the notched staff that matched his size upon his back. Spreading his hands before him, he said, "Those who have finished their assignments may follow me if they so wish it. For every extra head that you take, you will bring glory to Her name and Ishgard."

 

 

The Elezen spoke up again. "Take what you need to finish your assignment. Our time draws to a close and we have only a handful of tasks to complete other than your own. The Stormbringer and those that dare side with him will be brought to justice by your hands." A simple nod of his head indicated the meeting was at an end, and the armored assassins silently stepped across the spongy soil, moving as one body towards the campsite. All that remained were Daudalus and the Elezen, whom the Roegadyn stared at for some time until taking his leave. Even as the distance opened between them, he could feel those proverbial daggers digging into the back of his head until losing line of sight.

 

 

A gust of wind rustled the jade sea of grass as he made his way up the makeshift stairway, taking two steps at a time until he passed through the thick brush of green. Inside the forest clearing was his force, now having grown larger in number. Made up of hardened veterans and serpents, they all went about their tasks. The sharpening of weapons and polishing of leather slowed to a halt as he entered, and all masks turned to stare at him expectantly.

 

 

"We march!" He cried, and watched each and every figure rise and get to work on disassembling the campsite. Soon thereafter, they followed in tow as Daudalus led them towards the desert. None questioned their bold stride or lack of briefing.

 

 

They moved as one mind.

 

One purpose.

[D'ly]

“I- I spy with my- my little eye… sooomethiiing… tan.”

 

Dodo, the flightless feathered friend who sat beside D’ly on a toasty bolder looked to her in bewilderment. They were in Thanalan. Specifically outside of Camp Drybone.  Everything was tan.

 

Dodo huffed.

 

D’ly frowned.

 

Another huff and a shake of his head began his search for whatever tan thing she was spying on.

 

“...iiiiiiit is big.”

 

That cut down his guesses to… 80% of their surroundings. Fun.

 

“...it moves.”

 

In an instant Dodo jerked his head in the direction of a herd of myotragus nannys that roamed in the distance.

  

With an excited squeak D’ly clapped her hands together and gave a nod. Then…

 

“I- I spy with my little eye… sooomethiiing… grey.”

 

This was going to be a long day.