Broken and Rusty Things (IC Reactions/OOC Welcome)

[Verad]

It wasn’t raining in Limsa Lominsa that night; a shame, as that would have mixed neatly with Verad’s tears, concealing them. The cactuar had sailed off into the great ocean of the bay beneath with nary a complaint on its tiny, disturbingly blank face, making the ultimate sacrifice to avoid prosecution and persecution for the two of them after the smuggling fiasco that had dozens of its kin skittering around the streets of Ul’dah.

 

“Why . . . did you . . . do that?!”

 

The woman had been there since partway through his parting words to the cactuar, watching from the side, robed, muted, silent. It was the first thing she’d said. He’d thought to make a pitch, to take his mind off of the horror he’d just committed. He failed, breaking down sobbing before her as if she were a confessor of the Twelve.

 

And despite, as he would later learn, the great strain upon her, the trauma of events that made the cause of his collapse pale in comparison, she still had the time, the decency, the purity, to step forward and speak.  “Are you . . . alright . . ?”

 

“V-Rad?”

 

Val Nunh gave Verad a puzzled, concerned look, and not without reason. The Duskwight had been at the Quicksand in body but not in spirit, staring at a point on the wall without the calculating, affably hungry expression he had when he was performing his rounds, scanning the crowd for anybody who seemed agreeable to his wares. The beginnings of a black eye on the right side of his face, puffy and not yet the darker bruise of dead blood (but who could tell with a Duskwight?), did not help the impression that something might have been amiss.

 

Snapping out of whatever reverie he’d been in, Verad smiled as if nothing was amiss. “Hm? Ah, my apologies, how can I help you, Ser Val?”

 

Val kept talking - more work on poetry for Faye, something about having a hard time finding words that rhyme with “ass” - and Verad kept responding. It was a trick he’d learned, and there were some days he could sell his wares without being there at all. He was still learning how to do it while napping. Eyes and mind alike, however, were elsewhere, peering around the tavern with occasional rapid flicks to the left and right.

 

There were two sets of hair he was trying to find. One he wanted to see, and one he did not. It was fortunate for him that the former was far more noticeable, and within a few minutes of assisting Val’s experiments in poetic aesthetic with regards to couch-bending by rote, that was the one he saw, a mass of bright pink, shoulder-length locks on a tiny Miqo’te body. She stopped by one of the notice boards for the Adventurer’s Guild, peering over the documents. Verad swallowed, and found his throat dry.

 

Val was saying something about paying Verad for his time, a matter with which he would have otherwise been thrilled. “Ah, by the way, Ser Val,” he said, doing his best to keep his voice neutral. “Could I borrow one of your knives?”

 

Always an agreeable sort, especially with regards to Verad, he handed over one of his better daggers with little complaint and even less in the way of questions, and Verad responded with a grateful nod and an assurance that it would be returned. Bidding his farewells, he made his way through the crowd, keeping a light step and a low profile - there was still the other person out there, and the less he was seen, the better.

He managed to get close enough to tap the girl on the shoulder, and she turned towards him. A face nearly as pink as her hair thanks to the blush on her cheeks, features as well-defined as a masterpiece of a doll, and eyes of such bright gold that there was no way Verad would convince anyone they were the result of his imitation fool’s gold line. And yet, for all of that, a nervous look on her face, one pleased to see him but nevertheless anxious to speak or be spoken to. “Oh . . .Mister Verad . . .”

 

His smile was as broad as hers was slight. “Good evening, Miss Yune. Shall we be off? I’ll explain on the way.”

 

---

 

Like so many things in his life, Verad’s friendship with Yune Tabrisviel had begun through dumb luck and a lark. Certain unfortunate and regrettable accidents in archery training had left him with an arrow through his own ear - as the Certain Pending Conditions had not been met, and she, a new member of the Harbingers- and the young conjuror had been quick to heal him. He had been inclined to thank her, and so a dinner invitation was made, with all of Verad’s usual wit and charm.

 

Granted, some people may have thought telling her they were fated to be together by the will of Oschon was more a romantic than a platonic gesture, and granted, doing so caused some problems with her jealous would-be suitor. But despite all the troubles, he was glad for his methods, for her reaction had been telling: she had cried. Not for grief or being aggrieved, but for the notion that two people fated to be together should have been kept apart.

 

So he’d looked after her, and spoken to her, and kept track of her - and of course had that dinner, where they resolved that Oschon had brought them together as friends -  seen her cry, seen the serious look on her face when she thought of people being harmed, seen the outbursts and the panic when she felt overwhelmed. There were too many, he felt, who saw such openness and earnest behavior as weakness within the Harbingers, as childish.

 

Verad knew better. He had seen such behavior before, seen it muted and broken on the streets of Limsa, seen it revitalized in the face of great adversity, and even now, knew it had an iron will behind it, no matter the test. He was well-versed in this behavior, and he knew it well, knew that Yune had a strength others would disregard, cast away as worthless because it wasn’t shaped well or to their liking. And he had a great fondness for such people and things.

 

It was why Yune was with him now, as he made his way towards Pearl Lane, trying very hard not to think about the weight of the knife on his belt. It wasn’t much; well-made and light, no more than a few ponze if that, yet it felt as if his right side dragged behind the rest.  

 

"Before I start,” he said, glancing over his shoulder to ensure a lack of eavesdroppers. There was little cause for worry; it was late, and much of the street traffic of Ul’dah had tapered out for the evening. His larger concern was the presence of Blades, honest or otherwise, but there was no sign of brass on the street. “I'm going to be very honest with you. This is dangerous. I could be hurt. Both of us could be hurt. But it's for the right cause, of that I can assure you. If you don't want to take the risk, I won't think less of you if you step away now." He had told himself he would do this. He would be as honest with her as he could; she was unrelated to the specific facts of the matter, but she needed to know the risks.

 

She had an intent look on her face as she listened to him, her expression flashing with concern, brow furrowing with concern and apprehension, open as a book missing pages. "D-Dangerous...? What are you thinking to do that could get you hurt...?"

 

The thought of harm made him pat the knife on his belt again, afraid the sheath might have fallen away. It was a temporary action, and one he tried to ignore "Let me explain in greater detail. There are some problems in Ul'dah, certainly, and one of them is a man by the name of Jameson Taeros. He's powerful, and likely involved in some dangerous business. He's driven a friend of mine out of the city on suspicion of treason. He might be doing things like smuggling Garlean weapons into Ul'dah."

 

He could see something dark in her eyes at the mention of Garlean weaponry. It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed such moments, some kind of threat behind wide brown irises. "And...you want to do something that's against the bad man's interests, huh..."

