No Good Deed【Complete】

[Nero]

(( The following posts are an edited recap of an in-game session. ))

 

It was an obscure place, near a junction that connected the Pearl Lane and Onyx Lane. A ragged sign swung in front of the door, marked with a crude drawing of a sword and the words Soldier's Club scrawled beneath it. It wasn't as ramshackle as the other buildings inhabited by the refugees and the squatters; a new door had been fitted to the entrance, and the windows weren't broken. The sandstone that had been used to construct the building didn't have the same signs of wear and tear as the surrounding buildings. It was as close to a clean establishment as one could get in Pearl Lane.

 

Nero pushed open the door with the paladin in tow, revealing a small room of several small tables and a bar. There were a few scraggly-looking refugees occupying a table or leaning against a wall. A tired-looking Ala Mhigan was slouched behind the bar, but was alerted to the door creaking open. A female Miqo'te who had been sitting on the bar perked her ears up, providing a friendly smile as she leapt off it enthusiastically. "Mister Redgrave!"

 

The smuggler provided a small wave, gesturing for Roen to take a sit. He took one of the chairs for himself and plopped onto it. "Good to see you're as healthy as ever, Maia. Aldo still washed out?" The Miqo'te giggled before patting the Highlander behind the bar on the head. 

 

Nero glanced at the paladin sitting across from him. "Myself and many other individuals of Ul'dah's less savoury elements fund this place," he explained. "Good way to serve as a meeting place. Sometimes it can be a bit crowded, but it's better than the Quicksand. But then," he snorted derisively, "a horde of rampaging aurochs is better than the Quicksand."

 

He glanced at Roen, who nodded slowly. "The Quicksand can get a bit...rowdy," she concurred. "How's the head?"

 

At the reminder, Nero rubbed his temple gingerly. "A bit sore, but it's not worth using conjury for. Could do with some ice." The Hyur made a swift gesture to the Miqo'te. "Warmwater trout, if you would. With lots of salt. And rum!" Nero swept a hand towards the bar as an expression of his boundless magnanimity. "Meal's on me. Whatever you want. Consider it my way of making amends for the trouble."

 

Roen followed his gaze to the waitress. "I will have the same. Less salt. And sweet water."

 

Nero leaned somewhat out of his chair and slapped several gil onto the table, which swiftly vanished beneath the Highlander's hand. The Ala Mhigan then ducked behind a slightly tattered curtain into what was presumably the kitchen.

 

Though the smuggler still held his cocky grin on his face, Roen studied his expression curiously with a sidelong glance. "What happened exactly? Why did you...." He raised an eyebrow at the paladin's inquiry as she shook her head. "I did not expect that at all."

 

Nero offered a shrug that was equal parts nonchalant and helplessness, his smirk holding fast onto his face. "What can I say? I'm full of surprises. I even surprised myself with that." His deflection wasn't exactly a lie. He didn't know where that burst of vitriol had come from, and it was certainly not his intention to have offended Broken Nose in such a way.

 

"Besides, I already told you. Shadow being. It mind controlled me. Didn't we agree to run with that story?" The smuggler cocked an eye at her.

 

It seemed his refusal to answer the question had worked, for Roen narrowed here eyes and let out a sigh of resignation and amusement. "As you say," she responded tersely. The paladin leaned back against the chair, crossing her arms. "I would be extra nice and polite to Broken Nose the next time you see him, however."

 

Nero's response was another shrug. "I'll bring him a pie with hearts drawn on it, then." Roen's response was to roll her eyes. "Well, at least he agreed to help," she conceded.

 

As if on cue, the Miqo'te returned with two plates, steam wafting from their surfaces from the freshly cooked trout, adorned with a pewter fork and knife. She dashed behind the bar and returned with two tankards. "Thanks, love," Nero said cordially, clapping his hands as he took up the knife and fork and began to dig into the trout with gusto.

 

He paused his enthusiastic consumption to swallow before turning a somewhat more serious gaze towards Roen. "To shift the topic...what I want to know is if you've heard from your Sultansworn friends yet." As if to punctuate his point, he peeled off another chunk of the trout and stuffing it into his mouth.

 

"I am affuming 'e 'ih o' 'ih way 'o 'a gaols 'ight 'ow," he said, his mouth full of fish. He chewed rapidly before taking a swig from his tankard. 

 

Roen paused, her knife and fork poised to begin cutting into the fish. Nero watched her carefully, even as he ate; she took a bite from the fish, chewing slowly. The paladin's eyes had furrowed, suggesting that she was stalling as she tried to determine what to say. "About that..." Roen began, rather hesitantly.

 

The smuggler's eyes narrowed, as if daring her to say what he was expecting her to say. "I spoke to Ser Crofte yesterday." Roen cleared her throat and took a sip of the sweet water. "He was...not arrested."

 

Nero's mind was blank. He had no thoughts on the subject, but it took some measure of restraint to prevent the words I told you so from slipping from his mouth. He paused in his evisceration of the fish and let out a long sigh. "I knew it would be so, though that did not stop me from hoping, however slight that hope may have been."

 

His gaze was stern and his tone was stiff as he shot an accusing glance at Roen. "Then justice has failed. Again."

[Roen]

Roen frowned. Her fork and knife were set motionless against the dish, her appetite suddenly forgotten. The disappointment hung from her shoulders like a heavy cloak. Nero had predicted this; that Taeros would somehow elude the arm of the law, contrabands or no. She had argued for and defended the right way of doing things, whereas the pirate was a proponent of ‘whatever means necessary.’

 

“I thought we had enough on him. For an arrest.” The paladin flicked a glance back at him, her objection like a knee-jerk reflex whenever he condemned her ideals. “Justice has not failed. It just got stalled. Taeros has been at this much longer than you and I.” She straightened, new conviction leaking into her words. “We just have to find another way.”

 

Nero did not seem convinced. He snorted derisively into his mug as he took another pull of the rum. "You could have pinned the Calamity on him, and that would not be enough for your friends to indict him." He set the drink down none too gently. "'Sultansworn'. 'Paladins'. Seems Ul'dah's knights in shining armour can be bought just like any other Brass Blade." The sneer was evident in his voice.

 

“They have not been bought.” Roen did not hesitate in her reply. She set her utensils down and leaned forward as if to press her point. “They believed his story. Taeros…he has a way of spinning the truth. He…” she winced. “He is blaming you.”

 

Nero mirrored her gesture as he too leaned in, his gaze unflinching. “I suspected as much. He is not a foolish man, and your friends do not know me as you do. It is the logical decision."

 

"I underestimated how closely he had been working with both Natalie and Ser Crofte. And they know you not at all." She let out a long exhale as she bowed her head. “He is trying to paint me the fool and you the liar."

 

The pirate shrugged and leaned back. "None of this was unexpected. We will simply have to alter our game plan a bit. Might Crofte have told you why Taeros was shipping so much somnus?"

 

"They are looking for a somnus dealer. It has to do with an old case." Roen frowned thoughtfully. There was more to that, of course, but she was tired of explaining her string of troubles. "He said he was bringing in that much somnus to flush out the dealer they were all looking for. But you setting him up, ruined that plan."

 

Nero rolled his eyes."Breaking the law to do good. A man after my own heart." His tone was thick with sarcasm.

 

Roen wrinkled her nose. She did not like what she was about to ask. "You do not have...anything incriminating to be found in Limsa, do you?"

 

The smuggler flicked a lazy glance in her direction. "That depends. What does my business in Limsa Lominsa have to do with this?"

 

"Ser Crofte mentioned she was going to poke around in Limsa about you."

 

The pirate actually seemed amused by this. "Was she now? And what does she expect to find?"

 

Roen shrugged. "I do not know. I think...she thinks she is looking out for my best interest."

 

Nero snorted. "If that is so, then why not introduce us? If Crofte is so concerned for your welfare, let her be the judge of the company you keep." He shrugged again; his trout had been cleaned off his plate, and he picked at his teeth with the fork.

 

"As I said earlier and as you agreed, your friends do not know me. Perhaps it is in our best interests to remedy that. After all..." the smuggler narrowed his gaze at her; the spark of amusement was still in his eyes, but there was a steely accusation embedded in them as well. "You claimed they cared about Ul'dah as much as I did."

 

“They do,” Roen answered readily, her eyes narrowing at his veiled allegation. She could not help but feel slighted at his derision; even if she herself had been reluctant to return to the Order. She still trusted many within the Sultanate and she would not see some pirate defame them so.

 

“That remains to be seen,” Nero said brusquely.

 

“Alright. Perhaps you should meet them.” The paladin crossed her arms. “Then you would not have such doubts either.”

[Nero]

He couldn't help but notice the similarity in situation. It was very likely that Roen's Sultansworn compatriots were affiliated with Taeros in the same way that Roen herself was affiliated with him. Two sides of the law, each allied with a side of the lawless. 

 

The Twelve, it seemed, had a sense of humour about the whole situation, to pit two sides of the same coin against one another.

 

Nero was doubtful, but he offered a shrug at the suggestion as he leaned back in his chair. "Agreed, then. Mayhaps we may yet squirm ourselves out of this misunderstanding before we are forced to become enemies." Still, he had to make preparations. There was the possibility that his plan would have to be altered to account for the Sultansworn. If they would not join him or at least refrain from interfering in his operations, they would have to be removed.

 

He leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows against the rough wood of the table. "If I am to meet them, then I would know about them. I saw some of them during the raid, and I am vaguely acquainted with Crofte, but the others I know not. Describe them to me."

 

The paladin picked at her fish, as if fidgeting. "You have met Ser Crofte, aye. She is the superior ranking Sworn of the three. Honorable. I have not known her to break her word."

 

That would be advantageous. Assuming Crofte's authority held true, if Nero could convince her, then the others would--hopefully--no longer be a factor, or at least fall in line enough to make their presence negligible. It would be naive to assume that she would acquiesce to the smuggler's reasoning so quickly, however.

 

Roen paused, eyeing the trout on her plate. "Then...there is Natalie." From her tone and mannerisms, Nero could only assume that there was some bad blood between them. The paladin began to cut into the fish more diligently. "She is ruthless. Goal driven. Will do whatever it takes to get things done." The paladin took another bite of her fish, the curling of her lip suggesting she was repressing a frown.

 

Ruthless. From Roen's description alone, the smuggler had a decent idea of what kind of person Natalie was, and who he would be dealing with. Suffice to say that she and him were more than likely birds of a feather. If Nero couldn't convince Crofte to keep her subordinate in line, they would inevitably be opposed to one another.

 

The grin that made its way across Nero's face was smug. "Seems the Sworns aren't all together in their methodology," he commented idly, a subtle challenge to Roen's image of her compatriots. 

 

The paladin shook her head, chewing on a chunk of fish. "They are like oil and water. Crofte and Natalie."

 

Nero folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. "You understand that this Natalie and I will most likely enter in conflict? She will attack whatever her Monetarist handlers point her to. And I will not suffer such thugs tarnishing that particularly shiny uniform the Sworns have." He put the tankard to his lips and drained the remaining rum from it, signalling the Miqo'te for a refill. The waitress swiftly swept away his plate and tankard.

 

His gaze narrowed at Roen. "Dogs like she and I must be put down early, lest they become rabid. From your description of her, I can guarantee that she is thinking the same thoughts as I on the matter."

 

"She is not handled by the Monetarists," Roen responded quickly. Nero raised a skeptical eyebrow; that was a quick defense. He wondered if her insistence on Natalie's supposed integrity was for his sake or for her own. The paladin's expression became somewhat alarmed.

 

"Neither of you have to...become dogs. Or become rabid. You two can reason to the same goal," she said quietly.

 

Nero's face twitched in an effort to keep the scowl from his face. The Miqo'te returned with a filled mug, and the smuggler slipped her several more coins. "Then I will assume she considers Taeros to be a necessary evil, just as you consider myself as such." He couldn't help but grin. 

 

"What an amusing situation. Two noble and righteous paladins, each siccing their animals on the other. It makes a good story, I must admit." Nero's appetite for rum had been satiated, but he pretended to drink from his tankard to hide his gaze from Roen.

 

"If that is the way you want to see it," her voice came from the other side of the tankard. "I do not think you are just...someone or something to sicc on an enemy." Perhaps Nero was just imagining it, but her voice sounded stiff, almost tremulous. He put his mug down.

 

Roen's gaze was focused directly on him. "I thought we were allies. That we were to help each other."

 

Nero sighed, considering his words carefully. His face shed his amused facade like a snake shed its skin. For only the second time since they met, his expression had taken on one of brutal honesty. "Roen," he began sternly. The smuggler leaned forward, taking a deep breath.

 

"You do not know me. You do not know what I have done, and what I will do. You do not know to what extremes I will go to, for the sake of something I believe to be greater than myself. For the sake of a better Ul'dah." Nero's icy blue eyes had become steely and firm.

 

"I told you once before that I will drown this city in blood if that was what was required to change it, and my resolve since then has not wavered. I hold no illusions. What I have done, and what I will do, is evil. But it must be done. I will not inhabit the new Ul'dah I seek to create."

