Bulletin Board

[Coatleque]

Coatleque said her goodnight to the head guard on duty at the gaols. She handed over the large keyring and signed herself off the roster for the night before stepping back out to the Palace. It wasn't the typical prison used by the Brass Blades, or the Flames. These cells belonged to the Sultansworn. Used for high-level political prisoners, not common thugs. Still, it was a prison none the less.

 

This afternoon had been emotionally draining on the Knight. Her ward was no stranger to visitors tonight, and Coatleque had the unfortunate duty of eavesdropping the whole time. Unpleasant conversation had at least born fruit in the end. Some potential new leads in her case were now known, and Roen herself seemed to be the most hopeful that she had been since her arrival.

 

And there was her own nightly visit of course. Coatleque had made it a point that her last action each night would be to see that Roen was well accommodated for. Tonight she requested additional light, so a fireless torch would need to be provided. She also desired to speak again, which was a good step. To be able to speak of her ordeal without breaking down, to revisit the feelings while maintaining her composure. It meant she was finally able to look past it.

 

Telling the woman of her own past also gave Coatleque a small sense of relief. They had some common ground to share. Roen would not need to bear her pain alone at least, just as Coatleque had in Sapphire so many moons ago. Sapphire... F'lierre. She hadn't thought of her in some time. The Knight hoped she had survived somewhere, somehow.

 

Drained. Yes, drained. Her shift was over, it was time to relax before the night ended.

[Kage]

Kage fingered the linkpearl Natalie has given him once more. What Erik had first given him.

 

He'd started to wonder ever since he became a Brass Blade if it was worth it, holding onto it. Perhaps its only worth was to get the initial contact but.. even then, Kage wasn't sure if he should hold on to it.

 

No one but Natalie had even responded to him over it. Ser Crofte only spoke over it when Natalie said something.. a little embarrassing for him as he was a private one by nature.

 

While they killed the cur, Jin'li, Kage pondered over what Roswyn had told him and Erik. The mage. The voidsent. The cerulean core bomb. The first two had come to pass and the Jewel had weathered them a bit. The latter... well the latter he had made inquiries about in the hopes that while they had Jin'li in custody -someone- would think to interrogate him. If not, well Kage assumed then that the Red Wings had a handle on it.

 

Kage had tried but people refused to acknowledge it so he would leave it at that. He'd look into what Natalie said about that pugilist she'd met. Or Delial. Delial... was his lead into helping not just Roen but Gharen as well.

[Lady Rivienne]

The beguiling motion of flesh took place underneath the layers of silk adorning their forms. Though one was stilled, except from the rise and fall of his chest, the other stretched and moved in a languid motion against him. There came an appeasing sound, quiet and yet easily heard in the emptiness of the dark, as she was roused from sleep. Weariness was found past the flutter of lashes, which attempted to filter the lancing moonbeam that entered through the window. Golden eyes glittered when she turned away from Thaarus and rolled to face the light which bathed her this evening. The bed-sheets fell away from bronze flesh, only to pool around her waist whilst she sat up, taking in the faintest of sounds.

 

Even when attempting a moment's reprieve, which was found in slumber, something desired her attention. There was a rustle from the bough of the trees, and it was not some occurrence made by the winds. the rhythm of foot steps, albeit faint, were heard outside the window.

 

A glance was made past the curve of her shoulder to the pallid countenance of the man that slept beside her. With a slight twist of her frame, warm fingers sought out his marred cheek; her thumb brushed at the scar gingerly before letting slender digits caress his jawline. His hair was disheveled and fanned around his visage, enhancing his allure. Warmth was spreading across her features and a smile was triggered by the serenity he was enveloped in.

 

But, just as soon as that tenderness is expressed, Rivienne pulls herself away and slips her fingers underneath the pillow her golden crown once rested 'pon. When withdrawn, a sheathed dagger comes into view and is pulled against her body. Thaarus stirs, but she quickly leans over to his frame and presses her lips to the outer shell of his ear. Her contact lasts but a few heartbeats, for soon she is on her feet and taking possession of a robe at the end of the bed.

 

Silent footfalls carried her out of the bedroom, through the hall, where dying light sweeps across the room, stealing a caress of any exposed flesh soon covered by the light robe. The dagger was not forgotten, it was still in her grasp as she hastily made it to the very entrance of her homestead. The blade is unsheathed slowly, the scabbard set on the table. The flat side is pressed to her cheek, tapping it gingerly, as the door opens and swings in. That is when the tip of her blade is pointed forward at who awaits her.

 

The guest outside was garbed in dark attire, making him indistinguishable with the shadows that ensnared him. One thing was for certain, the striking gaze of silver met hers of gold. They narrowed as she took the envelope, which was, without a doubt, another assignment. Usually, these exchanges needed little verbal confirmation, but his voice spilled from past the scarf he wore, which caused her eyes to be drawn to the mottled shadows across his profile.

 

"Quite an act," his chin, though she could not see it, points toward the inside of her home. He slowly lifts a hand to lower the blade, which had been settled between his eyes.

 

"There is no acting involved, not with him. I would suggest you pay mind to your own business and keep out of my own." A warning laced with an even-tone that remained calm, steady. The envelope is taken into her free hand, whilst the dagger now rests at her side.

 

"Your business is ours, we rather not have another endangered. How much does he know?" The man looked past Rivienne, past the threshold, as if seeking something in her lightly lit home.

 

"I never inquired, though he is no fool. He knows what I am, I am sure he can piece everything together if he desired to investigate what dealings I have with you." She changes the subject immediately, her personal life was never meant to take precedence in this exchange. "When do you want me to take these targets on?"

"Come daybreak, instructions are written inside as to their travel schedule, the destination they are heading to. You need to make sure that the supplies are kept safe, at all costs. You will be opposed by a few that wish to get their hands on the delivery of these goods, rid them of breath." He gave her a salute, one she knew all too well, and turned on his heel, leaving Rivienne to watch him vanish into the drapery of darkness.

 

The door closed behind her and she felt the weight of the envelope in her hand. A slow breath is drawn out and the back of her head falls against the grain of the door. Tiredly, her eyes are drawn to the glow that came from the lamps as her thoughts draw her back to the moments shared at Thaarus' side early in the evening.

 

It was an escape of reality that she welcomed, and needed.

[Ciel]

At last, she thought.  One more task I can put behind me.

 

Ciel strode into Stillglade Fane's primary chamber with a sense of renewed calm which had all but been a stranger to her since she first returned nearly a cycle past.  In those moments of confusion, she hadn't imagined a task like this, but E-Sumi-Yan saw fit to punish her transgressions in unique ways, even if the Padjal, himself, hadn't seen it that way.  Finally she could enter his presence and provide him with an accomplishment rather than uncertainty.

 

She sat in silence, off to one side of the small footbridge, the trickle of water through the chamber only helped to settle her mind even more.  It was a welcoming sound.  They were whispering their welcome, and their pleasure at seeing her task fulfilled.  Too often it seemed that same sound grated on her nerves like stones grinding together, harsh and condemning.

 

The other Conjurers sitting before E-Sumi-Yan eventually dispersed, his lecture done for now, and the boyish figure looked to the songstress expectantly.  She knew that unspoken invitation, and she knew that he already knew why she had come to this very place she so often tried to avoid.