 

"I want to help my friend,” he amended. “She's a good person, and she shouldn't be driven out like this. To do that I need evidence." Out of one of his many pouches and purses, he produced a small piece of parchment, the scribbles on it too neat to be called as such. "This is a list of some holdings that lead back to this man. I mean to check them."

 

"And...you were going to do this...alone?"

 

“To the best of my ability. The Harbingers have their own problems. I won't allow them to be involved in this matter if I can help it.” He pursed his lips, considering the havoc that had been wrought at the Coblyn’s Fancy. Effective and necessary, certainly, but Ziu’za punching holes in buildings was probably not the best plan here. “I suspect they'd complicate matters or, in some instances, make a mess of things."

 

Unwilling to dwell on the subject, he offered Yune a resigned smile. "But I realize that's not the best of ideas. Supposing I'm hurt? Supposing I'm captured? I need somebody I can trust."

 

She fell silent for a moment, looking away from him and at nothing in particular, as she often did when considering something of great weight. "I'm not...going to let you do something dangerous alone..."

 

How many times had he heard this, and from how many people? A thousand of their own troubles, far worse than his own, and the people in his life would nevertheless stop everything to ensure the old Duskwight never received so much as a scratch for their sakes. The smile became far less resigned. "I know. I know they treat you like a child at the estate. But you are stronger, and smarter, than they know, and it's why I'm asking you, before anyone else."

 

Her eyes lit up in front of him, that dark look replaced with a glittering brilliance and broadly smiling lips. , at that seemingly unfamiliar confidence another person would have in her, and she smiles brightly. "I won't let you down! I might not know how to fight, but... I can do something."

 

Verad knew he had her then, and the joy on her face helped ease the sting of having guided her to the conclusion.

 

---

 

They planned. Verad knew the area well enough from months on Pearl Lane. The first site on the list was a smaller warehouse, probably one of Taeros’ lesser operations. That was fine with Verad; while he wanted the smoking gunblade of the missing weaponry, he was aware of the risks, and getting his feet wet would be an excellent way to test his resolve and Yune’s alike.

 

Subterfuge, however, was going to be necessary. The two stood out badly enough as it was - Verad’s appearance was striking(ly handsome, as far as he was concerned), with its heavy but well-groomed beard and broad smile, and Yune’s hair might as well have been a flare of aether in the middle of the browns and greys of the Ul’dahn streets at night. Disguises were in order.

 

Thus he had sent Yune to the market to buy robes, rope, and rags, and an appropriate mask for his face, while he scouted out the location itself. It was, as expected, something of a minor loading bay, bigger than his own storage facilities, albeit not by much, and situated off of one of the wider alleys and byways surrounding Pearl Lane. A front door for human entry, a loading bay door very close by for the disposal of cargo. All well and good. Guards, of course - two of them, Midlanders, idling by the front door and chatting with the kind of amused boredom common to the late-night worker. There was nothing like a professional uniform, but the curved swords and round shields suggested enough.

 

Again, Verad found himself reaching down to his belt to grip the hilt of his knife - a gesture which, after a moment’s thought, he found too phallic for his own tastes, and so quickly ceased. Still, the tension was there. If they could not talk, or think, their way past, then he would have to draw the blade.

 

A simple matter, he was sure. He had drawn it several times already! Ah, he reminded himself, but that was at the Grindstone, where people play fair. No corps of healers waiting to jump in and stop a fight here. No willingness to yield. It would be just Yune and he in the dark with nothing between the two and peril but her skills and his blade. Dubious goods? They hardly even rated.

 

The patter of feet around the corner drew his attention, and he darted his head back out of sight. Yune’s shock of hair offered some relief, as did the bundle she carried in her arms. “Ah, good,” he begain, “You made i -”

 

His words died in his throat as she removed the bundle of clothing to reveal the helmet. While he’d given no particular instructions save that it needed to completely conceal his face, as a half-mask would leave either his hair or his beard visible, he had anticipated that she would bring something with a bit of dash to it. An all-concealing turban. A scarf and a cap that left is piercing eyes visible. Something to make the people of Ul’dah swoon.

 

What she had was a warrior’s helmet. It was heavy and metal and in the style of a barbut. There was a spike on the top, and it looked quite rusty. The space for eyes to peer out were mere slits, and it would not match with his ever-stylish clothing in the slightest. It was old and well-worn in the sense that lots of people had worn it many times; the scent of rust and tarnish lingered on both the interior and exterior alike, and the thought of shoving his face into that, marinating in the odor for the duration of the exercise, made his stomach practice its acrobatics.

 

Protest, too, joined his words in death at the anxious look on Yune’s face as she whispered. “Y-you said . . . they’ll know your face and . . . I couldn’t find anything else . . . “

 

He snorted. “I love it,” he said, with perhaps too much enthusiasm. “They’ll write stories about it, and not about me.” He tried to keep his disappointment about that fact out of his voice as he took the barbut and tucked it under one arm, the spike poking him in the armpit before he could adjust its position in his grip. “But not yet. Look down that way.” He poked his head around the corner again. “You see there? Those two are likely Blades. Earning some extra pay on the side, I’d wager.”

 

Her voice was hushed and apprehensive. "So . . . bad men, then . . .We have to get through them . . . ?"

 

"Through or around. We have to see what's in the warehouse, and remember - there may be more inside."

 

"Do you know this area? Are there any other ways in, like...windows? Roof access...?"

 

Veard gave the matter some thought, scratching his beard, getting the movement out of his system before he tried tapping on his helmet out of habit once it was on his head.

 

"There might be a way around . . . " He craned his neck to the side. "Over there. Look, you see how the brickwork is falling apart?" He gestured towards some loose masonry on the side of the building. "I don't know if we can reach in through the roof, but we should be able to climb."

 

It was not a sturdy building by any stretch of the imagination. Ul’dah may have been architectural masterpiece in many regards, but the poorer areas needed more maintenance. The brick seemed ready to crumble into dust if the pair gave it too cross a look. Examining it, Yune frowned in concern. "It doesn't . . . look sturdy. We might draw attention if it breaks while trying to climb." Her eyes scan the area once again, looking for more people who appear similar to the guards. "I could just . . . try to put them to sleep, but . . . I don't know how long they'll stay sleeping . . ."

 

Sleep. She had mentioned this as a talent in her aetherial repertoire, and with no easy way of convincing his way past the men, it had seemed the best option. He grinned. "Fortunately for you, my dear Miss Yune," he said, patting his belt. "A gentleman burglar plans ahead. You brought the rope?" Her hands full, Yune bobbed her head towards the coil of rope dragging along her waist. "Very good. Try to knock them out. Even if we get inside, we'll have to go back out that way, so we might as well try it."