 

Nero looked weary. "For myself and anyone like me...there is no place for us there."

[Roen]

Roen could not accept that.

 

The very idea that someone would risk everything, do everything, to better the lives of others, while willingly damning themselves for it…

 

The paladin stared at the man seated across the table from her with renewed eyes. He had warned her before--hinted at the extremes he would be willing to go to in order to achieve his goals. She had glimpsed the hidden sadness there, behind his stoic wall of determination and resolve.

 

Now she knew where that melancholy stemmed from. He honestly believed he did not belong in the light, once the Jewel was brought out of its murk of corruption and poverty; even if he had a direct hand in its emergence.

 

“I do not believe that,” she said quietly, finally breaking the silence. “You are right. I do not know you. Nor what you have done. But I do believe you want a better future for Ul’dah.”

 

Nero answered her with a bitter smile. She could see in his eyes that he thought her naive; she had spied that expression before when he belittled her ideals. But she did not care. There were those brief flashes of doubt when his mask fell, that told her that there was a part of him that wanted to believe. That his path of violence was not the only way. That he could belong in the better world. That he too could be righteous.

 

“The only thing I know is crime,” his voice was even, almost cold. “I know only how to take life, not how to give it. Removing evil is not the same as creating good.”

 

Roen shook her head, her dinner all but abandoned. She searched the man’s eyes, her voice imploring. “You say you are a criminal. And yet you want to do good.” A breath’s pause fell between them as she locked her gaze with him. “You can do good if you want to. I know you do.”

 

He said nothing to that; Nero's eyes seemed to stare at the table more oft than not.

 

“You seem so determined in this path, to fix Ul’dah at any and all cost," Roen continued. "Even if it means you throw away your own life and happiness.” Her expression softened, a hint of sorrow tugging on her brows. “You seem so driven. And filled with anger.”

 

When the smuggler answered her with apathetic silence, Roen set aside her questions about his outburst earlier. She suspected there was something in his past that haunted the man so, that sparked a darkness, and perhaps chained him to this unrelenting course. But if he did not want to divulge it, she would not pry. Her faith and hope in him still did not waver regardless.

 

“What criminal works with the poor? Or gives money away to children and the sick?” Roen’s gaze softened as she recalled the boy and father at Stonesthrow earlier. Her shoulders lifted and fell with a deep breath. “I think you are more than what you think you are. You just want to be what you think you are, because that is what you know.”

 

The paladin thought she sensed something else in him at that moment, his brow twitched. “Perhaps you are right," he finally rasped after the long silence. Was that reluctant acknowledgement? She could see that his resolve was faltering, even if just a little. His frown deepened. "But perhaps you are not."

 

“This,” Roen gestured between them, “is new for me. I have never worked with someone like you. Nor have I ever thought of anything else other than working under the Order and the Sultanate.” She drew herself upright as she inhaled. “And yet here I am. Perhaps both you and I…are on a path we have never walked before.”

 

When Nero met her gaze, she held it firmly and gave him a small but gentle smile. “You do not want to walk it because you do not know it. But…neither do I.” She laced her fingers together, clasping her hands in front of her on the table. “But I am willing to try. I know I need to. To change things.”

[Nero]

He searched her face. A careful mask of composure had placed itself over him, hiding the turmoil and doubt that swirled in his mind. Nero's only response was a long silence as he mulled over her words.

 

"I do not know what it is you want from me, Roen," he said, breaking the tense atmosphere. The Miqo'te waitress was nowhere to be found; the Highlander had vanished into the kitchen, even though there were no patrons. He and paladin were courteously left alone. Nero's eyes narrowed at her. "I am not so sure you know what it is you want from yourself."

 

Where exactly did he stand with this infuriating woman? She claimed to want to save him, from...what, exactly? From himself? From injustice? From some hollow idea that the world was fair if one went looking for it? The more the thought about it, the angrier he became, and the more his temper began to boil beneath his facade of tranquility.

 

"You are fortunate, Miss Deneith. You are stuck in the twilight. You are caught on the cusp between the hopeful dawn and the despair of night." Nero began to tap a finger on the surface of the table, a subtle gesture of his self-control. "You claim that I am a person who contains naught but good intentions, that I am chained to my path because of fear. And perhaps there is some truth to that."

 

He leaned back in his chair again, a cold, analytical gaze being thrown across the table. "You see me as far better of a person than I actually am. And I do not know whether I should thank you for that, or pity you. But regardless, I cannot walk the path you ask of me. I have seen too many stray from it. The darkness holds no power over those who have never possessed the light...and lost it."

 

The paladin tightly pressed her lips together. "You are right. I do not know what I want from myself," she admitted quietly. The corner of Roen's lip curled upwards just slightly. "Since you do not hold hope for yourself, I will have to, for both of us." Her tone was firm, yet hopeful. "If you have lost the light, then you get it back, for I do not believe that it can ever be truly lost forever."

 

Nero's fists tightened. The thoughts pulsed in his head, a maelstrom of contempt and disgust. His lips trembled, pleading, demanding that he say what was on his mind. He wanted to shout at her. He wanted to slam his hands on the table and scream in Roen's face. Why? Why do you have such blind faith? Why do you believe in someone you know nothing about? Why must you fill me with these doubts? His knuckles took on a pale pallor as his nails threatened to bore into the skin of his palm. You are arrogant! You know nothing! Don't you dare pity me from your pedestal of self-righteousness and hollow idealism! Don't you dare pretend that you know anything about this world!

 

But no words emerged.

[Roen]

Roen could see the struggle behind his eyes--a storm of emotions that raged within Nero's tense frame. The muscles of his neck had tightened, and he stared at her long and hard; his icy blue gaze seemed to want to bore straight through her. But no words came forth and finally he turned his glare elsewhere.

 

The paladin dipped her head in apology. She knew nothing of the man. Perhaps the darkness of his past, or whatever it was that haunted him, were fetters that constrained his hope and optimism. But she knew what that felt like. It was not so long ago, that she too was foundering, aimless; she was lost in a thick fog of her own, without hope and without joy. Somehow she had found threads of purpose, a promise of something better. She had found a way to burn away the miasma of dread and forlornness.

 

“I...I thought I had lost my way. Not too long ago.” Her words were barely above a whisper, even if there were no other patrons about to hear her confession. These were memories she did not want to revisit.

 

“I had lost faith in myself. I thought myself too weak. And I thought the world was a much darker place.” Her eyes were affixed to the half eaten fish in front of her. She did not want to meet anyone’s eyes when she recalled those times. “I did not want to return to Ul’dah. I did not want think about anyone else’s pain but my own.”

 

“It is easy to forget sometimes... that there is good in the world.” The paladin rolled her shoulders in a small shrug. “When all you see is suffering. When all you feel is anger and despair.” She absently took up the fork in her hand and began to pick at her fish. She paused and peered back up at him. “But then I met good people, those who reminded me that the world is not all dark--not just about whether you survive or not.”

 

Nero was watching her with a measured gaze, saying nothing.

 

Roen regarded the smuggler intently, as if to hold his gaze. “It is about how you live, and make of it what you can. For yourself. And for others.” She set her fork down. “So I decided to do just that. Focusing on helping others…it lent me my own lucidity. It gave me purpose again.”

 

Nero’s expression remained unmoved by her story, his meticulously constructed composure remained intact. But his voice wavered, just a bit when he spoke. “And what if I prove you wrong?” He inhaled. “You claim me to be a saint disguised as a devil. You…have poured all your faith into my beliefs.” His eyes narrowed on her as if to challenge her. “You believe my altruism will correct my wrongdoings.”

 

"It's…not correcting wrongdoings so much as..." She hesitated.

 

“What if I prove you wrong?” he repeated.

 

The paladin met his stare with an intensity of her own. “You said yourself that first day we met. You have not lost your compassion. That is what sets you apart from those you seek to bring low.” She leaned in, her hands curling around the edge of her seat. “What if you prove me right?”

 

It was a struggle of wills that neither was willing to relinquish to the other. And yet neither of them could be proven wrong or right either. At least, not yet.

 

“It is up to you, Nero, what you choose in the end.” Her belief in him did not waver despite the fact that she knew so little of him. Perhaps it was stubbornness that drove her to try and make him see what she saw in him. Even if what she saw were mere glimpses and thinnest strands of hope drowned in a sea of ambition and ruthlessness...the fact that he wanted to bury them so readily made her want to bring them to the fore even more so.

 

Even if he was starting to despise her for it.

 

“Just know this. Your choice is not so predestined as you believe it to be.” Her expression softened again as if in peace offering. “I have faith.”

[Nero]

The two of them said nothing for a silence that felt as if it lasted for years. They clashed with invisible swords, the crescendo of their combat resounding in neither the ring of steel nor the trading of sharp words, but with a pair of steady gazes, neither willing to back down.

 

Hate was a strong word. It was often misused, either in jest or hyperbole. It was rare when one could say they harboured genuine hatred for another individual. Perhaps this instance was merely exaggeration, but Nero felt as if he hated Roen with every fibre of his being, even as they engaged in a silent contest of wills. With every ounce of determination, he held nothing but loathing for her.

 

There was safety when hidden away in cynicism and indifference. Within that corner, Nero had been secure. He held few expectations that could be dashed. People were tools, even as he played himself to be their friend. The world's cruelty was a harsh truth, but at least there was no uncertainty. Life was fleeting. Emotions were worthless. What mattered in the end were results, for history remembered only the victor.

 

And yet this mewling paladin, this simpering girl who had no business picking her own dresses, much less wielding a sword, threatened to pull away that familiar cover. Roen seemed to try, perhaps almost desperately, to rip through the veil he had cast around himself. Nero's enmity became an inferno, yet even so, he could not truly tell if he despised her for it, or...

 

At last, the smuggler shook his head, breaking his gaze. He let out an exasperated sigh. "I do not know if I find your hopeless idealism infuriating or refreshing," he conceded, a tone of clear annoyance--cloaking just the tiniest bit of relief--making itself known in his voice. 

 

Nero waved a dismissive hand. "I see that I cannot convince you otherwise. Believe, then, what you will. I expect you will be responsible for however your faith rewards you, in the end."

 

Roen, that maddening woman, merely responded with a smile. "Now you know how I have felt about you all day," she returned idly. The comment seemed to stun him, as he raised an eyebrow, slipping back into an amused expression, his usual mask. It was impossible to tell that the two had just been arguing just minutes before. His mind still held many questions and smoldered with some anger, but for now he managed to shove such thoughts to the back.

 

"To a lovely woman such as yourself, I would certainly hope that the 'refreshing' outweighs the 'infuriating'." A small wink accompanied Nero's comment. It was a juvenile thing, perhaps, attempting to disarm her through flirtatious behaviour. He was fully aware of the contrast between the mundane comments they traded now and the intense glares they had just been giving each other.

 

The paladin's response was to blink before clearing her throat and returning to picking at the trout on her plate. "This...is good fish," Roen commented rather awkwardly.

 

Gauging from her reaction, Nero supposed that she did not do well with flattery. That would have to do for now. "Finish when you'd like. I will..be outside."

 

The doors creaked as he pulled them open and stepped into the crisp, evening air. Dusk had begun to fall on Ul'dah; the refugees in Pearl Lane had begun their nightly scrounging.

 

The smuggler inhaled deeply before letting his breath out slowly through his nose. It was still rather warm, but nothing close to the oppressive heat that beat down on them earlier in the afternoon. Stepping to the side, he faced the wall and raised his fists. It would have been lovely to have a sparring partner to work out his frustration and stress, but practise would have to do for now.

 

"One...two...three..." Three lightning quick jabs--left, right, left. The air responded with slight whff noises as his fists shot out like arrows. Such practise was simple, but cathartic. Vail had taken the time to teach him some proper boxing form. 

 

"One, two, three." A jab with his left, a cross with his right, and a left hook. So engrossed in his practise was Nero that he failed to notice the paladin step out of the establishment, her eyebrows raised as she examined his form. "One, two, three," he said under his breath, repeating the combination.

 

Nero's muscles had begun to protest with the sudden exercise; he hadn't deigned to stretch and he had been mostly sedentary all day, but he ignored the presence of soreness and continued throwing his fists at the air.

[Roen]

The cooling temperatures and darkening skies were a welcomed reprieve, both from the earlier heat in the day and the tensions that had thickened the air through dinner within the main room of the Soldier’s Club. Roen had finished the last of the trout by herself, thankful that Nero decided to step out first. Their conversation had ended at a standstill, as it so often had before. Would they always come to such intense argument whenever their principles clashed? Neither was the type to back down; this Roen recognized by now.

 

But then the pirate turned to flattery which caught her off guard. She was never the one for flirtatious exchanges, they always made her uneasy. Especially with Nero, since he seemed to use it the way he did with insults--to gain the upper hand in a conversation.