 

Ciel rose from her resting place and approached the center of the platform where her old mentor waited.  From her belt, she took a small bag and poured the object within onto the palm of her hand - a single shimmering sphere, which hovered just an ilm or so above her hand.  E-Sumi-Yan greeted her, then, with a genuine smile and extended a hand to take the artifact from her.

 

"I knew we had chosen the right person for the task," he offered amicably.

 

Ciel withdraw her hand to her side, yet kept her eyes on him, "You knew more than that."  This caused the Padjal to tilt his horned head to one side in askance, but she continued.  "You knew full well who had the Conjurer's Orb all along, and that is why you left his fate up to me rather than place an amount of gil on his head."

 

E-Sumi-Yan handed the orb off to another Conjurer with a few quietly spoken words and watch as it was carried off to be placed somewhere secure. More secure than it had been before.  And then he turned back to Ciel with the same knowing smile, still saying nothing.

 

"You little imp, you were testing me!"  The volume at which she spoke failed to match the severity of her anger over the matter, though this was anything but strange for the songstress.  And especially within the hallowed walls of the Fane, she dared not raise her voice.

 

At length E-Sumi-Yan bowed his head, but the innocent, child-like smile remained, "I could have done exactly that and sent anyone after the thief with gil as a lure, certainly... but that would have bespoke ill of our guild.  And I knew of no one else who would have handled such a delicate matter with such steadfastness, and without a drop of blood shed.  Your friendship with that person made no difference to me.  You are still very much a Conjurer, Ciel."

 

The songstress's cheeks flushed with anger.  E-Sumi-Yan had not only used her by dangling her own debt in front of her, but he still meant to draw her back into the guild and having her take on the task of finding the orb was all to try and prove, to herself if no one else, that she was meant to be there.

 

"And the Elementals are pleased by this, as you have no doubt heard,"  E-Sumi continued, seemingly unconcerned by the woman's mood.  "You have afforded yourself more time in retrieving the Berunda's remains, but only another moon at most.  Take too much more time, and you know what may befall you next time you set foot in the Shroud."

 

Ciel's head angled downward, causing her face to all but vanish beneath the brim of her hat.  "After that, will you leave me in peace?"

 

The Padjal's smile faded.  All too easily he understood that there would be no changing the woman's mind, try as he might to convince her otherwise.  "You have my word... would that your own demons could do the same, milady."

 

No more words came from her.  Even the bow she offered in her own dismissal was a stiff one, a gesture born of necessity and grudging respect more than one of gratitude.  The songstress didn't even bother to wait for his acknowledgment before she turned to leave the chamber.

[B'ren Lyrgh]

[align=center]"Been a bit, hasn’t it?"[/align]

 

 

 

 

[align=center]B’ren sat, perched atop the Bloody Knuckles. Night had long since fallen, but he was never one to sleep much to begin with. Idly a hand went to scratch at his chin stubble, the Miqo’te giving a small, annoyed grumble as his thoughts raced. Been far too long since he’d been around normal people, not stuck in his books and research, stuck in a loop of isolation with training and nagging. It felt nice. [/align]

 

 

 

 

[align=center]"Berrod Armstrong. I swear…" Barely knowing him but a few days and already finding the Highlander pleasant company. A simple man, not in mind but in statue and personality. Could almost be refreshing as it were, not being around such stuck up prissy pants. What lay before him, the White Mage in training barely could fortell. Not that it seemed to bother him, a few drinks had been taken (payment left behind) and enjoyed on the roof. His body limber and relaxed, eyes peering far out from behind the white mask.[/align]

 

 

 

 

[align=center]"D’alo, ooooh D’alo. Hurry with you duty so I can finally show you a life outside the Shroud. Silly man." Lips cracked in a smile, turning to a smirk as another bottle tipped over and the contents swallowed with eagerness. Whatever work he decided to do now, it came of his own hand and that was a certain freedom he longed to enjoy. Finally.[/align]

[Berrod Armstrong]

"Tom...! Tom, sweetheart, you'll be late if you tarry any longer!"

 

The middle-aged Highlander woman called out to her son from in the kitchen, where she had just finished wrapping him some snacks in red-checkered cloth.  It was a small room, shared between both kitchen and dining table. The little square table had room for only two, with chairs placed at opposing edges. Reddish-orange light streamed in through the single window, igniting the space in the colors of sunset. The meal had been made with care, and she made sure that it was something that would at least last until the next morning -- even if it tasted a little stale after too long. For her son, her only child, she wished only the best, and if she could provide it in any capacity, she did so.

 

From another room, a gentle male's voice replied, "Almost ready, mother! Boots..." Sure enough, a tall and uncharacteristically slender Highlander man entered the kitchen. His hair blazed in the same hue as the sun's light, and his bright, enthusiastic blue eyes peered from over a scattering of freckles on his nose and cheeks. Resplendent was he in a set of white and red robes, a replica of his childhood hero, one of the Padjal of old. She had made it for him herself, very almost literally pouring love into every stitch. Only the best for her little Tom, even grown as he was. He spotted the wrapped cloth and beamed. "You didn't have to, mother! You're too sweet. Thank you...!"

 

"Sweet treatment for a sweet young man," Said Mother. Her smile attested that she meant every word, and she wasted no time in handing over the wrapped bundle. Tom took it, and offered her a hug in return. Nothing could be more of a reward than the love of her child. "Do you have your gil?" She asked.

 

"I do?"

 

"Your staff?"

 

"It's at the door."

 

"Mister Spriggles, for luck?"

 

The man's face reddened at the mention of the little Spriggan plushie, safely tucked away in a pouch at his belt. Nevertheless, he nodded. "Always." The confirmation pleased Mother, and she offered him another hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Alright, then. Go, before you end up being tardy."

 

Tom squeezed back and released her, moving to the door to pick up his staff -- another replica of a relic of old. It held no special ability in particular, but it was a beautiful piece wrought of white wood and golden-colored foil. "I'll be back in the morning, probably. Likely I'll remain in an inn for the night! I love you, mother."

 

Warmth filled her breast -- to hear those words always uplifted her. Their bond was precious, and was a thing that she knew would remain unbroken. "I love you too, my little Tombleweed."

 

He flushed slightly and then chuckled, giving a short sort of bow before exiting the little house. The moment the door closed an almost suffocating loneliness occupied the space, unwanted solitude bathed in the red of oncoming dusk. It was nigh unbearable, being separated from her boy, but Mother would endure. He knew how important he was to her, and perhaps depended on her company as much as she did his since her husband did not return from Carteneau those five years ago.

 

With a little smile, she made a dismissive fling of her hand. "Bah. Silliness. I think I'll enjoy a book until bed." And so she went, able to ignore the emptiness about her with the simple reassurance that in the morning, her dear son would be back.

 

For no matter what, he would always come back.

[Eva]

"Whoa Martus, check out the tits on this one!"

 

The wiry miqo'te elbowed his mismatched friend in the ribs playfully as he whispered the words.  Martus, a bearded highlander who easily stood head and shoulders above the red-headed Seeker, fumbled the chisel he held in one hand but his eyes looked up from the block of stone and fell upon the customer's midsection, ogling her curves a moment before turning back to the miqo'te and waving his hammer menacingly.  "It's no wonder you're in trouble with that lady of yours all the time with those roaming eyes Puzh.  Go make yourself useful and fetch me a slab of granite."