 

Setting down her procured equipment, Yune gave a small, hopeful nod before stepping around the corner in a slight enough step that she could seem inconspicuous. Bright as she was, she had but a moment, and Verad waited on a knife-edget to see if a knife edge was necessary. From around the corner, he saw her draw a calming breath, a gust of wind circling around her and rustling the wrinkles in her toadskin jacket.

 

In the moment that the guards seemed to notice they were not quite alone in the alleyway, heads turning towards Yune in the first moment before a double-take would allow them to really notice her, she completed the spell, extending her hand as if releasing something into the wind. A shroud fell over the guards before disintegrating as if into mist.

 

The two managed to take one step forward between them - a step and a half, if Verad were keeping accurate count, but estimates were acceptable - before the spell took hold, and the two men slumped downwards, first ot the knees, then to the ground. Verad offered Yune one of his highest-wattage grins before stuffing the barbut over his head and rushing around the corner and towards the door.

 

There was a crash as he slammed into the wall directly opposite. Verad staggered backwards, clutching the side of his helmet. Pratfalls, he thought to himself. Of course. What else could happen with such garb over his head? Secrecy did have its attendant sacrifices, and one of those was a limited field of vision and the stench of rust so bloody it left him dizzy. Yune didn’t seem to notice the impact, preoccupied with pulling a hooded cloak over her hair and tucking her tail under her clothing.

 

Once they reached the men, after a few more misteps and stumbles which Verad suffered with all due gravitas, they knelt down in front of him. Taking the rope from Yune, Verad intended to tie them up, until a loud snore interrupted the process. Frowning behind the barbut, Verad tapped the side of one man’s face. No response. “My word,” he said, giving the other a shake. “Are they supposed to be this far gone?”

 

Yune bit her lip. "Uhm . . . I've never . . . really tried to wake anything up before that I put to sleep . . . I hope they're alright . . ."

 

Picking one up guard with an audible grunt, Verad dragged him into a seating position, propping him up against the small set of steps leading up to the stairs. "Could you make it look like they're just napping, and not unconscious on the ground?"

 

Giving a quick nod, Yune sought to position the other guard’s arms in a more natural position, eyebrows bunching together before turning her gaze about the road. She started, seeming to recognize something, before darting to the other side of the road and returning with an empty bottle of something without a label but, from the lingering and acrid odor, possessed of exceptional strength. She placed the bottle in the man’s grasp.

 

“Oh, well done!” Verad patted her on the side of the cloak, a gesture which made him lose his grip on the guard he was propping up. His body fell over with a slump, sending empty cans and rocks scattering across the road in a loud clatter. He froze, waiting for some sign of noise on the other side of the loading bay, or the door bursting open from which a thousand outraged guards might pour out.

 

Nothing. He was glad the barbut concealed his wince. “Well,” he said, searching the collapsed guard’s belt for a key. “At least they look drunk now.”

 

His patting found something hard and metal that didn’t cut him, and a quick tug brought up a small keyring. Pleased, he tried to grin at Yune. Her response was blank, and he was puzzled as to why, until he remembered the helmet. Shrugging off embarrassment for the moment’s foolishness, he crept up the steps towards the warehouse’s main door, one foot at a time padding softly on stone until he reached the door itself.

 

This was, he realized, a turning point. A momentous occasion. Here he would cross a line. He could walk away now, convince Yune they had done their jobs, and return the knife without a second thought. The guards would be a little puzzled, and that would be that. To place that key in the lock was to move from dubious goods to dubious deeds. Would he stop now? Could he stop now? Hadn’t so many people around him made it clear that he ought? Made him promise and plead and beg not to get hurt?

 

She had helped, freed his boot of the needles that remained after he had kicked the cactuar, and healed his foot of injuries brought about by the same. They had spoken further, and rarely, Verad realized, had he met so muted a person who had once obviously been so bright.

 

She told him of her time with the Sworn, and of how she was no longer a part of them. “I left because . . . people who I trusted . . . I could not look upon them any longer.”

 

“You were betrayed,” he said, reaching the obvious conclusion. She did not meet his eyes.

 

Verad set his teeth firmly enough he thought he could hear them crack, and stabbed the first key he had grabbed into the lock.

 

It bounced off. That was a problem. Puzzled, he brought the keyring up into his field of vision, jingling them slightly. Surely they weren’t all house-keys?

 

The question went unanswered as the loading bay door beside him was rolled upwards in a swift movement, spilling lantern-light onto the street. Yune, preoccupying herself with rearranging the guards so that they looked as if they were in just the right moment of peacefully intoxicated slumber, squinted up into the light, and at the shadow of the Roegadyn peering down at her. He was heavy-set and heavily armed, the scimitar at his belt seeming much more a greatsword than the blades on the Midlanders at the door. Behind him, a Highlander stood with crossed arms and similar equipment. The facial details didn’t matter so much when Verad couldn’t see them and he was more worried about the weapons.

 

And there Verad was, with an idiotic helmet on his head and his hands fumbling with a key for the door, Yune artfully placing one man’s hands behind his head so it looked like he was relaxed.

 

With the light behind him, the Roeg’s face was shadowed, but the amused, superior tone in his voice was clear. “Can I help you two?”

 

Verad hoped that Yune would react quickly, but she was just as surprised as he, peering up at the man and craning her neck far, far back to do so. “Um . . . I’m . . . we’re . . . “ she said, swallowing hard. This was the moment, then, he thought, his hand straying towards his belt. No going back. Only forward. He would need the knife.

 

His hands clenched around . . . a pouch, and he cursed. It was on the opposite side of his belt. Of course. Lacking anything else, he dug his hand into the pouch and flung its contents at the Roegadyn. “Get past them, quickly!”

 

Something round sailed through the air, glittering in the lanternlight. It occurred to Verad that he had recently attempted replenishing his stock of imitation fool’s gold, but the rocks he had purchased turned out to be much too dense, too heavy to be an appropriate approximation of an approximation.

 

That said, he noted, they cracked against a Roegadyn’s skull quite nicely, and with such effectiveness that he swayed on his feet before collapsing backwards as Yune darted into the warehouse behind him. His hands let go of the loading bay doors, which rattled down to the ground and slammed shut.

 

Verad was very poor at vulgarities, but in some moments he was sorely tempted. In a few moments he was rattling through keys, each failing to fit, too large or too small or not the right shape, and it seemed the ring grew a new key with every second.

 

On the other side of the door, he heard Yune scream. “Get away from me!” Then a great burst of noise, as if the room had exploded.

 

The last key was jabbed into the lock with shaking fingers, and it fit. He turned left and right until the door gave way. Leaving the keys hanging, he burst into the warehouse, drawing his knife and holding it out with blade extended.