 

Pirates… Roen thought darkly to herself. As much as she believed in the good that was buried within the man, she also had to remind herself how exasperating he had been throughout the day. Perhaps, somewhere in between those extremes, she hoped to find a workable medium.

 

So when Roen saw him in a boxing stance, throwing punches and practicing his form, she beamed inwardly. She had been eager, since her ordeal with Itarliht, to learn, practice, and improve her hand-to-hand combat. Practicing what she had learned from Qaeli and Osric helped keep her focused, and had prevented her from going stir-crazy while she was in the gaols. Perhaps in this, she hoped, she and Nero could find some common ground.

 

She approached him as he continued to throw punches into the air, intently studying the speed of his strikes and his stance. He did not seem to notice her approach, his eyes trained straight ahead, his attention obviously elsewhere.

 

“You were trained in hand to hand?” Roen asked after a moment, clearing her throat.

 

Nero immediately dropped his fist, looking startled.

 

Roen held up her hands in apology. “Do not let me interrupt. I was just...studying your form."

 

The smuggler crossed his arms and coughed uncomfortably, a slight ruddiness to his cheeks. "I was not…trained, necessarily. I was…well..." He shrugged. “Growing up in Ul'dah necessitates the use of one's fists. My father taught me some proper fighting techniques…but I am not a master, not by any means."

 

Roen crossed her arms, mirroring him. Her tone was reassuring. “I have only recently sought out a few lessons.”

 

“The sword is suddenly too good for you, Miss Deneith?” Nero scoffed, his trademark smirk quick to return.

 

Despite her intent to stay casual, Roen found her voice dipping, any trace of mirth draining from her face. “A sword is no good when you do not have it on hand. Then you are helpless if you do not know how to fight without a weapon.”

 

Nero did not seem to notice the shift in her mood as he glanced to her amusedly. “Out of all the things for us to agree on… that’s at least one.” He raised his hands again and nodded to her as if beckoning.

 

Roen stepped up in front of him, first taking a moment to watch his movements, then taking her own stance. She raised her fists in front of him. “You would not mind showing me a little?”

 

He was already assessing her form. “Your legs are too stiff. Your opponent…” he stepped forward swiftly and pinned her left foot with his. “..Will take advantage of that.” He stepped off her foot even before she had a chance to react. “Looking to learn, are you? Perhaps this is something I may be able to educate you on…though you would do well to seek out the Pugilist’s Guild if true mastery is what you seek.”

 

The paladin pulled her leg back as soon as it was freed, bringing her weight to the balls of her feet, trying to lighten her balance. “I know of one pugilist, a Flame Sergeant. He gave me a couple of lessons.”

 

“More like no lessons, if that is the result,” Nero said jokingly, poking her forehead with his index finger.

 

Roen frowned. “You caught me off guard,” she protested. She exhaled sharply through her nose, eyes narrowing at Nero.

 

“Perhaps I repeat what you already know, but fighting is no art. It is a tool. You use it to end your opponent, quickly and decisively.” He clasped his hands together then gestured both hands towards his face. “Hit me.” When she paused, he beckoned her again, bouncing a bit on his feet. "Hard as you can. Pretend…well, pretend I'm Taeros. And I just…kidnapped…your pet cat.” He grinned.

 

The paladin narrowed her eyes at the growing grin on the man’s face. She nodded, then loosened her arms, balling up her fists.

 

“Now, with your main hand.” The smuggler tapped the side of his face. “Everything you’ve got.”

 

“I am allergic to cats,” Roen said, before she threw a quick jab at his face. She was shocked when it connected, she was so used to Qaeli blocking all of her blows.

 

Nero stepped back a few steps at the hit. “Not too bad,” he said amiably, rubbing his cheek.

 

“I thought you were going to block that,” Roen apologized.

 

“Of course not.” The pirate snorted. “If you’re going to learn to fight, you need to know what it feels like to hit your opponent. And that was not terrible, no, but it was not everything you had. You were holding back.” He clapped his hands and gestured to his face again. “Once more. Your right hand. Keep it straight, and put everything you have into it.”

 

Roen still hesitated. “You are going to block it this time…?” Hitting wooden dummies was one thing, hitting a man who was just going to stand there was something wholly different. It did not sit well with her, practice or no.

 

Nero rolled his eyes to the dark skies with an exasperated sigh. "Just wait until Satz hears about this. I've actually found someone who is hesitant to punch me in the face. Guess he owes me that hundred..."

 

“Fine,” she replied tersely. She balled up her fists again, this time consciously recalling her previous lessons. Her approach was direct, not wasting much movement or energy, as she threw another jab at him.

 

The smuggler deftly ducked his head to the right. “Didn’t I say everything you have? That was better, but you didn’t put much force into it.” He sidestepped another jab. “I’ve seen harder punches from a Lalafell standing on boxes. Come on.”

 

Roen’s eyes were narrowed into slits. She continued to advance on him, two jabs to her right then a left hook.

 

Nero was quick on his feet; the jabs were dodged, his body nimbly navigating around her fists. “You’re still holding back, aren’t you?” The cross was parried with his forearm. “No wonder Taeros was able to take you down so easily.” His grin became derisive and mocking. “I’m going to have to save Ul’dah all by myself at this rate! I guess we might be able to put a footnote about you in the history books…” He ducked under another strike. “Maybe I have to go antagonize that Roegadyn again to get a proper punch, huh? Or I’ll just make his name that much more true…Broken Nose was, was it?”

 

Her nostrils flared as his words were starting to get to her. Her steps quickened as she closed the distance between them again, no longer was she holding back her punches. Two jabs to the face came close, and Nero narrowly blocked a blow at his ribs.

 

The smuggler gave a low whistle. “Your form is not terrible. We might be able to salvage something from that. But you are not--” his left foot shot out towards hers and stepped firmly on it, “--watching your feet.” He sent a left cross straight toward her face.

 

As soon as her foot was caught, Roen found herself off balance, her eyes reflexively shooting to where she was pinned. She nearly did not see the fist that flew her way, as she jerked her head back away from it.

 

Nero stopped his fist just before impact. He uncurled his hand and lightly tapped the side of her face, grinning all the while. He relaxed and stepped off her foot, his hands lowering.

 

“A bit of work is in order.” He paused, regarding her with a tilted head. “A lot of work is in order,” he corrected himself, but seemed pleased. “But nobody starts a master.”

[Nero]

Nero dropped his fists, folding his arms. Though it was difficult to tell, Roen's form was more lean than it was muscular. She would not have much weight behind her blows, but she could potentially compensate for that with speed and endurance.

 

The paladin yanked her foot back, an indignant expression cresting her face. Nero tapped her shoulder, gesturing at her to raise her fists. "Let me see your stance." Roen nodded, obliging his request.

 

With a studious eye, the smuggler examined how she held her fists in the air. Vail would have been far better qualified to teach her how to fistfight properly, but in lieu of his foster parent, Nero supposed that he would have to do. He was by no means an expert, but he knew enough to know where her form was sloppy.

 

"Your stance is your foundation. Everything else is built upon it. An improper stance means less punches, weaker blows, and less speed. Now," Nero clutched at her right fist, bringing it closer to her chin, and pulling her left fist out. "your lead fist is always your less-dominant fist. Hold your left hand out about six ilm in front of your face, at eye level." 

 

He tapped at her elbow, bringing it towards her chest. "Use your elbow to guard your ribs." Another hand pushed against the top of her head, tilting it down. "And keep your chin tucked in. Your opponents will be aiming for your face and your arms will primarily be guarding your body, so you have to adjust for that. And loosen up a bit," Nero tapped her shoulders. "If you're too tense, your blows will be weaker. Your arms aren't swords; you don't just stab with them. You use them," he turned to the side and threw a punch forward to demonstrate, the air resounding with a whff, "like a sling, or a whip."

 

Roen nodded, making the needed adjustments. She held her shoulders with a bit more slack and corrected the position of her fists.

 

Nero stepped back and held his hands at his hips, admiring his handiwork. Or something else. "Not too bad." The paladin's expression was concentrated and focused; her head was bent and her gazed focused at the ground. "Now, a basic one-two combo."

 

The smuggler stood next to her to demonstrate. His left fist shot out straight, while his torso remained still. "Left jab, and...right cross." After the jab, his right fist reached forward. "Twist your torso as you send your right fist forward." He demonstrated the right cross again, then another, demonstrating the position of his shoulders and how they swivelled as he sent the punch forward.

 

Nero shifted his position so that he was standing in front of Roen. "Your opponents will probably be taller than you, so you'll have to aim up." He repeated the manoeuvre, aiming his punches at the space above the paladin's head.

 

She nodded again, and followed through without warning; a jab, then a cross. Instinctively, Nero flinched, tilting his head to dodge. He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "That was...pretty good."

 

The Hyur let out a sigh. "Guess I'll need to find a way to resurrect ol' paps so that he can teach you properly. I can't pretend I'm qualified to give actual lessons." Nero folded his arms in front of his chest. "But you have some promise. Potential. That's the word. We might make a scrapper out of you yet."

 

Roen's expression of somber focus brightened, giving way to a small smile. "I would like that," she said, nodding. "Perhaps if not lessons..." she shrugged. "You can teach me through sparring."

 

"I have been mostly practising on dummies," the paladin explained, wrinkling her nose. "They do not move much."

 

Nero gasped, an expression of feigned horror on his face. "Are you suggesting that I strike a lady, Miss Deneith? But I am the very soul of manner and etiquette!" He placed the back of his hand on his forehead and glanced skyward, as if to imitate fainting.

 

Roen pursed her lips, stepping closer to him. "I am sure you will get over it. But...another day, perhaps." She tilted her head, her eyes examining his temple. "On a day when you did not fight a pillar...and lose."

 

Nero's face took on a cocky grin and he responded to her advance with one of his own, as he brought his face closer to hers. "I am not so sure I would get over it that easily, Miss Deneith," he said softly, his voice taking on a hint of challenge.

[Roen]

Roen was not the sort to back down from most challenges.

 

Facing off against a giant toad twelve-fulms in height, or standing off against a half a dozen zombies, or sneaking into a Castrum against all odds...the paladin had faced these tasks with unwavering purpose. Uncertainty and disquiet were not the types of emotions to make her flinch.

 

So why then, when this smug pirate leaned in just ilms away from her face did she stiffened inwardly? Roen was surprised that she felt warmth rising to her face. She immediately hated the idea that he may actually notice a slight blush to her cheeks.

 

Nero's ice-blue eyes darted between hers a moment longer, before he shrugged; his tone still held that quiet dare just beneath its beguiling surface. “And that pillar snuck up on me. It wasn’t a fair fight.”

 

“Well, being that the pillar was the innocent party…” Roen cleared her throat, shrugging nonchalantly as she took a step back. “I think you were fortunate to get away.”

 

The amusement lingered on the pirate’s countenance. “It cancelled negotiations. As far as I’m concerned, it was the aggressor.”

 

“Were there negotiations, truly?” She curled a skeptical smirk, silently thankful that the conversation was becoming more manageable, despite their stifling proximity. “I thought the argument was one sided.”

 

Nero’s hand rose as he stepped forward again, gently lifting her chin to look up at him. He was not many ilms taller than her, but enough that she was peering up at him. “Come now, Roen. Where is that faith in me you held so fervently before?” A teasing grin creased his lips. "I am a gentleman! I would not be so churlish as to attack a pillar without reason."

 

Roen swallowed and cleared her throat again, though she did not back away from him. Her expression remained defiant. He is trying to rattle me, she thought, miffed. “What possible reason could a pillar give you to attack it?" she shot back. "Were you not the one battling some mysterious shadow possession?”

 

"Are you…embarrassed?" The smuggler moved ever so subtly closer to her, seemingly emboldened by her reaction. "I did not think you could be."

 

The paladin’s eyes narrowed. She drew herself up. He was daring her and she was not going to flinch. "What...would I have to be embarrassed about?" She silently cursed when she heard her own voice falter in its control. "I am...not the one who attacked a perfectly still stone...pillar..."

 

“No…” Nero’s voice lowered to just above a whisper, as he slid his hand to the back of her neck. “But you are the one who happens to be very charming right now.”

 

Roen’s eyes widened. She could feel her heart quickening; was it panic she felt? Her mind raced for some kind of a sharp retort, but she was not given even a moment to react; the smuggler pulled his hand away and stepped back.

 

“But we have some mines to investigate, no?” His easygoing smile had returned--just like that. It irritated her to no end. “Far be it from either of us to…lose sight of our priority so quickly.”

 

“Right,” the paladin blurted out, her tone falling flat. The fact that she was so easily flustered was what infuriated her. She exhaled sharply through her nose and turned her back to him, glad to look at something else--anything else--besides that self-satisfied smirk.

 

“We should work on the supplies,” she said quickly as she began to count off on her fingers, focusing on what was important. She was not going to play his game of who can ruffle the other’s feathers. “Supplies at the mines. Then the list.”

 

“Tomorrow perhaps.” Nero was gazing up at the night sky when Roen gave him a sidelong glance. He looked back to her, thankfully devoid of his usual roguish grin. “I suggest we retire then. We will need to prepare. And I have some friends on Pearl Lane to visit.”