 

Scoffing, Puzh finally broke his gaze away from the elezen customer's chest, eyeing Martus for a moment before huffing quietly and disappearing through a doorway.  The gray-haired highlander cast the woman a second glance.  She was dressed more modestly than most - particularly for it being in the midst of summer in one of the hottest places in Eorzea.  Lavender sleeves concealed most of her arms, and a black pair of cropped pants halted just below her knees, but her expansive bosom was only partly concealed by the loose-fitting cotton shirt she wore.  Her skin was pale gray, and blonde hair pulled back into a tidy ponytail.  Small beads of sweat upon her brow affirmed his belief.

 

The customer's eyes - a pair of circular amethysts - lifted from the monuments and statues she had been observing since her arrival in the shop.  Her face turned towards the workbench, revealing a dark tattoo that resembled a gnarled branch.  Martus quickly blinked and returned his focus to gently tapping hammer to chisel upon the block of stone set before him.  He had heard that the duskwight were keen of hearing, and realized she was probably insulted by his companion's brusque choice words.

 

Wiping her forehead with the back of her arm, she adjusted her garment a bit in the front, her lips parting a bit, "Excuse me sir, can you help me?"  The woman's voice was soft and gave no indication of annoyance.  He peered back at her from behind his stone block - this time at her face.  He stammered for a moment, but was cut off before he could respond.

 

"Welcome to Quillpoint Stonecuttery!  I'm Ravia Quillpoint!  I own this establishment, as you might figure."  Martus breathed a sigh of apparent relief and returned to his sculpting as the raven-haired hyur bounded through the doorway.  Her eyes also fell on the elezen's chest for a fraction of a moment before meeting her gaze, "What can I help you with today ma'am?"

 

The duskwight customer met the woman's well-practiced merchant's grin with a relieved smile of her own, reaching out to meet her handshake, "My name is Eva.  I'm from Gridania.  I need a monument - something like you might find in a lichyard.  A memorial."

 

The midlander woman hummed, fingertips reaching to her chin as she looked the elezen woman over consideringly, "I'm terribly sorry for your loss, Miss Eva.  We can certainly fashion something like that, but delivery to Gridania will be extra.  Obviously you're aware that stone is heavy and difficult to transport throughout Thanalan."

 

The negotiating game.  Always this way with folks from Ul'dah.  As if the heat itself wasn't bad enough, and being forced into lesser garments, and dealing with the boorish remarks that in turn elicited.

 

The elezen smiled, eyeing the door a moment as if considering walking out, "Stone is heavy, really?"  She folded her arms beneath her breasts, looking down slightly at the hyur woman's face which cringed only slightly at the realization her words had been taken for an insult.  "Perhaps I'll find someone in Gridania with whom to do business.  I came here on a recommendation because I heard you were the best, and that is what this monument demands."  Pausing a moment, Eva lowered her arms.  "My intention of course was to compensate you adequately for your efforts, including delivery from Ul'dah to Lavender Beds in the Twelveswood."

 

The hyur woman, having smoothed the ridges on her forehead, smiled back at her and gave a nod, "You have heard correctly.  We pride ourselves on our quality of craftsmanship.  I simply wanted to make you aware that our customers are usually nearby, because of the high delivery costs.  We will be glad to fashion your monument and see it safely brought to your home in the Twelveswood.  Ah, what did you want the design to be."

 

Eva smiled back at her, "Dark stone.  Upon a pedestal.  A masculine, bearded elezen man.  Several wolves at his feet, as if awaiting his command."

 

"Easily doable.  It will be extra for the wolves."

 

Of course it would....

 

The store owner continued, "Did you want some sort of engraving on the base?"

 

The flaxen-haired duskwight chewed her bottom lip a moment and nodded to her, "Aye.  Given name: O-S-K-A-R.  Surname: H-E-L-V-I-G.  Beloved leader, mentor, companion, and father."

[Coatleque]

Coatleque sat at her desk once more, late at night. She should have been in bed hours ago. The fact that Warren was now waiting on her made her feel even worse. Still, there were more pressing matters at hand then her personal life. She looked down momentarily to the drawer at her feet, then sighed and rubbed her face. For the first time tonight even she was beginning to think it was a bad idea to bring the girl here.

 

She had drawn up a notice to be hung at the Gaols for all guards on duty:

[align=center]--------------------[/align]

[align=center]Attention[/align]

Henceforth, no food or drink is to be delivered to inmate Deneith until personally inspected and approved by Ser Coatleque Crofte. This includes all standard prison rations and water skins.

~ by order of Ser Crofte, Sgt.

[align=center]--------------------[/align]

 

She looked at the other document which rested on the corner of her desk. Yet another report to file. She read over it twice before crumpling it in her hands and depositing it in her waste basket. Two lives were now at risk due to this man's meddling. This would need to be handled in person.

 

Ser Jameson Taeros,

Your increased hand in my affairs has now jeopardized the safety of my ward. I must needs remind you that control of this investigation was given to me specifically, and I shall brook no threats to myself or my ward in this matter. I believe it is time for you to deliver on that promise of a drink.

~ Ser Crofte, Stg.

[W'zota Tia]

The day started as almost every other of W'zota's days started. Before the sun was even on the horizon, the Miqo'te man strolled out of his room in the Quicksand while munching on an apple. As one could expect from the time, the inn's main room was desolate, save for the Lalafell that Momodi had working the front while she was sleeping herself.

 

W'zota walked out of the eastern entrance towards the Steps of Thal, walking along the stone streets with the sound of his hard-leather caligae clicking with each step as he made his way towards a particular back alley. Once he reached his destination, the Miqo'te held the apple between his teeth as he began climbing a stack of crates. At the top of that pile, he made a little jump to a ledge built into the side of one of the buildings, clinging to the wall above it as he made his way to another ledge. Some more creative climbing and he was on one of the roofs above the city.

 

Zota crouched down on the edge of the roof and finished his apple as he watched the sun rise on the horizon. He tossed the core off the edge back towards the alley when he was done, rubbing his hands together as if trying to get rid of some of the juice that was on them. He failed, of course. Once he was stretched out, he shifted his feet fluidly into his favored fighting stance and raised his hands, picturing an opponent in front of him. He took a deep breath and began throwing out quick punches, dodging around imaginary blows that were thrown towards him.

 

Once he was shadowboxing, his mind was focused purely on his movements. He was constantly striving to improve his form and speed, though they were good enough for what he did at the moment. In his mind, there was always more to learn about his fighting and he would keep trying to learn as long as that was possible or until he could fight no longer.

 

The sun had risen above the horizon by the time W'zota finished his practice. He smiled as he made his way back down to the city's streets, taking a look around before heading off to start the rest of his day.

[D'ly]

Clink.

 

That was stupid.

 

Clink.

 

I should not have done that.

 

Clink.

 

But…

 

Clink.

 

Muted green eyes stared down at the pillars of coins stacked on the round table. There were three; ten in each pillar.

 

Clink.

 

Five were picked up and dropped onto five below. That simple little movement continued for what must have felt like forever. It did in her head.

 

Clink.

 

But even forever had to come to an end at some point. Didn't it?

 

Silence.

 

Both hands were placed on either side of the coin pillar that she had played with. Both hands gave a hard shove that helped her rise up from the chair which was pushed back by her legs. She turned to her left and walked right over to the feather bed that sat sung in the corner of the room. Despite her words she mildly enjoyed sleeping in a bed which is where fell; the upper half of her body on, the lower half off. Somewhat kneeling.