 

The interior of the warehouse was, as he’d thought, small enough, but it looked as if a tornado had given birth in the interior. Crates, some of them of a distinctly sturdy shape and size, that were once neatly scattered were strewn about the room in a haphazard fashion. A small set of interior walls indicated an inner office, the door open, a pair of stools knocked astray. The Highlander lay sprawled against one such crate, unconscious. Yune stood amidst the disarray, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, her eyes wide and unfocused, her arms outstretched.

 

Silence. Then he put the knife away. It felt inadequate. That, too, felt too phallic a thought, and so he discarded it. “Are you hurt?” he asked as he made his way towards her.

 

Awareness started to flicker in her eyes at the sound of his voice, and it was a moment yet before she lowered her hands. "I-I'm . . . He tried to . . . Is he a-alright . . .?"

 

Verad performed a perfunctory check. “Out cold, I think,” he said, “The same as the Roegadyn.” His eyes were already elsewhere, the helmet’s field of vision craning towards the crates. Yune followed his movements, straightening out her posture.

 

“W-what are we looking for again . . . ?” Her voice was distracted, dreamy like a fever hallcuination.

 

"I'll look for now. Breathe very slowly, Yune. Just - deep breaths, please." He tried prying open one of the crates with the edge of his knife, before considering what Val would think about a broken knife. Instead, he sought for a prybar or something blunt.

 

"Well, if I'm fortunate, Garlean weaponry. If I'm not," he nothing blunt, but he took note of the scimitar on the Highlander’s belt. Drawing it free, he tried to wedge the blade inbetween the crate’s lid and side to force it open "If I'm not,” he repeated,  “Then at least something incriminating."

 

She appeared to take his advice, staying still and inhaling her way back to calm. Verad grunted once as he pushed down hard on the hilt of the blade, the nails holding the crate’s lid crackling out of the wood, flinging splinters towards his face. Rusty or no, he was glad for the helmet then.

 

Tossing the sword on the ground with a clatter, he put his hands around the crate’s edge and took a careful peek.

 

As Yune calmed down, Verad’s amused, weary chuckling drew her attention. She crept towards the crate and joined him, though her brow furrowed in confusion.

 

Rugs. High quality, tightly-rolled, neatly stacked, and displaying signs of Ishgardian weaving techniques. At least a dozen or more, piled high to the lid of the crate.

 

Turning away, he placed hands on the edges of his barbut, but thought better of it. The smell and the shock together gave him the urge to gag, but one of the guards might regain consciousness at any time. “Of all the things to find now, of all times,” he muttered.

 

"Hmm . . ." Yune seemed unaware of his existential plight, her eyes fixed on the designs visible in and around the fringes she could see. "The symbols on it look . . . weird. . . "

 

Habit took over and he tried to scratch his beard as he composed his thoughts, receiving only a faceful of helmet and a scattering of particles of rust on the floor. Turning back to the crate, he picked one rolled carpet out of the mass with a heavy grunt, his back unused to this kind of lifting and very used to age. “Let’s have a look. Perhaps there’s somnus coiled up inside, or - “

 

He didn’t so much spread the rug out as drop it at a roll and let momentum take care of the rest, the bundled carpet unfurling to its full length. It was, by the time-honored and tested standards of Ishgardian rugweaving, an exquisite work, an abstracted rendition of the glory of Halone, rich and saturated with such colors that the best works were rumored to have somehow turned gems into threads.

 

What caught both of their interests, however, was what lay tightly bundled in the center of the carpet. Yune seemed to recognize them clearly. Verad’s memory was fuzzier, as rusted as his helmet: a chapter in his memoirs described his unexpected run-in with the Ishgardian inquisition, years ago. What they showed him then was what he saw before them now.

 

“The Holy See is not going to like this at all.”

 

---

 

They considered their options as they cleaned up the evidence and tied up the guards. There was no way of transporting everything, Yune pointed out, and there were too many crates for them to move quickly even if they could. Verad considered alerting authorities he trusted while he retrieved his missing piece of “fool’s gold,” but that was also unlikely. Roen’s authority was only moral; Ser Crofte was a good woman, but dutiful, and the pair might wind up in the gaol. He didn’t know Ser Aporo well enough. He had no means of contacting Ser Melkire and the Flames.

 

In the end, he decided to let Ul’dah itself take care of the problem for them, and so, once the guards were trussed up, both sleeping and unconscious alike, the pair cracked open the lids of all of the crates, dumped a few items on the ground with the intent to lure, and forced and locked the loading bay door into an open position. Then, they left, Verad discarding the helmet and wiping away the rust stains on his white beard in passing.

 

Even in the later hours of the night, Pearl Lane was not without its prowlers, people scrounging and looking for opportunities. What luck, then, for some of them, a bell or two later, to come upon a de-guarded and open warehouse, bursting with open crates full of Ishgardian luxury items? For, it was not merely rugs that the crates had held, beautiful though they were, but vases, instruments, clothing - nothing so immediately valuable as jewels and holy artifacts, but items of wealth and taste from within the city itself.

 

Nor were they the only imports of import, for tucked within a vase here and there, unrolled out of a carpet, sewn into the lining of some clothing, Dravanian relics trickled out, discovered here and there by curious parties in the hopes of finding something a little more than luxury and the gil to be made from selling it. What Taeros was doing with such things, Verad could only guess; but there were many markets in Eorzea, and Taeros seemed to be somebody who would do business with all of them.

 

And so, over the evening, the goods were looted, sold, and spread, a dubious distribution on a scale he could not hope to achieve alone. And when people asked where these items came from, it would always come back to the same story - a warehouse around Pearl Lane, the door forced open, the guards found unconscious, the materials just waiting. Who would do that? And who owned all of this material in the first place, anyway?

 

Verad had no illusions about the efficacy of the action. It was a cut in Taeros’ enterprise, taking away good coin, and it was an embarrassment when questions got back around to his business, and how goods were acquired not from the Ishgardian Houses but the See itself. But it was not evidence. It would not bring him down. There were other names on the list, however, and other locations.

 

And there were other benefits as well, a fact made plain when Verad and Yune returned to the Quicksand to give Val his knife back, quietly pleased that though he had drawn it, it had never drawn blood. Val didn’t ask questions; whether he suspected anything was amiss or not, Verad didn’t know.

 

As he bade Yune a good night, he paused, and brought himself close enough to her ear that only she could hear him. Even given the noise of the Quicksand, he didn’t want to take any chances.

 

“Remember, you did this. Everything that happened tonight? That was you.” All true, Verad thought. Taking down the guards quietly, defending herself, finding something amiss about the goods - all Yune. Verad had merely blundered around in a silly helmet. “You didn’t need my help, or anyone else’s.”

 

The look on her face dazzled as she stepped away from him, more unused to feeling such praise, knowing it was meant, and it was true, than she was to hearing it. She bobbed her head towards him in thanks, bidding him goodnight before returning to her room, pink hair bouncing from a barely perceptible spring in her step. The next time someone at the estate called her weak or a child, he hoped, she would remember this.