 

Roen nodded, her eyes narrowing in thought. “Aye. I will get the list from Broken Nose in the morn. Then we can get it to your people.”

 

"Mines first then. Forgery after. Then we replace it, and problem solved." He gestured with his hands in the air, as a magician did at the end of his performance.

 

“Aye. Problem solved.” She nodded, relaxing slightly. She was glad that they were back to discussing what mattered.

 

“I shall meet you before noon, then, at Black Brush Station.” Nero began to walk past her. “Until then, Roen…rest easy.” As the smuggler walked off, he brushed a hand past her face. It was to get a rise out of her, of course, she knew this.

 

Roen did not turn nor deign to respond. She stood there, in the middle of Pearl Lane, stalk still, until his footsteps could be heard no longer.

 

That…man. She simmered, her eyes narrowing. The paladin inhaled sharply, allowing now the crisp night air to calm her senses. She had made up her mind earlier that she would not let his aggravating personality affect her, for the goal of the common good. This was just another impediment, that was all--just another challenge to overcome.

 

The paladin nodded to herself then departed Pearl Lane in the opposite direction, the swing of her arms and her stride just a little sharper than before.

[Nero]

(( Recap of in-game session ends here ))

 

The sun had sunk fully beneath the horizon, and night enveloped Ul'dah. His whimsical dinner date with the paladin had taken longer than he had expected, but the smuggler counted himself lucky that he was not too delayed. What I wouldn't do for a Garlean timepiece, Nero sighed inwardly. 

 

Even so, his little spat with Roen was rather amusing, now that he thought about it in retrospect. Nero had certainly been borderline infuriated with her tireless idealism at the time, but he grinned at the very recent memory now. She was certainly determined in everything she did. Determined to help the people, determined to "save" him...the uninitiated observer might have called her obsessed.

 

The Twelve bless her for trying, at least. Hopefully that whole argument wasn't too awkward for Aldo and Maia to deal with.

 

Nero stopped by his safe house to retrieve a small sack, which he slung over his shoulder, before making his way to the far end of Pearl Lane. It was with some relief that Roen didn't question who his "friends" were. He had no moral qualms about lying, but they had a nasty habit of coming back to bite the liar, so half-truths were often preferable. He stopped at a ramshackle door that had several wooden boards haphazardly nailed to it, and a small horizontal viewing slot that had been cut into it.

 

Glancing around, the smuggler knocked on the door. The viewing slot slid open, then slammed shut again. The sound of chains and locks rattled from the other side of the door, which swung open, revealing a thin-looking Roegadyn, armed with a crude sword. "You're late," he growled, to which Nero merely shrugged in response. With a rather spindly hand, the Roegadyn gestured further into the building.

 

A ragtag gang occupied the inside of the dilapidated building; a few Ala Mhigans, some Midlanders, one distinctly out of place Elezen, a pair of Hellsguard Roegadyn...an odd bunch to be seen together. A few torches illuminated the interior, but in an effort to keep things discreet, the building was still quite dim. Nero cleared his throat. 

 

"Where's Scythe?" Internally the Hyur winced, his voice sounding far too loud among the quiet and stern looking individuals occupying the building.

 

"Thought you reneged on us. I'd have hated to have to hide another body," a gravelly voice resounded from the gloomy darkness. 

 

Emerging from the back was another Highlander. It was difficult to tell from the darkness and the warm glow of the torches, but a few distinct features made themselves out. The Highlander's body looked carved out of wood with chiseled muscles and the occasional scar marking his torso. A square jaw, brushed with a sand-coloured beard, squirmed as it awkwardly alternated between a smile and a scowl. The Highlander's hair had been swept back in a fanciful style, the tips occupied with blood red highlights. His elaborate appearance contrasted heavily with the fact that he was adorned in naught but sack cloth trousers; a leather sword belt wrapped itself around his waist. Hanging off of it was a wide-bladed falchion, wicked serrations occupying the back of the weapon.

 

"You promised us product. Ain't good business to lie," the Highlander identified as Scythe said, stepping forward to allow his face to be seen more clearly. 

 

Nero merely responded with a cool smile, his earrings jingling as the Midlander tilted his head. He knew this man. Scythe's real name was the thoroughly un-intimidating label of Ernis Randolph. It'd been nearly twenty years since he and the smuggler had seen each other; they had just been children back then. An amusing coincidence that both of them had changed their names to become something intimidating, but whereas Ernis didn't seem to recognise Nero, Nero recognised Ernis. He knew how Ernis operated.

 

And that was an invaluable advantage.

 

"There were some complications. Brass Blades confiscated them. Maybe check with the ones on your payroll," the smuggler said, shrugging. "Or don't. I know where the shipment is, and I'm retrieving the products tomorrow. I guarantee they're worth the wait. I even brought a sample to whet your appetite." Nero gestured to the sack he was holding over his shoulder.

 

Scythe's eyes narrowed in curiosity, and the Highlander folded his arms. "You don't expect full payment for a late delivery now, do you...pirate?" As if to illustrate the threat, he patted the falchion at his side.

 

Nero shrugged again. "You could try to cut my fee...or just cut me, but doing so eliminates any opportunity for us to do repeat business. And trust me, when I can get you toys like these...you'll want repeat business." He withdrew from the sack a simple-looking flintlock pistol, making some fanciful manoeuvres by spinning it with the trigger guard.

 

"Straight from Limsa Lominsa. Fits in your hand, packs the force of a fire spell...easy to conceal. Easy to use, and deadly. Loud, and packs a punch. I'd say it fits you perfectly. All you do is point, pull the trigger, and watch whoever is unfortunate enough to be in the way fall down." The Midlander unscrewed the long barrel from the pistol and juggled the two for a few seconds with ease, before screwing the barrel back on. He flipped the gun in his hands and held grips towards Scythe; it was an offer, and a dare.

 

The Highlander eyed the device, before gingerly reaching a hand out to clasp it. Scythe pointed the pistol this way and that--towards the ceiling, at the wall, at the floor. His face scrunched in contemplation as he tested the weapon's weight. Then he pointed the weapon at Nero's forehead.

 

Even staring down the barrel of the pistol, the smuggler's cool smile remained. It evolved into his trademark smirk. Nero was taunting the Highlander, and Scythe knew it. The Highlander's face took on an expression of what could only be called impressed anger, before he turned the pistol to the side if the Midlander's head and pulled the trigger.

 

Click went the mechanism as the hammer shot forward, the flint striking the steel. A spark shot out, but the expected explosion did not emerge.

 

The Midlander shrugged, his earrings chiming as he tilted his head at Scythe. "Sorry. You have to buy the shot and powder separately. I had some in that confiscated shipment. Still, it's a neat little thing, isn't it?"

 

"It's...light," Scythe commented warily, lowering the pistol. He knew he was being toyed with, but his tone held some measure of grudging respect. "I admit, you pirates know what you're doing with weapons."

 

Nero's smirk widened. "I like to pretend that weapons are one of the three things Limsa Lominsa's good at, the other two being drunken violence and violent drunkenness." He held out his hand towards Scythe, an expectant twinkle in his eye. "I do apologise for the delay, but I assume...we are still in business?"

 

Scythe eyed Nero's hand, as if judging whether to clasp it or cut it off, before reaching a muscular hand out and grabbing the smuggler's, giving it a brief shake. "We are still in business." Nero felt his hand being squeezed with sudden crushing force, and it took all of his effort not to wince in reflex. "Try not to be late in the future. I am expecting our goods...on time," Scythe growled with a barely veiled threat.

 

"It's all part of the business," the smuggler said lightly in order to keep a gasp from escaping his throat. The Highlander's vice grip was unrelenting. "Sometimes it happens."

 

Scythe grunted, releasing the Midlander's hand, before turning around and making a gesture to the door. "Get out," was the terse command, one which Nero followed without much hesitation.

 

Exposing himself into the cool night air of Thanalan, Nero's wince of pain reverted into a sly grin as he began to shuffle off back to his safe house. Hopefully no lasting damage was done that would interfere with his rendezvous with Roen on the morrow.

 

The Highlander might think himself as the one who held the power, but dear old Ernis would be an excellent pawn, indeed.

[Roen]

Nanawa Mines.

 

Roen peeked over the large outcropping of rocks to get the layout of the place, even though she knew the mines well enough to dread coming here. There were too many memories to count, and none were in her favor. As she took in the details of the area--the number of people, the location of the buildings, and potential guards that stood out from the throng of miners--she hoped that today the mine would yield her a better fortune than it had before. If she and Nero were successful in retrieving the confiscated goods for the refugees, she would consider the day a success.

 

The paladin counted three Brass Blades in uniform outside the largest building that lay at the foot of the Nanawa Mines. There were a few boxes and crates placed outside the building, piled up against the side wall. She was not sure what she was looking for exactly in terms of the confiscated goods--how many boxes she was looking for, or even if they were in crates at all.

 

She watched as she one of the Brass Blades ambled over to the mines, disappearing into the dark maw of the cave. His pace was slow and he cared not for the miners that trudged by, it was clear he was interested in something else, within the depths of the mines.

 

Roen studied the rest of the area one last time before she withdrew, thankful that there were no signs of a wagon approaching, which could mean a buyer for the goods.

 

Her trek to Black Brush Station was made on quick feet, and the paladin was thankful for the storm clouds looming above. It was still warm and the looming rain only made the air thick and muggy, but at least she did not burn with the sun’s unrelenting glare. It was rare that the Thalanan skies were ever littered with clouds, and if then, only a scant herd of them; this day offered an unusual overcast. Roen was not sure if that boded well or ill.

 

Silly thoughts, she reminded herself. She never used to consider superstitious beliefs before she came to Eorzea. But here, people invoked their gods for the mysteries and the unforeseeable things. Perhaps their beliefs were starting to rub off on her. Whatever it was that brought the cooler temperatures this day, and perhaps even threatened rain, Roen was thankful.

 

The paladin had still come dressed for the hurried expedition. She wore a sleeveless vest made of light linen, as well as cotton breeches with comfortable leather boots. She had stowed her armor along with her shield at Black Brush Station, but scouting about dressed in full armor would have made her more than conspicuous. She was not sure what to expect in reclaiming these goods. A fight? A conversation? Just how did the smuggler expect to get them back? Was she to provide her sword in the effort?

 

Roen had already told Nero she was not willing to run any Blades through. Corrupt or not, they were still part of the law enforcement of Ul’dah. "Good luck," Broken Nose said to her this morning as he gave her the copy of the list. He had a dark grin on his face, though she suspected it was meant more for the snobby noble who was not present. If Nero had not lost his temper, she would have just asked the Brass Blades of the Rose to take care of this problem once they located the goods.

 

No use dwelling on it now, the paladin reminded herself. If she was still with the Sultansworns, she would be arriving with her surcoat and authority to reclaim what was wrongfully taken. But without the rank and influence of the Order, she was just another armored fighter, even if she claimed to be a Free Paladin. Roen could not help but feel a bit powerless without the attachment to the Order, even if that power came with bindings of its own.

 

The paladin set those thoughts aside by the time she was close enough to see the aetheryte crystal of Black Brush station. Her pace quickened as she eyed the cloudy skies. It would be noon in another bell, perhaps the smuggler would arrive early.

[Nero]

To be truly prepared for anything would require omniscience, but that didn't mean Nero couldn't try.

 

Before leaving Ul'dah, he purchased a simple linen robe from the Weaver's Guild to wear over his clothing; he simply recycled his outfit from the previous day, a sleeveless doublet with trousers and jackboots. The robe would potentially be stifling, but the smuggler was not overly fond of showing his metaphorical hand right away, and the hood would conceal his face. The heat would, thankfully, not be too much of a problem, as the Twelve saw fit to bless Thanalan with a generous overcast.

 

He had just enough gil to hire the services of a wagon, if he needed one--hopefully the Brass Blades had kept his own wagon intact--but not enough to bribe his way out of a bad situation. Which meant combat if they couldn't just convince the Brass Blades to return his goods.

 

The fingerless gloves from before were discarded for rough leather gloves with cobalt plates affixed to the knuckles. A small knife was slipped through his belt, dangling from his right, and hanging from his left hip was a simple yet elegant silver sceptre, about a fulm in length, with a gleaming emerald embedded in the top.

 

Nero considered using thaumaturgy on people distasteful--they had a bad habit of combusting, screaming, and exploding into chunky bits, often simultaneously, which lacked a certain subtlety that the smuggler preferred--but if they needed a distraction, being able to conjure a fiery blast would be a useful tool to rely on.

 

Nero mumbled vague curses under his breath as he made his way on foot to central Thanalan. The smuggler wasn't lacking in fitness, but after having spent many of his years on a ship or at least hitched to a wagon where the chocobo was doing the walking, having to make the trip on foot was exasperating to say the least. Even so, retrieving his goods personally really was the only way. While simply leaning back and letting the--what had she called them, the Brass Blades of the Rose? Letting them take care of this would have been lovely, but Nero wasn't willing to risk them finding his more illicit cargo.