 

“Ooof.” Air filled her lungs just as quickly as it was pushed out. Her fingers dug into the covers which caused them to bunch into her palms. “…damn it.” Words were muffled by the mattress. She kicked her the tips of her boots against the wooden floor, thump, thump, thump, before she pulled, then rolled, her entire body onto the bed. “Damn it.”

 

Silence.

[Berrod Armstrong]

Ever so often, Berrod had to face the fact that he was not a carefree adolescent. Granted that he had never remembered being one, the Highlander lived his life in a seemingly perpetual state of youthful aimlessness. Young as he still was, he was old enough to know that the time had come for him to stop. There were responsibilities on his plate now, heavy ones indeed. The building. The Leve distribution. The relations with the Immortal Flames. His probation officer from the Maelstrom. There were other, minor social responsibilities as well. He at least wanted to say hello to the men he had faced in the Grindstone, make sure they were doing alright. He wanted to apologize to her as well, even if that so far had proven a monumental task on his part. 

 

And now, students.

 

The last one made him laugh; he was no teacher...at least, he didn't see himself as one. He didn't even know the full extent of the art which he was expected to teach, being only halfway there himself. Yet, he had been sought out for guidance by one friend, and saw the burgeoning potential in another. Berrod would not teach one without teaching the other. Even then, he realized that he would be welcome to more. 

 

The Highlander sat at the table in the dark of his quarters, allowing the quiet breathing of his sleeping housemates (he was quite lucky that not one of the three snored) to ease him into pensive repose. Upon the wooden surface was a scattering of parchment; official notices from the Immortal Flames, financial statements for their first moon in operation, a listing of occupied rooms, another listing of available leves...so much work to do, it was nigh overwhelming. Fortunately he trusted the leves and finances to others, so that he could focus on what he could handle. 

 

In the midst of the parchment pile sat a small, dark wooden box with an ornately carved cover. A small frown turned his lips every time he set eyes on it. The acquisition of the box's contents had been a less than savory affair, but he could not let these things go to waste -- not even to be buried with the ones who had once held them. For about the fifth time that bell he reached over and took it into his hands, turning it over to listen to the quiet rattle of the objects inside. Who was he to distribute them? Would it be wise to even do so? In what manner would his potential students need to prove themselves before he offered them?

 

Guilt slithered through him as he opened the box. Inside, four small, amber crystals caught what little light was left in the room. Soul crystals. Four in total, each taken from one of a group of monks that he and his colleagues had faced and defeated all those moons ago. He already knew who he wanted to have two of them. The other two, only time would tell.

[B'ren Lyrgh]

[align=center]Do you miss the sands? That was a question that came to his mind nearly every day he was awake and alone with his thoughts. It plagued it like some gnat that he could never truly swat away for long. The thought was never too heavy on him to warrant deep thinking but never too light to shrug off. B'ren was never much sentimental man, but it never stopped him from missing home. Truth to be told, the Miqo'te hadn't been back in some years. Not even to visit.[/align]

 

 

[align=center]"Going there now would be foolish, you haven't slept in days and eaten since yesterday afternoon. Just calm down will ya?"[/align]

"Not exactly as easy at it seems ya know."

[align=center]"I wasn't talking to you..."[/align]

"Then whom? Me?"

 

 

[align=center]"Shut UP."[/align]

[align=center]The bottle was thrown, thrown with more than enough force to shatter it against the wall of the inn room B'ren found himself in for the night. Leve's were done and then he was here, more than he can care to remember. Visitors? There were none. Any poor soul sitting outside had the awkwardness of listening a grown man argue with himself and his rampaging, sleep denied brain. And that bed was looking mighty comfortable right about now. [/align]

 

[align=center]If only the pillows didn't look like nails and the blankets of sandpaper.[/align]

[Coatleque]

Master Tane.

 

Her own politeness now sickened her. That she would even bother to call him that? She felt as if she would need to bathe for a day just to rid herself of his smell. Of all people, why did it have to be Alabrous Tane?

 

She could deal with his lewd insults. His creepy smile. His unwillingness to cooperate with her. What she could not deal with was the fact he remembered her. Even worse, that she could not forget him. On top of that he seemed to be quite familiar with that bard who was cozeying up to Warren the other night.

 

She was one step away from drawing her blade to his neck this night. The whole investigation was putting her on edge. His inability to focus on the task at hand was infuriating. She felt as if she was the only one who cared at all who lived or died anymore.

 

He finally listened to the clinking of gil. A hefty price, though much less than she was prepared to spend. The deal was made and she returned now with a substantially lighter purse. Making her way back to her room where Warren was waiting, she just wanted to forget everything else this night.

[Kage]

Kage watched as the documents burned. Documents from a time long past. Documents from when he was smaller and he was still a Sultansworn.

 

Cicero would change his story in his own flowery way so that Roen would be free. So long as Kage did a few things.

 

The records Kage possessed... the documents he'd kept about Cicero's holding in the gaols and his subsequent escape during the night. All mentions of his past, his "old" life... gone. Neither he nor Natalie would be speaking of it.

 

And the damned Miqo'te would be a Brass Blade.

 

May the Twelve have mercy on me, Kage thought, as he still thought he was making a deal with evil.

[Coatleque]

Early the next morning...

 

Master Jameson Taeros,

 

I write to thank you for taking the time to meet with me unofficially last eve. I regret that our time was cut short with so many yet unanswered questions. I understand you are a busy man, and I have no doubt you realize mine own time is precious. Should you desire to continue our pleasantries, simply call on me. There are many drinks in this city, and only so many persons to share them with.

 

~Ser Coatleque Crofte, Sgt

[Jancis]

Jancis sat quietly on the airship back to Limsa. She had traveled to Ul'dah for the night to get away from the ship-city and clear her head.

 

The bustle of the Jewel was a good distraction from her problems, but then as if Thaliak cued it, up walked the dark highlander with the kind eyes.

 

She had confessed what little she knew to Oscare there in the Quicksand. That there were items in question, that she was pressed for an answer she didn't have. A shipment had come into Limsa with questionable goods. Goods she recognized yet had never seen before. It was more than coincidence.

 

Oscare had encouraged her to pursue it.

 

 

"I know how it feels to see an object or objects and just feel that it belongs to you. It's a humane feeling."

 

She sat there, bracing herself for the sways as the airship hit a gust in its route. He was right, she had always followed her heart before. Something Sir Filangieri would have echoed just as true.

 

"It'll help you get over a dark chapter of your life, maybe. Or maybe offer the answers to those 'un-answerable' questions."

 

Was she afraid of what she might learn? Was she afraid of how she would react in knowing? Oscare claimed it would offer closure and Jancis bemused if that would be at a great cost.

 

"Envy is a useless emotion for all involved, Jancis. Envy doesn't accomplish anything. Envy is the emotion you feel when you desire something you cannot have. But you can have this."

 

She could have closure. His words had heartened her.

 

 

"Go investigate the goods again whence you have the chance. Maybe you'll find something you didn't see earlier.Give everything a second glance all over. Your feelings are your untrained instincts. They're trying to tell you something."

 

Perhaps there was time to look into this a bit. The way Oscare had acted before he departed filled her with concern. The present was far more important than a glimpse of an unknown past.

 

But perhaps there was a little bit of time.

[Oscare]

One thing led to another last night. Oscare had a generally serious conversation with Jancis about the goods she spoke of earlier. However, something was very clearly amiss within Oscare.