 

Once in his room, he took out the list again, studying the names and addresses. He had discarded the helmet, but there would be other rusty accoutrements to wear, of that he was certain. If that meant helping others shine - if it meant those like Yune growing strong, those like Roen succeeding - then he’d bear the tarnish.

[Verad]

No minstrel would ever sing the praises of the street food of Ul'dah, and as far as Verad was concerned that was a crushing blow to their merits as entertainers. They might sing of the sumptuous feasts of the Sultanate or the simple and rustic fare of the Shroud, but he had yet to meet one that could fully articulate, beyond a dirty limerick, the pleasures of a good (to use the term loosely) shrew-on-a-stick. 

 

The stringy-yet-mushy texture of shrewmeat roasted over a small brazier and spiced with a mixture of paprika and powdered dragon-peppers to hide the sour aftertaste was an experience Verad was likely not to forget anytime soon, and not merely because Ul'dahn food regulation was inconsistent at the best of times and food adulteration was common. Verad was sure he'd seen cactuar, ant, and in at least one instance hunks of painted granite all passed off as shrewmeat. Extra-meaty, that last one had been called. He'd nearly broken a tooth.

 

Even so, Verad made a point of buying a half-dozen pieces of roasted and skewered "shrew," refilling a waterskin nested among his pouches for the price of an extra gil as a necessary precaution given how wildly the heat of the spices could vary. His current meal was of but a moderate piquancy, and so he could still feel lingering traces of the sour on his tongue after suffering the act of chewing and swallowing, leaving him with the feeling he had just sucked on a meat-lemon before a swallow from the skin could cleanse the palate. 

 

As food went, it was abominable. But it had its advantages. The smell burned the nose, so the before was unpleasant. The aftertaste? Atrocious. But in the moment of eating, the act of chewing and swallowing, Verad was sure that there was nothing finer. However awful what may have come before, and what may come after, it was to be enjoyed, however dubious. As in food, so too in life.

 

Aside from the philosophical benefits of such questionable comestibles, there were more practical ones - namely the presence of shrew-vendors and other such purveyors of dubious foods throughout the city, giving a person a reason to linger in any spot they were near while they ate. And if one particular vendor happened to be near one particular warehouse belonging to one particular Taeros? Well, thought Verad, squatting down on a stray piece of stone architecture to enjoy his meal, so much the better.

 

He was able to manage a mere glance at the building before a woman, an Elezen from the Wildwood by the clasps she wore, passed by. Verad stopped her, and made his sales pitch. Five minutes passed. She left. He sat down again, rubbed the welt on the side of his cheek from where she slapped him, and returned to examining the building. This he repeated with all customers to cross the shipping quarters of the Exchanges, and between dubious foods and dubious goods, he had every reason to be there. So he thought.

 

Between bites of shrew and the occasional customer, he was able to piece together at least a little. There was more security, as befit a place closer to the Exchange and, Verad supposed, more relevant to Taeros' interest. The half-dozen or so guards he could see at the front of the building appeared off-duty, as had those in the Lane, but every so often a Blade would pass by to stop and joke with someone on-duty. The knowledge brought a frown across weathered lips, which he passed off as working a particularly chewy piece out from between his teeth.

 

More guards, and more interest from the Blades in an official capacity, then. Without knowing a paper trail, he was at a loss as to why. Something valuable? Heightened security after the last robbery (surely not; he flattered himself, and knew it)? Or a simple proximity to higher property values? He couldn't say.

 

To the architecture then, he thought. The loading bay, if there was one, did not face the main street - making the presence of so much security for a mere pair of double-doors all the more puzzling. Perhaps the offices were more extensive out front. As for the bay itself, likely on a back road he wouldn't be able to see - shrew-vendors were not so often found in the bylanes where commercial traffic could be found. And that would have similar security to spare.

 

So, a larger contingent, with the attention of Blades. A bigger facility. Verad picked at his teeth with the remains of the skewer as he considered the problem. This wasn't something he could crack alone, or with Miss Tabrisviel. There was risk, and there was foolishness, and he knew the latter when he saw it.

 

He was probably going to need more firepower for this one.

[Coatleque]

(( *gasp* I can't believe Verad doesn't trust Crofte! I always enjoy reading other people's insight to characters not their own. I have to say, though, my favorite part was when Verad poked his armpit with the helmet spike. That little detail speaks volumes to his general absentmindedness. It reminded me of the bow flying out of his hands at the Grindstone. ))

[Verad]

Finding the discarded helmet had been a simple matter. The barbut had been so rusty and worn that it was no doubt seen as refuse by most of the locals. Nor did anyone think it unusual that the peddler stopped to take it. He was always taking worthless things; what was one more?

 

Firepower and a partner, however, had been harder to come by. A few days' observation and a carefully cultivated desire to avoid eating shrew-on-a-stick for another year had given Verad the impression that the warehouse had at least ten guards on the premises, possibly more. Whatever Taeros held here was more important to him than luxury items, and while Yune had proven herself more than capable, he felt it prudent to avoid risking her by seeking the aid of someone with more experience in infiltration.

 

Experience, however, did not mean a cool sense of professionalism, and while Anstarra Silverain had a great deal of the former, there were times when Verad was sure she only had the latter so long as dropping it wouldn't amuse her. Despite the shadows on the street corner near the warehouse's front door, and the limited visibility afforded by the barbut's eyeslits, he could sense the smirk on her face. as she realized Verad's choice of attire. "Nice, ah, helmet," she said, and even if he wasn't aware of the smirk, the mirth in her voice was obvious.

 

"Mm, I know what you're thinking," he said, peering over Anstarra's own attire. No rags or robes as Yune had worn, choosing instead a dark hunting hat over blue-green hair and a Keeper huntress' facepaint to mask bright green eyes, but he was not so concerned about her revealing herself as he had been for his former assistant; she was in the city but rarely, a matter emphasized by the manner in which she protested the desert heat, and even if caught, more than able to defend herself. "Not a lot of dash to it, is it? But it's a necessary component here," he went on, sighing with a metallic echo to his voice. "My face is highly recognizable, and less-concealing masks would have every Blade in the city seeking me out. It's the helmet or not at all."

 

There was a bit of untruth to his words. He had considered, of course, removing the beard, but he considered the cost of such an action to the city to be too great to have any real merit. An pursed her lips - probably as part of the ongoing war against laughter - and nodded. "Mhm. Yes, that makes sense, of course. It must be hot, though. Are you able to breathe alright?"