 

It seemed he was the later of the two; the smuggler arrived just after noon to see Roen lingering near the aetheryte crystal as miners and various workers milled about to distribute the ore drawn out of the mines. He approached her from behind and tapped her shoulder, the hood drawn over his face.

 

"See anything I should know about?" Nero asked tersely, his tone stiff and business-like. The sooner they got this over with, the better.

[Roen]

The smuggler wore an intent expression, one that quickly sobered her own. He was hooded and robed, and Roen saw the wisdom in that. She wondered if she should also hide her face; she did not know whether she would be readily recognized by the Blades guarding the goods. That is... if deception was the route they were going to take.

 

Roen turned half way as she leaned in, lowering her voice so that it did not travel beyond them. “Three Blades at the mines. I saw a few boxes stacked outside the building. But they might be hiding some in the mines too.” Her gaze casually roamed over the people around them as she spoke, trying to catch any stray glances their way. None seemed to pay them any mind, it was like any other day of business to most. “One Blade in the building, another checks the caves. The third watches outside. Otherwise, the miners are going about their business.”

 

The paladin glanced down at the smuggler's choice of clothing, eyeing most of what he had on him hidden beneath the loose fall of cotton. “How are we doing this?” she asked quietly as she tilted her head toward a nearby building. "I have my armor inside. I can go in heavily armored or light."

[Nero]

Nero considered his options thoughtfully. Avoiding a fight would be best. Injuring or killing any Brass Blades would only draw attention and cause a ruckus...and if the smuggler wanted the Sultansworn on his side, killing law enforcement would not be pragmatic. Morality wasn't an issue; it was practicality. Dead bodies meant grudges and investigations, and neither were very good for clandestine business.

 

On the other hand, it was doubtful that the Brass Blades would let these strangers simply rifle through the crates looking for cargo. Roen lacked her Sultansworn uniform and Nero didn't have the coin to bribe even one of them, much less all of them. Subterfuge would have to be the name of the game, but it would be very dangerous. Three missing Brass Blades wouldn't be an issue; if they could get rid of them quickly and quietly, they could go in, get the cargo, and leave before anyone was the wiser. If a fight started, however...

 

The smuggler's eyes darted to and from between the caves and the buildings. The supplies for the refugees be damned; it was the Lominsan arms he was concerned about. He couldn't see anything resembling the two rectangular crates he had carried them in, which meant they had to be inside the building or in the caves. The building was more likely; the Monetarists had Black Brush Station under their thumb, so if the goods were being sold to the bandits or...whoever, they wouldn't put them in the caves.

 

The question, now, was how to deal with Roen. She couldn't be allowed to find out what else Nero was shipping, but there was no way to check which crates were his without checking the contents. Could he play it off as simply finding them? No, that wouldn't work; though the alchemists were capable of synthesizing the black powder, Ul'dah didn't manufacture firearms. Having Lominsan weapons in the hands of Ul'dahn gangs was enough of a political powder keg. The last thing Nero needed was the law enforcement trying to follow the threads. 

 

Nero filed away a mental reminder to commission someone to create a graphic for his merchant front; unmarked crates were all well and good but they caused more problems than they solved, particularly in this instance.

 

There had to be a way for him to redirect the paladin to the refugee's supplies while drawing attention away from his goods. Or maybe it was possible to keep her from the goods altogether...as fortune would have it, Nero spotted his wagon resting against the side of the largest building, being attended to by a couple of miners. There was no chocobo, but if they hitched it to one from the porters, it would work. The wagon was empty for now, but it seemed the miners were going to use it to port ore back to the city.

 

Nero tapped her shoulder again, pointing to the wagon. "Forget the building for now. First things first; an exit. If my goods are here, we need a way to get them out of here, and quick. I think that's my wagon, there." The smuggler withdrew his gil pouch--it felt uncomfortably light--and pressed it into her hand. "Do whatever you have to. I'll check the main building for the goods." Nero's thoughts raced in his head as he considered how to bluff the Blades, and without giving Roen a chance to respond, he walked towards the largest building that lay at the foot of the mines.

 

She didn't want to kill Brass Blades, and that was fine. Let her do the easy work. Nero approached the Brass Blade, another Midlander, standing watch in front of the large building. The Brass Blade sniffed and glared at the smuggler apprehensively.

 

"My name is...Kenneth Taeros." It was a snap reflex, and Nero hoped dearly that using Jameson's surname wouldn't come back to bite him later. "I am a representative of the Miner's Guild. The Mineral Concern wants to do an inspection." Nero's tone was business-like; one of Vail's fondest rules were that as long as you pretended you belonged somewhere, most people would get out of your way.

 

"Never heard of an inspection," the Brass Blade responded, brushing a gloved hand past his nose. "They'd have told us." The Midlander peered at Nero's face under the hood. "And you don't look much like an inspector."

 

Nero shrugged. "We sent a runner; if he didn't make it, likely he was eaten by a peiste or something. Nonetheless, the Concern is...well, concerned with the recent output. I need access to the ledgers and records."

 

The Brass Blade folded his arms, his tone stern. "Let me see some papers, then," he said gruffly. Nero rolled his eyes in response, his voice taking on a derisive edge.

 

"Look, friend, we're not paying you to ask questions. My employer didn't give me any papers; I was just told to come here, retrieve some numbers, and bring them back for comparison. I'm just the messenger." The Brass Blade didn't look too pleased with Nero's attitude.

 

"We would have known," the Brass Blade growled, putting emphasis on each word. "Who in the hells do you think you are?" The Midlander's patience was clearly growing thin.

 

"I'm the one trying to do his damned job," Nero snapped back, mirroring the Brass Blade's annoyance. "I couldn't give a rat's ass about what you think. Get in the way of my employers and you can happily say hello to a brand new position in Little Ala Mhigo." The smuggler's eyes narrowed from beneath the hood. "I'm sure the Amal'jaa would love the company. Better you than me."

 

The Brass Blade's fierce attitude seemed to waver a bit, and he snarled as he pounded on the door. "Make it quick, then."

 

"Thugs in uniform," Nero swore under his breath, pulling open the door and stepping into the building.

[Roen]

The gil pouch jingled in her hand.

 

Roen shook it a bit, hearing the quiet rustle of coin from within the fabric. What am I supposed to do with this? She glanced toward the wagon then the two miners attending to it. Convince them to just lend me the wagon? Bribe them? The paladin considered her options, her brow furrowing. She even considered smiling and coyly turning side to side as she had seen so many other women do to charm others into getting what they wanted.

 

It was a brief thought. A very brief thought.

 

No. Definitely not that.

 

Roen watched Nero with a sidelong glance until he disappeared into the large building, before she exhaled through puffed out cheeks. Ducking her head, she strode toward the wagon, determined to get it any way possible.

 

It went well, all things considered.

 

Nothing talks like gil in Thalanan, and the mines were no exception. She had approached the two men, unarmed and without armor, and the response was merely a raised, curious brow. She tried the truth first, but entreating them to borrow the wagon in order to deliver the needed supplies to the refugees fell on deaf ears. But their unfriendly scowls soon brightened when she held up the pouch of gil that Nero had given her. And the miners were a greedy sort--or just poor, she reminded herself--that they accepted nothing less than the full pouch to discreetly relinquish the wagon to her.

 

Roen reminded herself to learn how to play cards and bluff someone in the near future; she was pretty sure she had been taken advantage of in that deal. Perhaps they saw that she was too eager to get the wagon--that or their discretion simply cost more.

 

Either way, they left her with a wagon that was without a mount to pull it. The paladin padded her own coin purse on her belt and glanced towards Black Brush’s stable. She guessed that she might just have enough to rent a chocobo for the trip to the refugee camps and back.

 

Roen was counting the gil when a gravelly voice greeted her from behind. “Well, what do we have here?”

 

It was the Highlander Brass Blade she had watched heading down into the mines earlier. And from the odd way he grinned at her when she turned--bearing his teeth with his brows drawn downward--she guessed he recognized her.

 

And not in a good way.

 

“Deneith, right?” The crimson chainmail of the Brass Blade rattled he approached her. He looked her up and down. “I see yer out of the gaols.” He nodded appreciatively. “It’s been awhile.”

 

The paladin eyed the man as she tucked her coin purse away, squinting in an attempt to recognize him. It took her only a moment. “Ah. Louvel Burn, aye?” Hers was not a friendly greeting. She remembered the Highlander; he was in the same unit as the Brass Blade that brought her to meet with Captain Anduron--the one so appropriately named Stank Balls. She knew they got along famously.

 

Louvel nodded, and as if reading her thoughts, he grinned at her hair. “The hair’s growin’ back nice.” His tone and gaze held a hint of lechery she did not appreciate. “I remember the day after Stank was done wit’ ye," he continued, "ye were bald as a babe’s bottom!” He laughed and reached for her hair.

 

Roen’s eyes narrowed instantly and she knocked his hand away with her forearm. “Do not do that,” she warned him quietly.

 

The Highlander’s brows shot up. “Oh ho ho! Got a little fight in ye now, eh? ‘s not what I heard from Stank. He said ye just stood there while Captain Anduron dished out one of his lessons. Then Stank took yer hair tae wear it for himself. That ugly gobshite, ye know he still wears that ridiculous wig around?” He did not seem discouraged by her cautionary arch of the brow as he leaned in again, his tone turning a bit more insistent. “Come now, Deneith. I just want tae see why he likes it so much.”

 

The Highlander’s hand reached no closer than a fulm from her head. It got no closer. The paladin caught him at the wrist abruptly. Roen brought her other hand on his fingers, and quickly yanked his middle finger back toward the top of his wrist. There was a sickening crack, followed by a large howl from the Brass Blade.

 

“Ye bitch!” The Highlander crumpled to the ground, grasping at his hand; the middle finger was now bent back in a rather unnatural way. His expression was twisted in shock and anger as he stared back at the paladin who still stood calmly over him, her arms crossed.

 

“I told you not to do that.” Roen said evenly. She eyed the man’s hand; it was his sword hand finger she broke. At least I don't have to worry about him reaching for his blade, she thought. The paladin canted her head, and spoke slowly but firmly. “Now, I can heal that, if you just behave.”

 

Louvel’s face had already turned crimson from shame (and probably more than a pinch of resentment), and by the look in his eyes she could tell there were an array of insults he wanted to hurl her way. But all he did was stare back down at his deformed hand and whimper. Boastful and arrogant Highlander, but still unable to handle pain very well, she mused. Louvel had always been the sort to duck out of Amalj’aa patrols, weaseling his way to desk jobs and gate taxation duties.

 

“What’s going on here?” Another voice called out from behind her as she heard approaching footsteps.

 

Roen winced inwardly, and turned to see the Midlander Blade trotting up to them. He had been the one standing guard at the door in front of the building that Nero had gone into, but the cries of the Highlander had clearly caught his attention. His brows were arched in surprise, one hand going to rest atop the hilt of the scimitar on his hip.

 

“Raffe! The bitch of a coeurl broke my finger!” Louvel wailed, spittle flying. “I am gonna cut ye good…” he snarled at her. But no sooner than the words had left his mouth, he cringed again, looking to his trembling hand. Pain seemed to easily distract the man.

 

Raffe stared Roen, then back at the Highlander, who was now rocking back and forth on the ground. After a long pause, he threw his head back in a derisive laugh. “Ya got beat by a girl! She ain’t even armed!” The Midlander bent forward, slapping his knee. “Aaaah, wait ‘til the unit hears about this. Get up, ya baby.”

 

Roen licked her lips, brow knit warily as she watched the Midlander approach Louvel, who was still rolling on the ground. Muttering something about an inspector, the Midlander hauled Louvel to his feet. Roen stole one sidelong glance at the large building, before returning her attention back to the two Brass Blades. Since Louvel already recognized her, she needed to keep them here, and their attention away from whatever Nero was doing.

 

Raffe did not seem threatened by her; perhaps he was more confident in his skills. Roen did note that his one hand still rested on the hilt of his sword. The Midlander Blade looked to her expectantly. “Now then. What are you doing here?”

 

The paladin pressed her lips in a thin line and stared back at the man. Her mind raced to come up with a story that would not be a lie.

[Nero]

Even from inside the building, Nero heard the echoes of a pained, guttural cry. It was with a sudden sense of fervent piety that he prayed to the Twelve that that was not Roen's fault. Now the smuggler was not so sure that it was a good idea to bring her along; the exasperating woman was just incapable of being subtle. She wouldn't be able to tell a decent lie if someone else covered her face, shoved her away, and lied for her. 

 

Nero shook his head, dashing his doubts away. If there were consequences for his choice to ally with her, he'd deal with them later. He needed to find his goods. Thankfully, the building's first floor was mostly devoid of workers; it seemed that it was being used as a storehouse. Fortunately, the crates were burned with the label of the Amajina and Sons Mineral Concern; this made his search significantly easier, for Nero's crates were unmarked, so any crate lacking the label would have a very high chance of being one of the crates he was looking for.