 

He chomped on his own lip during the conversation -- an involuntary action. It looked like someone closed his mouth for him, as his teeth made unpleasant contact with his lips and bled. He was healed fine enough, but Oscare started slurring his words. Stammering. Spouting nonsense, and his attention span started fading in and out again. A habit he thought that he grew out of since he joined the Astral Agents. But it reappeared again.

 

He found an excuse to slip out of the conversation with Jancis and bolted into his room, collapsing onto his knees. Panting, he looks up. 

 

"AVERSA! DAMN YOU!" 

 

"What was that?" Oscare's shouts were silenced by a feminine voice from the pitch-black corner of the room. "Damn me? Oh, you shouldn't have~." She mocks, walking up to Oscare laying her sharpened nails on his forehead. Freezing up again, Oscare goes quiet and collapses. His breathing stopped.

 

"I just wanted to let you know, Oscare dear. I always win."

[Coatleque]

The Knight stepped into her office, swinging the door wide. She removed her beret and left it on the rack just inside. It was mid-morning now, and she had just returned after seeing to the comfort of her ward as she did every morning. Leaving the door open now, she sat down to her desk and began going over duty rosters for the week.

 

Her concentration was broken by the arrival of a new initiate. Ser Tohen had completed his oath not two months ago. She had assigned him the simple task of finding Ser Besten, the Sworn who had taken a recent interest in the well-being of her ward, but who was now shirking his own duties. He stepped up to the open door, boots clanking hard against the floor as he saluted her.

 

"Ser Crofte!"

She looked up at him from over the paper she was reading. "Aye? As you were."

"Excuse the interruption, my Lady. We have found Ser Besten. I came as soon as I was able."

 

She knew right away what news to expect from the worried expression on the young man's face. She dropped the report with a sigh and rose to leave. Plucking her beret from the rack once more she gave him the order with a flat and determined tone as she passed.

 

"Show me."

[111]

The following official report was submitted to the Syndicate, the Sultansworn, the Flames and the Brass Blades.

 

Less officially it has been found circulating on the streets of the city and in the refugee camps outside.

 

Regarding the Criminal status of one Gharen Wolfsong.

 

It is the belief of I, Natalie Mcbeef, Sultansworn and Guardian of her Grace Nanamo Ul’namo, that the charges against one Gharen Wolfsong do not advance the cause of justice in the city of Ul’dah. Charges that the man is a terrorist have little basis in reality, and the man’s actual actions show a deep-seated love and admiration for our city. It is my humblest request that the Syndicate view this report and pardon the man, who is guilty of nothing more than hating Garlemald, and loving his home.

 

Gharen Wolfsong was a man forged in the fire of battle, and while for the moment

Ul’dah lies in peace, he knows the Garlean menace is not truly defeated, and lurks treacherously in the city of Ala Mhigo, a city he once called home. It was in this mindset that he was contracted to help bring a package to the resistance, a package of whose contents he was ignorant of. Alas, their party was waylaid by perfidious Garlean treachery, and the package was stolen. How Gharen did weep when he discovered that the package contained a cerulean core stolen from our dear city. How he did gnash his teeth at the lost profits he caused the city, the funds lost replacing it. It was at this point the Syndicate declared him an enemy, and rightly so, as is anyone who causes a loss to the city. However, Gharen’s noble soul burned with the desire to redeem himself, and to make up for the money Ul’dah had lost from the foolishness of the resistance.

 

So Gharen bid his time and waited, knowing that someday his chance would come, and recently it did. When the entire city trembled in fear against the menace that was Jin’li, when our water was poisoned, when diabolical collars turned friend to foe, when armies of voidsent crashed against our gates, Gharen knew it was time to repay his debt. Banding together with a group of heroes, including his sister Roen Deneith, Gharen raided a Garlean castrum, at great risk to himself, and little chance of financial return. There the tools to remove the collars were found, allowing those coerced to escape certain death, and saving the city untold amounts of gil training their replacements.

 

Gharen Wolfsong is an asset to the Jewel, and should be treated as such. Now properly chastised, he will go about his travels with the profits of the Jewel in mind, hampering the Garlean effort at no cost to ourselves. While his interactions with Ul’dah started off as a loss, I believe we will only continue to profit for his actions in the future. It is in this forward thinking matter I once again suggest for a remittance of his criminal status

 

The full reports and documentation regarding this case can be found submitted to the proper authorities.

 

- Natalie Mcbeef

- Sultansworn

[Zhavi]

((rewritten from in game rp))

 

Zhavi Streetrunner had made a mistake.

 

She had known it to be a mistake when he'd approached her. Something was off in his posture, his bearing. It had taken her too many seconds to recognize it, and when she had he had cornered her. She knew what Xydane looked like when he was hunting.

 

But he had never hunted her.

 

She knew why. Without asking, she knew. She'd been found out. She was not innocent. Had never been innocent, not since she could remember. He had found that out. The specifics didn't matter.

 

He had found out.

 

He didn't speak until he'd backed her up, until she turned to run, until he'd taken her down more than once. Until he had her by the throat.

 

"You... dare to take me as a fool?! You have no idea who the hell I am, do you?"

 

He was angry. Maybe he was right to be angry. She did think him a fool. A volatile, naive fool. A dangerous fool. But she'd never been particularly good at not burning her fingers on the flames. She had no allies. No escape. No chance. She stared at him, wrapping her hands around the one that held her throat. "I do. . .what gotta. . .t'survive!"

 

It hurt to talk.

 

"Survive. . .hmph." Xydane let her go, and backhanded her.

 

It always felt like a longer trip to the ground then it actually was. She hit the ground hard, collapsed there for a second regaining her breath. Then she started to push herself up onto her hands and knees. She had to escape. She had to get out of there. She started to crawl away.

 

She was too slow. Xydane grabbed her by the collar and threw her back down. "You. . .disgust me. Your kind . . . disgusts me. Tell me, runner. . .what do you see when you look at me?"

 

A crazed man. A fool. A dangerous enemy.

 

Air whistled as she gasped, as she caught herself, skidded. Skin tore. Splinters dug in. She could work through the pain. Always had. She knew better than to look, knew better than to talk. Knew better -- knew nothing. "Job. A chance."

 

She started to get up again. She could swim. She could swim away -- she just had to get away from him.

 

Wasn't gonna happen. His foot landed behind her right knee, pinning her to the deck. He grabbed her by the neck, forced her head around. Forced her to look at him. "Do you know who I am? Do you know why I do what I am forced to do?"

 

Her eyes were filled with fear, with hate, with a thousand conflicting emotions. The urge to rebel, to fight, had been burned away so many years ago. She knew when she was beaten. She knew when she was alone. She knew when she had to give in. To beg. It always twisted, deep down, in the places she would swear she didn't have. "No. I-I don't. Please," she spoke from between teeth clenched tight. "Please. Don't kill me." Her eyes burned, but she wouldn't cry. Not for some guttersnipe like him.

 

"Answer my question, filth."

 

"I said I don't know!"

 

"Oh, you know the answer all to well. You're the one who used me, remember? You know exactly what I am."

 

She swallowed, her fingers digging into the wood. Her head was reeling. She didn't know what to do. What was the right answer? What was the wrong? What was the one that would keep her alive? "Yer a. . .a killer."

 

She knew there was a blade by her throat. When he had put it there, she couldn't say.