 

"It should be quite all right for the time being, but as circumstances dictate, well, things might get complicated." Sure that any more questions regarding the helmet would make her break out into a grin - a sight he typically found highly desirable, but there was a proper time and place - he pointed to the building across with a quick flick of his wrist. "There's our target, guarded by the three men out front. Off-duty Blades. Loading bay appears to be on the opposite side. Probably going to be an office through that front door, but I need to see the cargo they hold as much as the office."

 

It was a brief explanation, and perhaps too brusque, devoid of detail. He had spent enough days examining the building that it seemed obvious to him, enough time that he'd become a bit accustomed to which guards spent more time out front and which out back, though not to any great

 

She looked thoughtful, and nodded. "Alright, what's the plan? Are we gonna try to sneak in behind, or take out the guys in front? Might be a bit public that way, we'd have to draw them off..."

 

"Mm, not sure. Before that, here - " He produced a bundle and offered it to her. Upon opening it, Anstarra could see four vials containing a viscous black substance and one containing a more liquid red one. "Something I acquired from an alchemist friend of mine."

 

Firepower had proven to be a stroke of luck, and an object lesson to Verad in the benefits of maintaining a diverse array of business contacts. Verad had wanted something with a lot of flash and only a minimum of killing power; not a difficult task, but the particular concoction of any given alchemist in the city might have been identified, and Verad in turn identified as the purchaser.

 

An unusual request from a distressed miner, seeking medicine for his sick daughter, proved the solution to his problem. Seeking sources outside the city, he had considered the Morbolvine, with whose Matriarch he had some contact - and a mutual interest in defending Roen Deneith. A trip to the Shroud and an impromptu meeting later, he had a number of possible treatments from the Keeper clan's alchemist. And in the meeting, a thought had struck him, and he'd broached the subject. A meeting and demonstration had been arranged, and Verad now found himself passing Anstarra exactly what he'd sought.

 

Taking the bundle, she inspected the vials. "And.. what are these supposed to do?"

 

"The black vials will react to air and generate smoke," he explained. "Slowly if you just uncork it, but with a great plume if you smash it on the ground. The red ones are a kind of liquid fire. They'll burn until they smother themselves out, and stick. It's a very brief flame, though. The smoke can be extinguished with water - it should simply dissolve into a grey ash. Very neat. But in the end, I want a big plume as we leave." There was another bundle of the vials in the same proportion, but using all ten seemed excessive. From the demonstration he'd been given, even one vial was enough to make such smoke that it would appear as if a bonfire had spontaneously erupted.

 

That signal, in turn, would be enough to summon the authorities. Verad could only hope that Roen had managed to get in contact with Sergeant Melkire, and that he would be in the area. The Flames would not ignore anything illegal found in Monetarist hands the way the Blades would, Ser Melkire in particular, of that much he was sure.

 

After the explanation, Verad glanced back at the warehouse. "I'm hoping to find papers in their office detailing the nature of their business, as well as have a look at their stock. This is too well-guarded to not have something valuable. As far as how we get in . . . " He frowned. "Well, last time we had the guards at the front door put to sleep, but that seems not to be an option now."

 

"To cover our escape, yes, you mentioned that. So one vial is to be saved for the end. That leaves us with three, and the red." She looked around, taking in the environs with a scrutinizing eye, scanning for who else might see if a confrontation were to break out.

 

For Verad's part, the eyeslits remained fixed on the guard s themselves, too much so to notice anything out of the ordinary. His hands kept finding their way to new weapons, the last component of his "arsenal." The daggers were cheap, and hardly well-made, but they were sharp, and that was all he required. Asking Val for his weapon again was impractical. Nevertheless, having them was not the same as being used to them, and he found he kept curling and uncurling fingers around their handles without realizing.

 

"Hmm . . . I think our priority is to keep this out of the public eye," Anstarra said. "If that's the entrance to the office, these guards are likely to only be willing to admit very select people. I'm assuming the boss isn't in right now . . ?"

 

"Hm?" He glanced up from his reverie, and down at Anstarra. "At this hour? No, I daresay he wouldn't be."

An placed a hand on one of Verad's, to still the touching of daggers. "So we can't exactly bluff our way in to talk to him. We need to approach from the rear. Carefully though, because the guards back there might be more alert."

 

Glancing down, he seemed to realize his mistake, and gradually removed his hands from his blades. "Thank you," he said. "Let's go around the back. I'll take the helmet off while we're on the way."

 

Good to his word, Verad was able to make his way around the byways of the Steps of Thal unmolested. With her hat and her bow at her back, Anstarra looked like nothing more than another adventurer in the city, and Verad was a well-known ambler about town. The bulky package he kept wrapped under his arm was unusual, but asking about unusual things when it came to Bellveil meant getting a pitch and wasting half-a-bell's time. And so he moved unmolested.

 

Once they were around the back road leading to the warehouse's loading bay, their steps moved from casual and calm to careful and controlled, avoiding making too much noise on the stones of the street. A bend in the architecture, an outward jutting at one corner, gave them a little cover from which to observe the security around the exterior. The two peeked around the corner, Verad's advantage of height letting him see over An's hat.

 

The guards could not have been more different, as if the three out front, laughing and joking to themselves, secure in the presence of passerby, had been merely for show. A trio of them stood in front of the loading bay doors at full attention, overseen, from slightly behind, by a grizzled-looking Highlander. There were no uniforms to mark them as Blades, but, as before, their choice of weaponry and their stances betrayed their training.

 

Anstarra's eyes narrowed as she took in the opposition, before drawing Verad back into cover. "More guards here, naturally. We could try taking them out, but it might be messy. Let's see if there are other options. . . like a roof access? I could climb up in an alley. . ."

 

"You'd probably have better luck than the last time," he remarked, recalling how quickly Yune and he had considered and then discarded the idea. "The masonry here looks better than at Pearl Lane, though. "If you can do it quietly, by all means."

 

Anstarra nodded, and inspected the walls for handholds . . . before hopping up, and trying to drag herself up with a combination of dexterity and brute strength. She climbed with remarkable ease, boosting herself up like a born climber.. which she was, really. She was grinning by the time she got near to the top, and not paying too much attention.. and then her bow caught on the edge of the roof with an audible CLANG! It stuck where it was wedged, and she cursed under her breath as she worked it free.

 

The noise didn't go without notice; the guards reacted, and so did Verad, cursing in that same metallic sound as he ducked around the corner. He heard the grunt of an order, a quick "Go check that" from the superior to one of their number, a Roegadyn. Heavy footsteps approached the corner, near where Anstarra was caught.

 

Verad had to react quickly, and for a moment he thought to draw the dagger. His hand was near its sheath - and then he paused. Offering another metallic sigh, he took his helmet off of his head before the guard rounded the corner. With a quick step, he made the move first, stepping out into the street with a broad grin and his hands spread wide.