 

Unfortunately, there were many, many crates, and checking each individual crate for the label would have taken far too much time, and it was not as if the smuggler could simply lift large crates filled with ore. A cursory inspection of the crates signified that the important ones--the ones holding the Lominsan arms--were not here, and Nero simply did not have the time to check every crate for the refugee's supplies. Some small part of him had hoped that his goods would be found easily, but of course, it was never that simple.

 

Was there a record? That wouldn't be likely. Nero's goods, after all, were confiscated. It was very doubtful that they'd have been recorded in a ledger somewhere. Likely they were simply shoved in a corner somewhere, waiting to be picked up and taken to....wherever. 

 

There was a second floor to the building, and the smuggler did his best to remain quiet as he ascended the steps. The stairs were not very well maintained, as a horrendously loud creaking noise was heard whenever Nero's boot descended on one. The second floor seemed to be occupied by an office; huddled over a ledger was a Lalafell a quill pen furiously scribbling away at the book. So focused was the Lalafell--presumably a foreman of some kind--on the filling of the ledger that he hadn't deigned to notice the stairs squealing in protest, or the Midlander creeping up to him with knife in hand.

 

In one swift motion, Nero covered the Lalafell's mouth in his left hand and pressed the knife to his throat with his right. "Try to scream, and the last thing that comes out of your throat is your blood," the Hyur said, his tone dangerously quiet. He couldn't see the Lalafell's expression, but the muffled struggling implied some degree of terror. "Brass Blades brought unmarked crates to the mines. Where are they?" His question was terse as he slipped his left hand off of the Lalafell's mouth.

 

"Didn't see anything," came the equally terse yet trembling answer. Nero clicked his tongue. "That's the exact opposite of what I was hoping you'd say," the smuggler responded. "Try again." He pressed the knife with more force.

 

"D-didn't see anything..!" The Lalafell's lips quaked out the same answer. The Hyur shook his head. The problem with these kinds of techniques was that it rarely produced a workable answer, but Nero was pressed for time and didn't have time to practice his usual method of making friends.

 

"The bandit gangs. They are here regularly," Nero couldn't know that for sure, but the worst that could happen from the bluff is that it didn't work. "Where do they go?"

 

"M-mines," the Lalafell babbled. It was impossible to tell if that was the truth--given his situation, the Lalafell was likely just saying whatever answer he thought the Hyur was looking for--but Nero could tell well enough that his weapons were not in this building. The mines seemed to be the only other location...and that probably meant having to deal with the Brass Blades.

 

"My thanks." Nero showed his gratitude by putting away the knife, only to tighten his arms against the Lalafell's throat. The tiny foreman struggled and gasped for several long seconds, but the Hyur's grip was unrelenting until the kicking and flailing ceased. Nero didn't know if he had killed the Lalafell or merely sent him into the realm of unconsciousness, but it didn't matter. A rapid inspection of the latest entries in the ledger that the Lalafell had been writing in didn't reveal anything useful. As another measure, Nero snatched the ink well and poured its remaining contents on the ledger; a pointless act, perhaps, but one that didn't fail to give him at least some sense of rebellious satisfaction.

 

The smuggler slipped out of the building and glanced around the corner to where he had sent Roen to secure the wagon. He cursed under his breath as he saw her occupied by two of the Brass Blades; there was no way something good was going to come out of her trying to bluff two of them. Nero wasn't sure the paladin could see him from her position, but he stuck his head out and mouthed the word mines, jerking his thumb in the direction before making his way to the back of the building, heading for the scaffolding that lead to the Nanawa Mines directly.

[Roen]

“Do we look like charity to you?”

 

Raffe Gorne, the Midlander Brass Blade, looked at the paladin incredulously. He seemed neither the charitable nor the altruistic sort.

 

“It is not charity if one pays for it,” Roen retorted. “You can ask the two men that relinquished it to me.” She made a vague gesture into the crowd of miners, not really attempting to locate the specific faces. She’d rather not have Raffe talk to them; she was fairly certain the wagon did not belong to them either. It was then that she spotted Nero exiting out of the building. She spared the smuggler a quick glance before turning her attention back to the Brass Blade.

 

Raffe did not bother to follow her gesture, his attention remaining on the paladin. “We got uses for this wagon. And what supplies? I don’t see any supplies for the refugees here.”

 

“It is not here, exactly.” Roen shrugged, keeping her tone casual. That was not a lie either. She actually had no idea where it was, but he did not have to know that. “But that is what I need it for. I paid for the wagon, and I will be renting a chocobo from the stables, I will have the wagon back before sundown.”

 

“Yer not actually goin’ tae believe her, are ye, Raffe?” Louvel grumbled from behind the Midlander, still clutching his hand with the broken finger. His glare was an angry one.

 

“Shut up, Louvel.” Raffe held a silencing hand up toward the Highlander without looking at him. The look he gave Roen was a sly, greedy one. “If you paid the men, now you gotta pay us. Deneith was it? I remember your name. Being you were one of us once, you know how this works.” He held out a hand towards her as if expectant.

 

Roen sighed and shook her head. “Unfortunately, those men I bargained with demanded most of what I had. I need what I have left for the mount.” She tilted her head, glancing between Raffe and Louvel, even though she knew the answer before she even asked. “Perhaps you can seek out the men and share the profit?”

 

The Midlander threw his head back and laughed. “You… aren’t serious right? Did you forget how things work?”

 

“She’s the one that Stank dealt with!” Louvel snarled. “The ex-Sworn who thinks she’s too good for the Blades.” He spat on the ground.

 

“Never did get that lesson right,” Roen said dryly, crossing her arms.

 

Raffe glanced between the Highlander and the paladin, cocking his head in her direction. “Pay up, or the wagon stays.”

 

“I paid for it. I am taking it. The wagon is not even registered with the Blades.” Roen gave Raffe then Louvel a pointed look. They had illegally confiscated it after all. “Right?”

 

The corner of Raffe’s lips twitched, then quickly turned downward. “Well. Looks like you are going to get another one of those lessons today. You forgot quick how we deal with rabble rousers around here. Time for a reminder.”

 

Roen exhaled a patient sigh, even as she silently gauged the Blade in front of her. A bit portly in the midsection, his feet dragged slightly on the dirt, and he was resting on his heels. The chainmail would make him slower but harder to hit any vital organs. His face bore no scars, his cheekbones pristine and symmetrical; there was no sign that he was a toughened fighter. Many times those that sought out this line of extortion was looking to avoid fighting by targeting innocent merchants and helpless travelers. At least, that is what she hoped.

 

The paladin arched her brows as she saw Raffe’s fingers curl around the hilt of his scimitar. “Are you going to need your sword to teach me a lesson?” She held out her hands, as if to make it plain she was unarmored and unarmed. Her voice remained steady, even; she was issuing no challenge.

 

But there was no fear either.

 

The Midlander Blade paused, hesitant to let go of his blade. His upper lip paled as he pursed it, and Roen knew it was his pride fighting his caution. The fact that he did not want to relinquish his weapon at all boded well. He was likely--as she had been--relying solely on the skills of sword and shield in a fight. Raffe gave the Highlander behind him a half glance, as if reminded of his taunt earlier, then unbuckled his belt.

 

“Nope.” Raffe tossed his belt and weapon to the side. “You’re just a girl. Ain’t no way you’re beating me," he declared as he drew himself up, as if to make himself look bigger. He was sizing her up as he approached, but his gait remained full of swagger. He did not even raise his fists in front of him in any kind of a defensive stance. Raffe did not expect anything of her at all.

 

 

 

Louvel roared with laughter.

 

The Highlander Blade was turning crimson with amusement, his uninjured hand pointing at the fellow Brass Blade in front of him.

 

Raffe sat on the ground, leaning against the piled crates. He wore an expression that was half dazed and half humiliation. His perfect cheekbones were no longer pristine, his lip was split and his temple and jaw were sporting a growing welt.

 

The Highlander's legs were splayed out in front of him. His entire torso was encased in a barrel, the top lid removed to allow his head to protrude from it.

 

“Ya didn’t just have to sit there and watch.” Raffe scowled.

 

“HAR!” the Highlander snorted, slapping his knee with his good hand. “Because ye needed help with a girl.”

 

“And you did better?!” Raffe shot back.

 

Louvel paused, and the two men stared at each other.

 

“Are ye goin’ tae report this?”

 

Raffe swallowed, his expression turning sour.

 

“Sure,” he grumbled after a long moment. "Sometime next year. Unless you're going to."

 

"Nae."

 

Louvel and Raffe just looked at each other. They both sighed.

 

A long minute of silence passed.

 

Louvel finally looked back at Raffe. "Unless ye really think we should--"

 

"Never. Now help me out of this already!”

[Nero]

As fate would have it, Nero would not be required to enter the mines themselves. He thanked the Twelve beneath his breath for granting him some manner of luck; he had ascended the scaffolding and could scarcely contain his excitement when he spotted the rectangular crates resting near the entrance of the mines. With some hazy memories, he recalled that the Nanawa Mines was primarily a conduit for the ceruleum refineries; it was fortunate that they had not been taken out of central Thanalan.

 

The arms crates were stacked along with a few other crates next to a support beam; Nero guessed that those were the refugee supplies. He couldn't see the Amajina and Sons logo from where he was peering over the scaffolding, but it was safe to assume that the Blades had kept all of the confiscated goods together, and even if the other crates weren't the supplies, the weapons--or at least the crate that carried them--were intact, and that was enough.

 

The question now was that if Nanawa Mines was meant to be a transit area for the goods, then where was the final destination?

 

The answer to Nero's question came in the form of a group of four bandits; they were dressed functionally and armed to the teeth, and were lounging several fulms away from the crates, near the entrance of the mines. From where the smuggler peered over the edge of the cliff, he could see three swords and a bow. One of the bandits stepped forward, presumably the leader; it was a female Miqo'te wielding the bow. Accompanying her were two Midlanders and a Hellsguard Roegadyn, all wielding swords. The Miqo'te was dressed modestly for the overcast conditions and perked up when the third Brass Blade, a Highlander, emerged from the mines. 

 

Five foes in total. Could he handle all of them? It was clear that the bandits were here for the goods; the Highlander Brass Blade was making some gestures at the pile of crates. The Miqo'te made the same motions, occasionally glancing back at her henchmen. Nero couldn't read their lips, but from the motions being made, he guessed that they must have been negotiating for payment.

 

The smuggler's heart and mind both raced. He couldn't take on five of them in hand-to-hand. Thaumaturgy? If he didn't control the size of his spells, he could risk destroying his products. Roen was still dealing with the two other Brass Blades, presumably. Nero shook his head, withdrawing the silver sceptre from his side. Even if he ended up destroying the goods, he couldn't let the bandits have them.

 

At least, not these bandits.

 

Pulling the hood over his face as far as he could allow without significantly impeding his vision, Nero stepped up the scaffolding, sceptre in hand. His eyes narrowed as he clutched the sceptre, willing the aether to bend and form around the sceptre, which began to take on an umbral purple hue. Properly molding the raw aether into sorcery required immense focus; the first lesson taught at the Ossuary was the danger of failed spells, and an acolyte was subject to intense exercises of concentration before taking on learning how to shape the aether.

 

It had been some time since Nero had properly used his thaumaturgy--often he avoided using it when possible or simply lacked a reason--but it was with a pleasant surprise that he found that his concentration did not waver, even with his lack of practise. The aether began to manifest as flames danced around the head of the sceptre, creating sparkling lights within the emerald embedded in it. The Hyur kept the sceptre concealed behind his back, fully aware that the growing flames would not remain hidden for very long.

 

Nero was still a few yalms away from the group, but the bandits had taken notice. The Hellsguard Roegadyn drew his sword and stepped forward towards Nero; the two other Midlanders followed suit.

 

The Roegadyn growled. "Yer not supposed--"

 

The sentence was interrupted as Nero whipped the sceptre out as his spell completed, sending a plume of fire rocketing towards the group. The Brass Blade's eyes widened and the Highlander dropped to the floor. The Midlanders and the Miqo'te followed suit, but the Roegadyn took the fireball directly to the face, the spell exploding in a brilliant cascade of sparks.

 

Not wasting any time in preparing another spell, Nero's eyes darted from beneath the hood, assessing the situation. He hadn't killed the Roegadyn yet--that would be remedied soon enough--but he needed to keep the Miqo'te at least pinned. Taking an arrow would end this endeavour quickly. The aether swirled around the scepter again, and a violet orb flew out, again striking the Roegadyn who convulsed violently before falling to the ground, his limbs occasionally twitching.

 

By now, the Midlanders had recovered and brandished their swords, making a charge for the smuggler; the Brass Blade had bellowed something unintelligible and began to crawl to the edge.