 

She knew he was going to kill her.

 

"I am a necessary evil," he said. His voice was cold. Dead.

 

There was a whisper of noise as he withdrew the smaller blade and started to unsheathe his sword. She went still. Her mouth was unbearably dry. She was shaking. "Don't kill me," she whispered.

 

He moved behind her. She didn't look. She tried to jerk away from his grip. She scrabbled at the ground, a small bleating noise escaping her. "Wait! Wait!" Her face was almost to the planking, her eyes squeezed shut. "I can help ye -- somethin' -- anythin' -- jes don't . . .don't!"

 

"Necessary. . .evil." His voice was like silk. He brought the blade down.

 

It slammed into the wood inches from her face. She jumped, squealed.

 

"Do you feel fear, Kink?"

 

Zhi went still again. Her heartbeat was pounding in her ears. "Yes." Her voice was naught but a breath of sound.

 

"Fear is a strong weapon. Much more powerful than the best forged steel. You shall deliver your fear. You shall send it like a message. 'The Unrelenting' has shown you fear. Tell others of it. Spread it like a forest fire. 'The Unrelenting' is necessary evil. All who sin shall soon be descended by a bird of prey."

 

She trembled.

 

"Spread the word to both guards and criminals. Spread my name."

 

She hated.

 

"Double-cross me again... and your fear shall be the death of you. Now... crawl back to the dark hole whence you came from, Miqo'te."

 

She would never bend to any one person ever again. No matter that she begged. No matter that she was beaten. No matter that she all but pressed her face to the boots of the person who'd almost killed her. No matter that, when it came down to it, she was always craven.

 

She would not break.

 

Xydane removed his foot from the back of her knee, wrenched his sword free from the wood. Just like that, he walked away into the city. It swallowed him up, just like it swallowed everyone.

 

Zhavi stayed down for awhile, head bent, fists clenched. But she got up, eventually, as she always did. She always rebounded. She turned to look at the city that had taken him in. Her eyes were hard. Nothing was absolute, and nothing was forever. She gathered her humiliation, her fear, her hatred, her rage, and she squashed it down deep where no one would ever see it.

 

There was work to be done.

[Nero]

"Mmmhhmppm!"

 

Nero glanced at the source of the noise in irritation. The Highlander had woken up and started struggling against his bonds, the chair making a rhythmic clack clack clack against the floor. Casually, the Midlander smuggler walked to the other side of the room and with his foot, shoved the chair-bound Highlander over. While the tall Hyur continued to struggle, at least the chair had stopped making that insidious clacking noise.

 

"Bit of a noisy sort, your bodyguard." Nero remarked. "He ought to learn to relax a bit. Take life slowly, you know?" 

 

At the back of the room, bound to another chair, was a middle-aged Lalafell garbed in gaudy clothing and jewelry that indicated his status as a wealthy merchant. Unlike the Highlander, the Lalafell was the picture of calm, as if expecting himself to be teleported to the security of his estate at any moment. Nero and the Lalafell stared at one another in a long silence that was punctuated by the occasional shuffling of the Highlander.

 

Finally, the Hyur sighed. "You're making this much harder than it has to be." Nero exhaled, the exasperation showing on his voice. He tousled his hair briefly with one hand, placing the other on his hip. "You know, the fact that we're both doing something technically illegal is supposed to make this easy. Surrender full control of the route to me, and I'll pay you a stipend. Nobody else has to know. There is absolutely nothing you will lose from this besides a single route out of fifty. Besides maybe a bit of pride and a few hundred thousand gil." He paused, expecting a reaction. When none came, he knelt down to the Lalafell's level, his earrings jingling softly. A cocky grin curled the corner of Nero's lip.

 

"Give me this one route, and you'll get to go home safe and sound, and I'll be able to go to the Bismarck in time to make my reservation."

 

"I will not condone the trade of illicit goods," the Lalafell wheezed in a somewhat hollow voice, as if he were reading off a script. Nero snorted derisively in response, standing up, his cordial expression replaced by a sneer of utter contempt.

 

"I'm fairly certain your bosses in the Syndicate ship more illicit product in a day than I do in a year. Please don't try to defend this on moral grounds, I can only take so much hypocrisy in one sitting before having an allergic reaction." His face evaporating back into an eerily cheery smile, he spread his arms dramatically. "And need I remind you of exactly how much product you were stealing from your employer with that route? I mean, I could have just sold the info to them, but being the paragon of generosity that I am.." A soft bump was heard as the Highlander apparently made contact with the wall during his struggle. Nero rolled his eyes.

 

"Stop struggling, you're only going to hurt yourself." It seemed to work, for the noises of the Highlander's epic struggle with the ropes and the chair ceased. Turning his attention back to the Lalafell, Nero crossed his arms, icy blue eyes gazing directly at his captive.

 

"Well, if you won't accept my very generous offer, maybe I'll just let our mutual friend Pepesha accept it." At the mention of that name, the eyes of the middle-aged Lalafell widened, seemingly synchronised with the widening of the Hyur's grin. "After a judicious application of persuasive force, obviously." The Lalafell seemed to freeze, but beyond that made no reaction for several long seconds of quiet, a habit that Nero was getting rather tired of.

 

Nero's grin drooped slightly, an eyebrow furrowing. "What I'm saying is that I'm going to hit her. A lot. As in, with my hand. Shaped like this." He held up a fist. "And it's probably going to hurt a lot. Unless you turned her into an iron golem or something. In which case the joke would be on me. You know, I wouldn't even be mad if that happened."

 

The Lalafell did not appear amused by the idea.

 

Nero sighed again. "Look, friend, really, one of three things are going to happen before this day is over. One," his mouth spread into another Cheshire-esque smile of faux affability and he clasped his hands together,"you accept my proposal and we all go home happy. Two, I throw your body," the Hyur jabbed a thumb at a nearby window, "out of that architectural orifice, and lean on your pretty daughter until she accepts my proposal. Or falls madly in love with me. One of the two." He paused.

 

"The third is that I get bored and forget about you. Maybe take a week off in Costa del Sol. Then I consider early retirement and spend the rest of my days being fanned by lovely Miqo'te girls in colorful swimwear."

 

Nero sighed wistfully, then glanced at the Lalafell, his hands on his hips again.

 

"Between you and me, that's the most unlikely one."

 

Another long silence, hopefully the last of many, passed until the Lalafell croaked out an answer. "How do I know you aren't going to sell me out anyway?"

 

Sensing that the Lalafell was close to caving, Nero's expression lit up into one of glee, and performed a mocking bow to his captive. "You have my word as a liar, scoundrel, smuggler, and honest-to-gods good for nothing ruffian," the Hyur announced dramatically. 

 

With a smile still cresting his face, Nero tilted his head towards the Lalafell. "By which I mean, you don't. But it's not as if you have a choice now, do you?"

 

"And my daughter?" the Lalafell's voice had broken down into a whisper.

 

"Will remain safe and sound...probably. If you cause trouble for me, we'll need to have a little chat with her. And her husband." The Hyur had no intention of doing any lasting harm to Pepesha or her husband--his information said that the couple had a child on the way--but that didn't mean he couldn't make the older Lalafell sweat a little bit.

 

In an exhalation that seemed to amalgamate into a cross between a wheeze, a sigh, and a cough, the Lalafell slumped. "Take....take the route, then."

 

Nero spun around, clapping his hands, his widest smile yet adorning his face. "Now that wasn't so hard, was it?"