 

"Ah," he said, his voice bright and chipper as he always made it in the pitch. "Good day, Ser! Can I interest you in any dubious goods tonight? We have a fine special on commemorative tin Brass Blade cups. Just the thing for a long shift!"

 

The guard frowned, furrowed his brow, and for a moment appeared to glance up at the wall. There was confusion there; Verad was well known as a source of noise, but not necessarily this particular noise. The Duskwight was quick to interject before he glanced too high. "But, of course, we have specials for members of one of the finest fighting forces in the city! Perhaps your friends would be interested?"

 

The prospect of a discount seemed to settle the matter, or perhaps the verbal assault was too much for the man to do anything but respond to with a short nod. In either case, the gaurd waved Verad towards the bulk of the group. He strolled forwards as if he owned the city itself, hoping An could free himself in the meantime. "Now, sirs, if you'll take a look here, you'll find that I happen to have a wide variety of brass items for members of the Blades such as yourself - ah, but you cannot fool a sharp-eyed man like myself, for who but the Blades could have such fine swords? If you'll have a look here . . . "

 

A few minutes passed, and Verad worked his way back around the corner with twenty extra gil in his coin-purse and a spring in his step. This was already becoming a lucrative heist, and he hadn't even made it inside.

 

A soft 'hsst' from above preceded the appearance of a knotted rope, or the tail-end of it anyway, right in front of Verad. His good mood only improved; Anstarra was certainly visually stunning in any circumstance, but he knew there were others reasons he liked her, a similar manner of thinking being one of them. What proper adventurer didn't have rope, after all? He took hold of the knot as a foothold and scaled the building with some sweat and only a moderate deal of extreme difficulty, his indeterminate but no-doubt-advanced age showing itself as he strained to climb.  

 

Anstarra helped, holding the rope steady, and giving Verad that last hand up before reeling it up after him. She mades a thumbs-up sign, pointing to a skylight in the center of the roof, its window unlatched. Then she showed three fingers, and pointed down toward where the guards were patrolling inside. Finally, she showed the vials, mimed an explosion, showed him the rope and pointed at the skylight.

 

He got the idea after she mimicked the explosion. This offered him the broadest and brightest grin he'd seen in a long time. Twelve, but where would he be without this kind of assistance? Probably already in gaol. He nodded, and took a quick, quiet peek down the skylight.

 

Anstarra took this moment to tie the rope down securely. The last thing they needed was for the damned thing to come loose while they were climbing back out, no doubt in a hurry, and possibly laden with ill-gotten gains. Verad tightened his grip on his daggers for a moment as he looked into the building. Well-lit, and lightly guarded on the interior compared to the force out front. He could see the shadows of crates cast out from torch and candle-light, promising that there was something ill-gotten there, or, if nothing else, that Taeros' coffers would bleed just a little more. There was a smile on his face, the grin having faded to something smaller and more relieved.

 

Once An was done, he waited for her to drop the vials, giving her an elaborate bow and a "Ladies first" gesture in the direction of the skylight. She smirked, and, waiting until it seemed the guards were least likely to notice, opened the latch and dropped the vials in with one smooth motion.

 

The impact was impressive. First the crack of a vial spreading some warmth and light as they flared up within the warehouse, and then the panicked sound of the guards as they realized a fire had abruptly broken out. And then a "WHOOMPH" of smoke as a giant plume billowed up towards the skylight, spreading out into the warehouse entirely. Shouts and banging on the door attracted the attention of the guards at the loading bay. The pair had their moment, unseen thanks to smoke and panic alike.

 

Anstarra jerked back, slightly, eyes widening at the sheer violence of the fire and especially the smoke. She grinned at Verad, then gripped the rope and rappel-dropped herself down into the gloom. He followed behind her, shimmying down the rope. The smoke kept billowing, as if the viscous fluid in the vials had been some massive font of the stuff, a portal to the smoke dimension. Inside, the sheer volume of it cut off easy visibility, making even silhouettes of people difficult to see. Around them, they could hear the sound of the loading bay opening and panicked shouts.

 

Verad didn't have much time to take stock of how little he could see, as he found his grip slipping around the rope. Age and exhaustion took their toll, and he fell. Bracing himself for impact, he guessed the blow to his rump would hurt but not be fatal. Instead, his impact was against something solid, but soft, Anstarra having braced herself to catch him. The sheer physical strength of the Miqo'te continued to impress him, as she didn't even reel under the impact.

 

He uttered a quick oof as he landed in her arms. "I am both pleased and thoroughly emasculated" he muttered, coughing under the onslaught of smoke. "Quickly though, find some of the crates."

 

Anstarra flashed a grin and dropped him onto his feet. "Oh, you know you liked it~" she purred before ducking down under the smoke. She freezes upon seeing the vaguest of silhouettes approaching through the smoke, and looked at Verad in a panic.

 

He cursed inwardly. There was a downside to the plume erupting so quickly, to their infiltration in the midst of causing a stir. If the Sergeant was in the area, he would be drawn to the smoke. Making their way to the office was an impossibility now, but they could at least confirm that this wasn't a waste of time.

 

An seemed to decide that this would likely serve as far as distractions went, and hurried about their initial mission, dragging Verad to one of the crates, and helping to pry it open. She forsook a bit of subtlety for speed; the sound of a crate being opened likely going unnoticed amidst the convenient hue and cry as the guards started to organize to douse the "fire." She wrenched the lid off the crate. Peering down into its contents once the lid was free, Verad's eyes widened. "Twelve, they're not even trying some days, are they." he said, a stunned expression on his face.

 

Neatly packed amidst bales of grain were vials of a milky white substance. He knew it well enough from the half-dozen times people had assumed he was in the market to sell narcotics or trying to break into it - the reason he was careful to insist that his goods were dubious, not nefarious. "Milkweed milk. Lovely." He said, waving a hand to try and waft away smoke and stifling a cough.

 

There was a splash somewhere amidst the smoke; someone had thought to organize enough to bring water, and as it struck the source of the "blaze," their cover began to dissipate, coalescing into a fine ash upon the ground. It was unlikely they'd have time to check for more and determine if the building's entire inventory was being used this way. The question, then, was whether or not to take any of it or leave it for the Sergeant to find upon his arrival. "One vial, quickly," he decided. We need to leave."

 

 

An  nodded in agreement, quickly snatching the vial before leaving the open crate plainly visible as she dragged Verad back to the rope. She hoisted him up, pushing his butt as she went, climbing mainly with her feet.  Even with An pushing up, however he didn't have the strength to climb a third time. He was only vaguely aware of the next few moments, of his grip slipping partway up, of falling back down with a hastily spoken "Go!" as he collapsed onto the ground, suffering a sore rump but little in the way of real damage, and more of the smoke being smothered and turned to ash, now a clearly visible silhouette.