 

The bandits were clearly not well trained in combat, a condition that came from preying on hapless refugees or unarmed caravans; the first came at Nero alone instead of waiting for his compatriot to attack simultaneously, the Midlander swinging a scimitar vertically. It was a clumsy attack at best, one that Nero easily dodged by sidestepping to the left and following up with a right cross directly to the bandit's throat with the intent of smashing the windpipe. The cobalt plates on Nero's gloves impacted on the tender flesh with a sickening thud that sounded like raw meat being hit with a sledgehammer.

 

The second bandit made a diagonal swing, but was met with the silver sceptre. A gurgle resounded as Nero flicked the knife from its sheath and jammed it with his left hand into the bandit's throat.

 

However, it would not be as easy as all that. The smuggler whipped his head to the left, narrowly dodging an arrow that whistled past his ear, violently brushing Nero's hood off of his head. The Miqo'te had recovered and was now taking careful aim at the Hyur. A fire spell would have taken too long; white-blue particles began to coalesce around the head of the sceptre. Another arrow whipped past Nero, who nearly fell over attempting to dodge the projectile. He raised his sceptre, and a cascade of icy shards manifested around the Miqo'te before exploding like glass.

 

Nero didn't take the time to examine his handiwork, but the lack of arrows flying at him indicated that the Miqo'te was either dead or incapacitated enough to stop using a bow; the Highlander Brass Blade was still yelling something unintelligible. The smuggler's mouth twisted into a cruel grin as another plume of fire emerged from the sceptre, blasting the Highlander off of the cliff with one of his legs spinning through the air, separate from his body.

[Roen]

Roen shook her hand to loosen her fingers as she trotted toward the base of the scaffolding leading up to the mines. Her knuckles still throbbed after the bare-handed blows she'd delivered against poor Raffe’s face.

 

The Brass Blade had approached her unprepared, somehow not expecting much resistance. His swing was clumsy; she ducked away from it easily and answered with two quick jabs to his face. Even now the memory of the aghast expression that twisted his visage brought a small but satisfied smile to the paladin’s lips. Raffe’s complexion turned ruddier by the moment as he became angry, which in turn only made his movements rushed and lacking in precision.

 

That had been her first real hand-to-hand combat against an opponent that intended her harm, and the fact that she defeated him energized her and quickened her steps up the stairs. Roen was not foolish enough to think Raffe had been a difficult opponent; his balance was questionable and his swings were clumsy. He was likely a much more formidable foe with sword and shield in hand.

 

Roen could not dismiss the twisted irony that there was something positive she had gained from her unfortunate encounter with both Stank and Captain Anduron, and even Itarliht. They exposed her weaknesses, tested her fortitude. Roen had come out stronger for it.

 

“Run, cheat, or die. You chose to endure.”

 

Roen left the two Brass Blades on their own to sort things out; neither seemed willing to object any longer to her taking the wagon. Roen even offered to heal Louvel's finger after she returned with the wagon. He grudgingly grunted and nodded in answer.

 

Nero had mouthed to her mines, which meant that whatever he was looking for was not in the building. The third Brass Blade was still unaccounted for, and unless he was in the building, Roen assumed the final guard would be with the supplies at the mines. She counted themselves fortunate so far to have kept things quiet, so all they needed to do was to find the goods and--

 

A sound of an explosion broke Roen from her reverie as she rounded a turn on the scaffolding stairs.

 

Was that…a fireball? She started to hear the echoes of yells from above. Someone is raising an alarm. Her eyes wide, the paladin began to sprint up the stairs, taking two steps up at a time. Nero had gone up by himself, and if someone was wielding thaumaturgy up there…

 

Roen doubted the smuggler would be dodging fireballs, no matter how quick and agile he seemed during their short spar. She shut out the remainder of grim possibilities from her mind as she rounded the last turn, heading up the final steps to the top.

 

That was when she heard the scream. Her pace slowed on the last few wooden steps as she watched a Brass Blade sail off the cliff, thrown by another fiery explosion. The scorched head and the smoking chainmail, the dismembered leg spiralling through the air...the paladin did not question whether the man was going to live as he plummeted down.

 

Her eyes then turned to the only man up top that was still standing, his back to her.

 

Nero had bodies scattered about him; a silver scepter held in his hand still wafted wisps of spent aether into the grey sky.

[Nero]

The feeling when he practised thaumaturgy could hardly be described. Ecstatic seemed woefully inadequate. Manipulating the aether itself was a fairly pleasurable feeling, but what brought the smuggler such inordinate joy was just seeing the results of his power. Immense satisfaction had welled up inside Nero when he saw the Brass Blade spin off the cliff, the leg dancing in the air like a firework. The hood had been pulled off by the Miqo'te's arrows, and even as his face was somewhat hidden by his fiery orange forelocks, the expression on Nero's face could only be called one of pure exultation.

 

One of the Midlanders, the one Nero had punched in the throat, began to struggle to get up. The bandit coughed heavily, clutching at his chest in an effort to recover his breath. Nero, bemused by the reaction, slowly sauntered over and placed his foot against the bandit's back, forcing the Midlander back to the ground. Nero moved his foot to the Midlander's neck and raised it before slamming down his jackboots hard, a sickening crack resounding from the point of impact as the bandit's flailing suddenly ceased.

 

It'd been a long time since Nero had personally been involved in a fight. In Limsa Lominsa, Garalt and Daegsatz were usually more than enough to quell any chance of a brawl breaking out; the quiet Highlander had a glare of death permanently affixed to his face and the Roegadyn was, well, a Roegadyn. With a battle axe. Suffice to say that that was enough to cow most would-be opponents into submission.

 

But even a little spat involving unskilled bandits like this provided a sense of freedom, the sense that Nero could control his own destiny, that he had the power to destroy those who opposed him. That was a tyrannical line of thinking, perhaps, but one that never stopped being immensely fulfilling to him.

 

The smuggler strode lazily to the crates and prepared to check their contents, and it was only when he glanced around to see if anyone else was watching did he notice the paladin at the top of the scaffolding. Nero passed her a salute with his hand as he slipped the silver sceptre into the folds of his robe.

 

"So I take it everything went well then," he said, wearing his trademark smirk.

[Roen]

“You are naive.”

 

Those were the words Nero had said to her, that first day when they had met. “Your idealism will hamper you.” He had met her eyes squarely. “Sooner or later, you will be forced into a position where you must discard justice. Where you must discard righteousness. Justice is an idea. It works in a world of ideas…but not in our world.”

 

"Your world, Mister Lazarov. I hope to see more light in mine." Roen had refused to accept his broken principles.

 

“I commit injustice. I commit my evils, I break the law, for the sake of correcting that which the law itself cannot repair.” His icy-blue gaze had been sharp, gleaming with ambition. She remembered it well. “You speak of giving Ul’dah hope. I would be one of those who grant it hope. But I will do so my way.”

 

Even back then, Roen had seen the ruthlessness in his eyes, the darkness that lay beneath the surface. And yet…

 

She believed there was something more. She refused to believe that she saw only what she wanted to see.

 

“Should the Twelve deem it so, I will take all of that city’s evils and mirror them," Nero had spat back at her. "I will become what that city had always intended for me to be.” Nero clenched his fists, so driven was he in his conviction. Then he turned to her, his intensity seemingly dissolving, if just for a moment.

 

“But I need not be alone in this dream, Miss…Roen.” He said quietly as he extended his gloved hand to her.

 

“I will accept your aid, and I will grant you mine. Though we may not agree on the how...we can at least agree on what must be done.”

 

Two breaths passed between them, before the paladin took his hand. “I will help you achieve this dream, for the Jewel's sake," she had said to him, and she looked straight into his eyes. "But I will not help you spill blood.”

 

“And I would not have you do such,” Nero replied sternly with a nod. He released her hand after that long moment.

 

It was just before he departed that he shared one more thing. “I may not believe in your justice, Roen…but I would not begrudge seeing it as the victor.”

 

Roen had believed him then. She had also believed in herself, that she was right about the man beneath the mask. The smuggler was ambitious--perhaps even consumed by his need to achieve the ends he sought at all cost. And the only way he knew how to reach those goals was through violence. But she believed that there was a side to him that hoped for another way--a side that wanted another way.

 

“...What if I prove you wrong?”

 

The paladin felt the blood drain from her face as she stared at the lifeless body on the ground. The man was a bandit--that much Roen could gather from his armor and the sword that lay near him--but he had been incapacitated. He was helpless when Nero slammed him back to the ground and snapped the back of his neck. The smuggler had done it without any hesitation. His demeanor, his expression--they exuded arrogance, with even a touch of disdain. Roen stared at the pirate, appalled, as if seeing him for the first time.

 

"So I take it everything went well then," Nero even gave her his usual smirk when he saw her.

 

No words would come from her lips, at least not readily. Roen shook her head slightly as her eyes roamed over the rest of the bodies near the entrance to the mine. Another man lay twitching nearby--a Roegadyn, his armor also showing scorch marks. Purple electricity sparked sporadically from his chainmail, sending the man into short bouts of convulsions. She also spotted a motionless Miqo’te some distance away, shards of glassy ice protruding from her feline, armored form. The third body lay near where Roen stood, lifeless; a crimson pool of blood quickly grew from where his neck had been cut.

 

Roen's nostrils flared as she finally glanced back to the cliff where she had seen the Brass Blade fall to his death after being burnt by a fireball. “I will not help you spill blood.” Her own words echoed again from her memory.

 

Roen shot Nero a dark look, words of righteous anger burning on the tip of her tongue. But a passing call from down below cut through her heated thoughts. Roen went quickly to the edge; miners were milling about down below, drawn by the sound of the fireball's detonation. It was only a matter of time. Wrinkling her nose with obvious displeasure, Roen went to the smuggler and the collection of boxes there.

 

“I had taken care of the other two Brass Blades, but the third that you burnt and sent over the cliff is drawing more attention than any other ever could,” the paladin said in a biting tone. “And these bodies…” Her eyes flitted about the scene of violence. “Once they are discovered, more Brass Blades, or even the Immortal Flames will be called upon.” She gestured to the pile of boxes he was standing over with a flick of her head. “Are those the supplies for the refugees?”

 

The paladin shot him a glare that would brook no argument. “Because we need to go. Now.”

[Nero]

Nero rolled her eyes at Roen's reaction. He could tell from the way her face twitched and threatened to scrunch into a scowl that she was repressing a harsh rebuke, and that annoyed him far more than it should have. It took some effort for him to quell his own sour remarks about her naievete. 

 

What did she think? That this would be easy? That they could have gone through with their plan by simply kissing babies and shaking hands? It was not long ago that the paladin had fervently argued in favour of the inherent goodness she saw in Nero. He hadn't the courage to point it out to her then, but it seems now he did not need to: at that time, she had seen only what she wanted to see. She had pleaded so desperately for him, her idealism shining like a beacon. No amount of pleasure was lost when Nero saw that idealism shimmer and dim ever so slightly, even as she glared at him.

 

"When next you see your compatriots in the Sultansworn, Miss Deneith, ask them this: what do you do when there is an evil you cannot defeat through just means? Shall you commit evil to destroy evil? Or would you remain steadfast and righteous, even if that meant surrendering to evil?"

 

The corner of Nero's lip curled. Even as dire as their situation was, he wanted to be smug. He wanted to sneer at her. He felt some measure of pride in proving Roen wrong; it was petty and it was childish, but it still felt immensely satisfying. The words were on the very tip of his tongue, yet he knew he could not let them escape.

 

Welcome to my world.

 

The echoes of activity from beneath the scaffolding broke the smuggler from his arrogant reverie. He merely grinned. "Whoops," was his painfully meager reaction. "Guess they didn't like the fireworks. Have they never seen a leg be a routine? You'd think there'd be some more cultural taste around here..." Nero drew the hood over his head. The ones who had seen his face--the Brass Blade and the bandits--were dead, but the less risks taken at this point, the better.

 

"But yes, it's time to go." A quick jaunt to the crates and a swift prying of the top revealed that they were indeed what Nero was looking for; sacks of potatoes, leathers, clothing, and so on. The smuggler smiled. "Finally, some luck," he exclaimed. "I suppose I could have been a bit more subtle about the whole 'blasting people to Dalamud' part of the plan, but we haven't invented silent fireballs yet. Work in progress." The jokes never ceased coming out of his mouth. He couldn't help but find the whole situation endlessly amusing, and incredibly thrilling. Nero hadn't been in an adventure like this in a while. Too much time had been spent haggling with merchants and crooks or simply sailing the waves on the Forte, which was all well and good, but it had a hard time beating the adrenaline and excitement of something like this.

 

He turned his head to the paladin. "Bring the cart around. We should probably move before the party starts near us." Nero grunted as he began to lift the first crate.

[Roen]

It took all she had to hold her tongue. Roen spun around from the scene and strode quickly back down the scaffolding. It was not so much the deaths of the bandits that bothered her; if violence did break out, the paladin knew there was a chance for lives being lost. Bandits rarely relinquished what they saw as theirs, and most were perfectly willing to run anyone through who stood in their way. She herself had fought, and in rare cases killed, thieves and bandits who did not accept her call for surrender. So killing in self-defense--or in the heat of battle--was not something she would condemn anyone for. If Nero had no choice but to attack the Brass Blades, then she would have accepted that decision.