[Warren Castille]

Moonlight pooled through the window and illuminated them in each other's arms. Menphina was spying on her handiwork and if the full glowing face of the moon in the sky was any indication, she was looking intently.

 

Warren looked back in quiet contemplation before shifting his gaze from one heavenly body to the next. Her face was gentle and relaxed in the weary hands of restful sleep and her arms had long since stopped squeezing against him but remained fast around his sides. The tears had ceased and Warren's heart sang songs while looking at her like that; Peaceful and innocent, a young woman basking in the glow of the moon. It was with this picture in mind that Warren struggled to quell the fires stoked within.

 

She'd told him, of course. He had always wanted to know whatever he could about her investigations, and she complied with his wishes possibly more intently than she would normally be permitted to speak with someone not officially Sworn. When she returned on the verge of tears, her face tense with the struggle to remain composed, he had immediately set the book down on the endtable and gone to her. He looked at her face as she slept on him and kept it framed while he remembered how she had come apart in his arms and told him of the conversation she and Alabrous Tane had that evening.

 

He had offered loving arms and gentle words, a kind ear to listen and warm lips to soothe. She needed him to help steady herself, and she'd cried and sobbed and poured her heart into his hands and he'd kept vigil over it as he had over her, but now that she was asleep something within him was stirring. Alabrous Tane. Conniving, insufferable rogue who laughed in the face of respect and authority. A man who listened to gil above all else.

 

He'd referenced that in Ul'dah, gil and power were interchangeable. He'd made clear that, regardless of your station in life, money would get you things. He'd made certain she knew that while he was spending money, to her he was mightier than the Twelve. His gil spoke for him, and it said he was master.

 

Not any longer.

 

Those days had long since passed. The woman he thought he had lorded over, had broken, did not belong to him, or any other. She had become something fierce and faithful, not despondent and miserable. Alabrous Tane thought his history would spare him the burden of needing to acknowledge who she was now.

 

Warren thought perhaps he needed to clarify things for Alabrous Tane.

[Nero]

To call the sight "sorry" would be to say that a rampaging Morbol at a wedding was a mildly unwelcome presence.

 

The sight in question was that of a Roegadyn and a Hyur collectively slumped on a table like used napkins that had been left after a banquet. The Sea Wolf's mint green skin had adopted a worringly pale pallor, while the Hyur's face glowed with a flushed hue that could not have signified intoxication more unless a bottle-shaped sign constructed of fiery letters were suspended above his head.

 

The Drowning Wench was unusually quiet that night, and Tenfingers, the proprietor, was nowhere to be seen, leaving nary a soul in sight. The moon shone high in the sky, its argent gleam contrasting with the warm pub lights, and the sound of the sea lapping at the docks carried gently through the mostly empty establishment. The vacancy was something of an anomaly, as Limsa Lominsa's most popular pub could, under normal circumstances, only truly be considered "empty" when there are one or more dead or unconscious bodies in it.

 

As it happened, not only were there no dead or unconscious bodies (that could be seen, anyway) but the furniture was intact as well. Several bottles lay strewn around the pair's table, a clear enough hint at the revelry that had taken place, and a wordless explanation for their undignified position.

 

Occasionally, something between a groan and a sigh would be traded between the two, with the Hyur's resembling a blacksmith's bellows and the Roegadyn's resembling the same pair of bellows but with a particularly loud bag of rocks stuck inside it. Their exhalations and variations thereof were the most significant communication the pair had traded with one another in what felt like years.

 

One of the bottles rolled off the table and clattered to the floor, another unfortunate casualty of the festivities. The noise provoked a jolt of movement from the Hyur, who lethargically lifted his head to scan his surroundings. A tarnished pair of elaborate earrings jingled as his head moved, with bloodshot eyes the colour of ice slowly attempted to remember how to properly perceive an environment. 

 

"Mayhaps....I spent too much, Satz..." Nero wheezed. With both hands he held his head, soot black bangs crested with streaks of orange falling around his face. The Roegadyn provided his valuable insight to the Hyur's statement by promptly falling off the chair with a mighty thud that would have squashed a steel ingot. A rumble escaped the Sea Wolf's lips that at this point sounded more like an extended grunt than a groan or a sigh.

 

"Ye have....nev'r been one t' hold back..." Every word the giant uttered seemed to take a titanic amount of effort. The corner of Nero's lips struggled to form some semblance of a grin.

 

"Because...we could all be dead tomorrow, and we have...to spend that time well...or something.."

 

The silence that followed indicated that philosophy was not welcome in the current situation.

 

"I...I may be dead right now...tell Garalt that 'e still owes me money..." Another heave of the rock-filled bellows resonated from beneath the table. "Ooh, a century be too long 'fore I see the Wench's floor again..." Satz rolled over like a log, the Roegadyn's blocklike face resting squarely on a floor tile.

 

"Have..have you ever thought about that?" Nero asked, one hand still holding up his head as the other hand fished around in his pockets for nothing in particular.

 

"I'm not inna position t' be thinkin' about anything 'sides me impending demise...." came the response which Nero either ignored or didn't register, with the latter being more likely.

 

"Why...why does Tenfingers call this place the 'Drowning Wench'? I mean, has...has he drowned a wench before?"

 

"Yer too loud..." the floor complained. Nero lay the side of his head onto the roughly cut wood of the table, staring out of the pub's entrance, his earrings jingling once again and his eyes blearily opening and closing like they had temporarily forgotten how to blink and were trying to recall the motion from muscle memory.

 

"Did a wench once drink so much here that...she drowned? Why would...why would you name your pub after that?" The Hyur's bizarre inquiry to nobody in particular continued. "Wouldn't that...be like naming a smithy 'The apprentice who burned to death inside the forge'..?"

 

"Lad, right now yer voice be as pleasant as th' sound o' coeurls mating," was Satz' contribution to the incredibly fascinating question.

 

"Did the...the wench drown inside the building? On the building? Around it?" Nero flopped his arms over the side of the table where they dangled like vines. "Was it really a wench? Maybe it was a barmaid or a fishmonger's daughter..."

 

"'E prob'ly named it after 'is wife.." The Sea Wolf's voice had evolved from rocks in a bellow to rocks being smashed together.

 

The deliberate opening and closing of Nero's eyelids took ten long seconds.

 

"...Tenfingers has a wife?"

 

Another groan emerged from the floor.

 

The night continued.

[C'kayah Polaali]

"You want me to what?"

 

C'kayah sat uncomfortably on the edge of his chair, holding a too-hot cup of liquor and frowning at the dark-skinned Matriarch perched before him.

 

"Take Rhaki in", she replied. Her face was calm and composed, her voice smooth. She'd aged in the years he'd known her, a streak of white contrasting to her dark hair, the lines at the corners of her eyes deeper than when he'd last seen her. She still carried the same easy air of authority, however. The same confidence that he would acquiesce, that his objections were merely part of the ritual they must go through.

 

"Why Rhaki? Why us?"

 

"She's restless", Farih said simply. When he didn't reply, she continued on. "She wants to make her mark in the world, and she doesn't think she can do it here, at home. I was the same way, when I was her age." The Matriarch smiled then, pleasure shining in her pale eyes.

 

"That answered my first question", he said, holding the tiny cup of heated liquor under his nose and inhaling its sharp scent. "Not my second." Inwardly he shook his head, though. He knew what she would say, and she didn't disappoint him.

 

"She's still ignorant of the larger world", Farih stated softly. "She needs someone to watch over her while she learns. Someone we can trust. And you…"

 

"And I owe you", he finished, nodding.

 

"And you owe me", she agreed.

 

He sipped the liquor, hissing a little as it burned the back of his throat. Her faint smile widened slightly. She knew what his acceptance of her hospitality signaled.

 

"Alright", he said, gazing flatly at her. "I'll take her in. Keep her safe."

 

"And teach her your business", she added, the tip of a sharp fang flashing against the dark skin of her lips.

 

He nodded, exhaling. "And teach her my business", he agreed, a note of defeat in his voice.

 

"Good", she purred. "Now, about those reagents you wanted to buy…"

[Nero]

For the average citizen, there are many essential social skills that one would do well to learn thoroughly. Among those essential skills are knowing how to ask questions, knowing how to appear interested, and perhaps most importantly, knowing when to disengage from a conversation that can never go in a positive direction.

 

There are several clear indications as to when the aforementioned conversational direction is crashing harder than an airship made entirely of smelly cheese and wishful thinking. One such indication, one that had unfortunately passed over Nero's head like a gentle breeze passes over the face of a cheerful baby, was his first mate Daegsatz Traggblansyn responding to Nero's initial question with the comment "Lad, that be racist."

 

"I'm not being racist!" the Hyur said, puffing out his chest indignantly.

 

"Nay, yer bein' racist," Daegsatz replied. "What ye jes' said be th' epitome o' racism, an' a microcosm o' society's ignorance that we all mus' contend with an' conquer in order t' secure a prosperous an' more equal future fer all." The Roegadyn's elaborate statement--his thick Lominsan accent contrasting heavily with his unnecessarily flowery vocabulary--was punctuated by the hull of the Second Forte smashing through a small wave; an accurate visual representation of the current debate as the frigate cut through the Strait of Merlthor.

 

"Oh come on, Satz, that's like saying Lalafell are short. That's not racist or ignorant, it's an objective observation about the physical aspects of a race of people!" Nero waved his arms as if such a wild and irrelevant gesture illustrated his point with greater clarity. "Would I want a Lalafell to be a bouncer at a tavern, or to haul granite to build a castle? No, and that's not because of racism. It's because on an objective level, Lalafell are less physically capable than the other races!" Daegsatz snorted disdainfully.

 

"Ye hear yerself? That sentence there. 'Lalafell be less phys'cally capable than th' other races'. That be racism. An' even then, what if th' pint bouncer be a thaumaturge?" The Sea Wolf questioned, his eyes narrowing and his arms now folded across his chest. Nero's icy blue eyes nearly rolled straight out of his head and into the blue-green ocean below.

 

"A Lalafell who can manifest aether into the form of destructive energy that can obliterate his enemies is still a Lalafell that I can punt. With my foot. A foot covered in a boot. A boot that may or may not have metal on it." The Hyur jabbed an index finger at his legs, apparently under the impression that a tangible representation of generic footwear would lend additional credence to his argument.

 

"Th' point ain't whether o' not ye can or can't punt a pint, lad, the point is yer denyin' a perfectly capable indiv'dual a certain profession 'cause o' 'is species," Daegsatz sniffed. "And that be racism,"

 

"Satz, you can't refer to them as a species and then call it racism! Your inconsistent terminology is clouding the issue. It'd be speciesism!" Nero argued. His evident failure to come up with a logical counter argument lead to him attempting to divert the course of the conversation in his favour with a frivolous correction of the Roegadyn's choice of words.

 

"Racism, speciesism, it all be th' same word for discrim'nation! And discrim'natin' be exactly what yer doin' wit' that fool question ye be askin'." Daegsatz growled, the features of his block-shaped face scrunching together in collective irritation.

 

"I wasn't discriminating!" Nero sighed. As he began to speak, his rate of speech accelerated and his tone gradually grew more indignant. "Look, it's not as if I had a full, current line of potential candidates to be my potential chef, and I was explicitly denying one of them the position because of their species--" 

 

"'Cept," the Sea Wolf interrupted, "that that pacifically be the point o' yer question that be startin' this mess. 'Why would anyone hire a Miqo'te chef if they might shed fur in th' food?'" Daegsatz' quote of the Hyur's decidedly ignorant question was mockingly accompanied with a lilting, whiny tone and upwards inflection. If the Roegadyn's normal voice sounded like someone rubbing two rocks together in a fashion that suggested complete illiteracy in the skill of firestarting, then Daegsatz' imitation of his captain sounded like someone taking two boulders and dropping them on a fully manned string orchestra.

 

The Roegadyn snorted. "That's not ev'n considerin' th' fact that fer one, catfolk only have fur in th' ears and tail, and that two, Hyur an' Elezen and Roegadyn and Lalafell also need ta worry 'bout sheddin' hair into food. So in conclusion, unless a catfolk be cookin' with their tails 'stead o' their hands, yer question be comprised of a completely flawed an' still racist premise t' begin with."

 

Nero clapped his hands together in front of his face and audibly inhaled. "First, Satz, it's 'specifically'. Not 'pacifically'. 'Specifically'." It was seemingly Nero's hope that the infamous and ever-reliable "mundane and trifling grammar correction" debate strategy worked on the second attempt.

 

"Oh, now yer jes bein' petty," The Sea Wolf scoffed. Clearly, it didn't.

 

"Shut up. And second, never in my question did I state that nobody should hire a Miqo'te chef or that Miqo'te are somehow inherently less skilled at cooking at other species, just that a Miqo'te as a chef might pose more problems because by nature, they have more hair and a furry tail, in the same way that a Lalafell chef would need a box or several in order to properly reach the appropriate level of a stove." The random movement of Nero's arms ceased to resemble waving and became more closely associated with the term "flailing".

 

"Th' way ye phrased th' question made the implication that a potential employer should discrim'nate against catfolk, which be speciesism," Daegsatz insisted. "Followin' yer logic, a Sea Wolf ship would nev'r consider takin' on a spindly pink Hyur like y'self, because regardless o' the Hyur's personal skill outside of th' limitations of 'is species,  'e would lack the phys'cal and racial inclination fer sailin' that a Roegadyn'd have." He glared out of one eye at the Midlander, apparently content that his point had made itself.

 

Nero remained silent before despondently lumping himself on the railing of the ship, allowing himself to be slapped in the face with sea spray as if the ocean itself were sneering at him.

 

"Fine, fine, I worded it poorly, but I think my point still stands," Nero muttered sulkily, brushing a hand to wipe the seawater off his face. Now it was Daegsatz' turn to sigh and roll his eyes. "Lad, Cap'n Vail might o' raised ye into th' fine an' respectable man ye be today, but yer still childish in so many ways," the Roegadyn said, rebuking Nero in the same way an exasperated pet owner might reprimand a puppy that had been found with blood in its teeth for the fourth day in a row.

 

Silence fell upon the pair as the frigate gently pushed its way through the waves, the Roegadyn occasionally barking orders in lieu of his captain ostensibly having some kind of disabling mental epiphany that combined the subjects of his intellect, the nature of racial inequality, and the current state of dinner. Daegsatz' tranquility over not having to humour his captain's petty arguments was broken when Nero lifted his head and stared sedately at the bow of the ship.

 

"Do you think Elezen became so tall because they kept trying to hug big trees?"