 

But when she heard him joking--joking--about blowing people’s legs off, Roen could not help but doubt that killing was his last resort. She had seen the pirate snap a helpless man’s neck from behind. She would never call that self defense. It was pure brutality. Did she know this man at all? Did she agree to ally herself with a gleeful killer?

 

By the time the paladin reached the stables to rent a chocobo, some of her rage had given way to forced scrutiny in an attempt to reassess her anger. From the beginning, the smuggler had warned her, confessed to her, that he was a criminal, that killing was not something he would shy away from.

 

So why was she so shocked? Why was she so disappointed when he acted just as he said he would?

 

Was it Nero’s fault that she made the mistake of believing him to be a better man? Why should Roen be surprised that a pirate killed? Pirates' lives were rife with stories of violent raids, murders, and thievery--all known (and oft beloved) by even the youngest children of Limsa Lominsa. And today, Nero showed that he was no different. Why did that bother her so? Was this burning resentment aimed at him, or at herself for being so wrong?

 

The paladin mounted the wagon hitch to the chocobo’s harness, her fingers making quick work of the buckles and the bindings. As she hopped into the seat to spur on the bird, she could see some of the miners starting to point; they had spotted the body at the bottom of the scaffolds. She saw one of them hurrying off toward the large building, likely to seek out the other two Brass Blades. With a cluck of her tongue, Roen hastened the chocobo, ascending the hill leading up to the mines.

 

If they were to have any hope in getting the supplies out of the mines without trouble, things had to move quickly. Even as her stomach twisted with apprehension, Roen thrust the doubts aside for what had to be done. They needed to get the supplies to the refugees first, else all this trouble would have been for naught. Only then, could she look at Nero once more; only then, once her mind was clear of it, could she judge whether or not this alliance was something she could stomach.

 

Only yesterday was she convinced of the man’s good heart. That was when she told herself she would set all things vexing about him aside--because they shared the same dream. Only now...

 

Now she was starting to see that his dream, and perhaps his reality, was not merely filled with blood and violence. His life was not mere happenstance; Nero Lazarov was a willing, or perhaps even eager participant in the shaping of it.

 

As the wagon pulled up to the mouth of the cave, the paladin regarded the smuggler with much of her outrage having subsided. The look she gave him was somber, even though she tried to hide the doubt that threatened to shake her resolve.

 

Without a word, Roen hopped off the wagon, hurrying toward the boxes. This was not the time for the deliberation of misgivings. She only gave Nero a passing glance before beginning the task of lifting the crates onto the wagon.

[Roen]

The ride from the Nanawa Mines to the refugee camps at Lost Hope was quiet and uneventful. Both the paladin and the smuggler did their best to keep a low profile as they left; Roen saw in the distance a crowd starting to gather near the dead Brass Blade. Roen did not see neither Louvel nor Raffe, but she knew it was inevitable that they would be called to the scene.

 

With such clear evidence of violence at the entrance of the mines, even if it pointed to an armed assault involving blades and thaumaturgy, would they think to suspect her involvement?

 

Only time would tell. Roen knew there were risks when she had gotten involved in this--in all of this.

 

Nero had remained silent as well. He was busy checking on some crates loaded behind them, while she steered the chocobo up front. As the smuggler was hidden within the canvas of the wagon, as far as any onlookers were concerned, Roen had come and gone by herself.

 

When they entered the refugee camps, none cared about their arrival. The sick and the poor could not see beyond their own suffering, their gaze downcast, their spirits nigh broken. Roen and Nero guided the wagon to the caves towards the back, where the smuggler could finally slip out unseen. It was only after they had unloaded the supplies that Nero broke the heavy silence between them.

 

"Alright. Go for it. Lecture away. I'm a brutal monster who kills out of fun, blah blah." He waved into the air vaguely as he sauntered over to the crates to inspect them. "I can see the look on your face. You look like I just kicked your mother."

 

Roen felt her smoldering resentment flare back to life at his blatant nonchalance. “Are you? Someone who kills out of fun?”

 

"Killing is an inexorable part of the life I lead.” The smuggler shrugged. “I can either choose to hate myself for it, or I can choose to accept its presence and take some manner of relief in the act." He paused in his task to shoot her a glance. "I don't necessarily relish it, but that doesn't mean I can't find some satisfaction in the adrenaline rush from a fight."

 

"So that is what you are doing.” Roen tried her best to hide the contempt in her voice. "When you joke about limbs flying off." She felt that indignation starting to build again, even though earlier she had resolved to set her disappointment aside. "I do not condemn you for killing. The bandits had their weapons drawn. I saw that. But..."

 

"But what? I dashed your expectations? Even though I told you I would murder and steal, that somehow surprised you?" Nero snorted derisively. "You stuck your head in the mouth of a drake and didn't expect it to bite. Quite frankly, you're a ridiculous woman, Roen Deneith."

 

Her eyes narrowed. Aye. Ridiculous for thinking you were someone else. I know differently now. Roen wanted to say it aloud. It would have been easier to just dismiss him for what he was. A killer. But…

 

There was a part of her that still did not want to believe it. "And you are cruel and brutal, with a mean streak in you that enjoys the power you wield.” She retorted. "Do you not think that those you hate so much feel exactly the same thing when they wield their power over those you claim to protect?"

 

"Yes, because kicking in the ribs of a defenseless beggar is a perfect analogy for killing armed and armored thugs who murder and steal.” Nero Lazarov rolled his eyes. “Thoroughly trapped by your logic, I am." His tone was acidic and mocking, and did not relent in his disdain. "The bandit saw my face, and I would rather he didn't. I suppose you suggest we take the injured bastard with us? Tie him up with rope we don't have? Make him stand trial? Or, I could end his suffering quickly and painlessly and remove a problem. It is unfortunate that he had to die, perhaps, but it is what it is."

 

His argument was brutal yet logical. But she did not want to relinquish that. "Is there to be no trial at all? Throughout what we do here? Does death await everyone?”

 

There was coldness in Nero’s narrowed eyes, even if his lips still entertained his ever-present smirk. "Well, yes, actually, unless you're friends with a Primal or know of someone who's discovered immortality. The joke, Roen, is that we all have the same punchline. We're all headed to the same destination. Some of us just take longer to get there than others." He sighed, with a shake of his head, his cheery mask failing. "Is there a point to this indignant tirade of yours? There are hungry refugees. Some of them can't even leave their tents. We should distribute these while we can."

 

Her brow twitched, despite her forced calm. "You told me you would not begrudge justice, if it prevailed. But I wonder if you truly meant that."

 

Nero clapped his hands as he rifled through the crates. "So it is a trial you wanted! Why did you even bother listening to me then, if all you were going to do was complain about us breaking the law? I found your idealism endearing before, if a bit tiresome, but now you're just going in circles."

 

Roen stepped towards the crates, needing to do something other than to dig her nails into her palm. He was not listening to her. He just wanted to shove her ideals aside. "And I thought your goal, your desire to help Ul'dah to be worth whatever we may face." She began to roughly pry one open, perhaps more forcibly than needed. "But if we start to enjoy the violence, it would bring more bloodshed and sorrow than good."

 

"I kill some bandits, and now you have doubts? What would you rather I do? Hug them and hope it works out?"

 

"I was never foolish enough to think there would be no violence."

 

"Except, from this little episode you're giving me, you apparently did."

 

"No." She said the word firmly, her eyes narrowing on him. "The dead bandits... if that had to happen, then it had to happen. What surprised me was your absolute glee in it."

 

"It had been a while since I'd been in a fight.” The smuggler shrugged. “I enjoyed the adrenaline. I did not torture those bandits. I did not take delight in their cruelty. I ended them as swiftly and as practically as I could. The fact that I may have taken some joy in exercising my power really does not matter." He placed his palms flat on the top of the crate, regarding her with a mocking arch of his brow. “You would rather I hate myself, then? You would rather I offer a prayer to the Twelve, asking for forgiveness as I take their lives?"

 

"Stop...twisting my words!” Roen shot back. “You are just turning them into something foolish to mock me!"

 

The pirate’s tone grew more derisive and vitriolic. "Maybe I should have let them live? And when a broken caravan is set upon by them and their fellows, the mother taken screaming into the night, the child's legs broken, the father murdered, I should have said 'At least I didn't kill them'...? Perhaps I should have said, 'But it will correct itself, for justice exists!' Perhaps I should have said 'They may be exploitative and evil and ruthless, but I should be glad that I am doing nothing to stop them!'"

 

He glared at her, his voice dripping with contempt. "No, Miss Deneith, your world view is not skewed at all. Certainly not."

 

Hypocrite, she wanted to call him--he who saw nothing but darkness and cruelty in the world. A rush of names, arguments, and protests flooded her mind then, but Roen held her tongue. It was all she could do to stay her hand and not slap the smug smirk off his face. The gulf between their ideals was never more clear to her than now. They were arguing across a chasm and neither wanted to meet in the middle.

 

"Why did you even ask me?" Roen asked finally, her expression turning weary. "Am I just here... for you to feel better about your plans? That really, nothing else works? Because you can see how foolish I have become in this." She looked to him with indignant eyes. "Am I just a gauge you? To justify things that you do? Since nothing I believe or I hope to accomplish even belongs in this world?"

 

Nero answered with a cool glare of his own. "I am not the one you should be asking that question of, Roen. And perhaps I shall ask you a question of my own." He crossed his arms. "What of me? Am I simply here for you to feed your ego? To be the evil soul turned back to the light by the shining faith of Roen Deneith, the former Sultansworn?" His eyes narrowed. "Did you really want to 'save' me, or did you just want me to be grateful to you?"

 

She felt her face getting hotter by the moment. And Nero would not stop. "Did you really believe in what I believed in, or do you simply seek Ul'dah's betterment because you felt that such a righteous and noble vision justified your existence?"

 

A hard slap across his cheek turned the smuggler’s head. Roen blinked, staring eyes wide at her hand that stung with the blow delivered. Her fingers trembled, her stomach roiled.

 

"And the cat reveals her claws. Took you long enough." That smirk returned. It always did.

 

"You do not know me." Roen seethed. She was shaking. "Do not presume to know anything about me."

 

"Funny," Nero said wryly. "I was about to say the exact same thing."

 

The paladin lowered her gaze, turning again towards the crates. She had to busy her hands with something, anything. Her movements were rushed, almost distraught as she began to set aside blankets and food. She cursed that his words had pierced her so.

 

"You are fortunate,” the smuggler said quietly, his tone turning bittersweet. “Fortunate enough be stuck in the twilight. You can still choose to go back to your righteousness, your justice. Rejoin the Sultansworn. Hunt down those who would threaten the status quo. Know that for every action you take, you further the Monetarist's hold in Ul'dah, for the Sultana holds no power."

 

"Or you can prove me wrong.” Nero said after a pause, his voice no longer dripping with venom. “Change Ul'dah from within. Change Ul'dah with the law on your side. Rub my face in the fact that I had drowned myself in darkness for no reason."

 

Roen stared at her hands as she closed her fingers, her knuckles paling with the firm grip. "I will prove you wrong." Her voice was hoarse.

 

"And I look forward to the day you do." His voice held a hint of regret. His glance diverted towards the refugee camp, toward the malnourished, sickly, shivering with the cold, their eyes dull and flat without hope for the future. "I took pleasure in the fact that I slew the bandits, yes. I knew that because if I did, some refugees would be spared. A merchant might return to the city with his goods intact. I knew, when I took their lives, that removing evil did not mean the same as creating good…but it did mean creating the opportunity for goodness to flourish."

 

The smuggler turned his gaze back to her. "I knew that when I destroyed that Brass Blade, that perhaps some poor souls might be able to eat tonight because of these supplies. That they may no longer fear the night's chill with these clothes." He exhaled. "What I took joy in was not taking their lives, but in knowing why I took their lives."

 

Those words could have set her doubts aside, had they been offered earlier. But now, Roen found herself just trying to calm her temper. His words, belittling or not...some of them had struck home.

 

"Why do you fight, Roen? What do you consider worth killing for? At what point will you commit evil to destroy it? Or will you spend your whole life in the twilight, surrendering to injustice after injustice, paralyzed by the power you wield to change things?"

 

"I do not believe that. I do not believe I have to compromise justice to fight injustice." Her words rang hollow to her own ears. Her belief had not wavered, but the fire that burned in those same words before had dimmed, perhaps with reluctance. She was realizing that despite how many times she said it, he was not hearing her at all. He did not want to.

 

"As you said. You will do things your way." She let out a long sigh, but held his gaze. "And I will do things my way."

 

The look Nero gave her held naught but sorrow. "And there it is. I pity the events you will have to endure, Miss Deneith. I will not relish the day you understand why I act the way I do."

 

He paused, before he added quietly, "Mayhaps you shall be stronger than I, when that day comes."