 

 

In a daze, and trying to avoid inhaling any more of the smoke, he was at least distantly aware of An calling out his name from up above. She'd made it out, at least. He became much more aware of the figure that soon jogged towards him while feebly trying to brush smoke out of his eyes and avoid choking on what remained. He was far more aware, in turn, of the appearance of another figure beside him, of the familiar voice whispering, in harsh tones, "Gods . . . damn it, Verad."

 

Verad often found it fascinating how, in the midst of a great shock, the mind disconnected from the actions of the body. That was it, then, he thought, aware that he was struggling to force himself up to his feet and unable to do so, still too sore and stunned from the fall. It was one thing to provide these goods to Melkire, but it was another entirely to be caught in the providing. Decency and a sense of the law meant he would no doubt have to be detained. He could only hope his time in the gaol would be as relatively kind as Roen's seemed to have proven. "Check the crates," he hissed, resigned to an inevitable fate. "The crates, please!" Prison, surely, was a small price for having succeeded.

 

"You first, eh?" He felt hands under his arms, felt himself dragged bodily towards the dangling cord. Resignation was swiftly evicted from the halfway house of his mind by the new tenant of confusion. He did not resist as Osric tied a knot around the Duskwight's midriff and tugged down sharply on the rope. "I'll check the crates. I swear I will."

 

 

He was sure he'd thought about this moment before. The notion of escaping a dangerous situation by being pulled up by a rope. Didn't he have a witty rejoinder? Surely something from the memoirs would suffice. Some last, parting comment that would leave a strong impression. But nothing came to mind. Verad could only offer a last, desperate "please," as if the sergeant might change his course, before being pulled up through the skylight, nothing more than a shadow amidst dissipating smoke.

 

The next few moments were a daze. Finding his footing on the roof. Anstarra hugging him tightly enough he felt he was going to lose a rib. Osric was saying something below, but he couldn't quite make out the details. It seemed to make An grin, though. "Success. Now let's get the hell outta here."

 

"Yes," he said, coughing, feeling as if he'd inhaled too much of the thick smoke. "I can get the helmet another day."

[Melkire]

Some suns, he couldn’t help but wonder where the Spinner had gotten her sense of humor from. On this particular sun, he thought he’d finally figured it out. She’d gotten it from her older brother, of course, same as Corinna had gotten hers from Osric.

 

Althyk be damned.

 

He’d been strolling up Pearl Lane by mere happenstance, headed for the Quicksand, when he’d seen the column of smoke billowing a few blocks over. Any and all thought of refreshment fled at the sight, and no sooner could you have sworn on Nophica’s teats than the sergeant had torn off the main street for the alleyways that would take him closer to the fumes. He had no cause for caution, no reason to take his time; he reached the warehouse in a mere minute or two. The few men left standing out front directed him towards the back, where, upon turning the corner, he lifted his mask and gaped at the plume as it emerged from the loading bay.

 

The scene had devolved into a kind of hellhole; the loading bay doors were open, and from within he could hear the panicked calls of guards sounding out as they searched for the source of fire. A small cluster of their fellows stood just outside, bickering with one another, and the first thought that came to his mind was that the guards were, one and all... that was peculiar. Was he imagining things? Not all of them were in uniform, but even then, he still recognized a few.

 

This lot ain’t listed with the Flames. Unofficial storage facility?

 

The sergeant strolled up to them, eyes still on the chaos inside, and seized the closest man by the collar of his chestplate. “Chief Flame Sergeant. Saw the smoke. What in Azeyma’s name…?”

 

“A-ah, Hewry Reeve, ser, Blades. We… we don’t know, ser! We were just inside and we heard a crash, we did, and there was a fire, but a little one, and so much smoke! It must have spread!”

 

Melkire turned his gaping expression of disbelief on the Blade. “And you’re just standin’ here, ‘stead of fetchin’ buckets and soundin’ the alarm.” He released his grip and shoved the man back by the cuirass. “Get goin’!”

 

Ruttin’ incompetent idiots….

 

The men scattered and sounded general alarum; Osric stormed further in, pulling his turban from his head and waving it about to clear the air, coughing as he went. He stepped gingerly across the warehouse floor, testing wooden planks with each step. A few guards returned with filled buckets; they threw the contents into the smoke, one at a time. The water hissed, and the smoke started dissipating at breakneck pace, leaving naught behind but a fine, sooty ash on the ground. The sergeant squinted as he peered in further, where he could just barely make out a pair of silhouettes ascending on the far side of the warehouse…

 

No sooner had he spotted them than one of the silhouettes fell and collapsed. A pained cry - “Go!” - prompted him to pick up the pace. He broke into a jog, then slid to a halt over the cobblestones, over the fallen figure. A quick glimpse was enough to identify the duskwight in question; there was no mistaking that face, with that expression, with that hair, with that beard, with that complexion, with that figure.

 

“Gods… damn it, Verad.”

 

The elderly Elezen met his eyes and winced.

 

He wouldn’t unless he had good cause.

 

That single thought struck him like a bolt of lightning. He spun on his heels, his gaze darting back and forth as he scanned the warehouse interior for somewhere, anywhere, to hide the man. There were towers of crates stacked nearby, and a few scattered here and there along the warehouse floor, but for the most part…

 

“Check the crates,” came a hiss. “The crates, please!”

 

Osric glanced back down; the duskwight’s own gaze kept flickering back and forth between the office door situated towards the front of the warehouse, and… a rope. The sergeant blinked, then glanced up to the skylight… and understood.

 

“You first, eh?”

 

He tugged his turban back on, then circled around and bent down, taking hold of and lugging Verad, however painstakingly slowly, closer to the dangling line to freedom. A few moments more found the sergeant tying the rope around the Elezen’s midriff in a sailor’s knot; he tugged down, hard, then met Master Bellveil’s eyes again one last time.

 

“I’ll check the crates. Swear I will.”

 

Verad nodded with some relief. “Please." A sudden jerk along the rope had the man reeling up towards the ceiling. He shot Osric a grateful look… and then he was gone.

 

The midlander smirked, then turned to find the last of the smoke clearing. The guards approached slowly, their expressions puzzled; there was, indeed, a flame, but it stuck to the surface of the warehouse floor, and the few wisps of smoke still emanating from it didn’t account for the massive plume earlier. “Th’hell’s that?” mumbled one man in particular as he poked at it with his sword.

 

Not one to delay, Osric scanned his surroundings again. Crates, crates… this is a gods-damned warehouse, the place is full o’ crates! …there. Several were in his immediate vicinity, but only one was open. He sidled up to it, then squatted down on his haunches to inspect its contents. A moment later, he froze, shoulders locking in place, his whole frame going rigid, as taut as a strained wire. He frowned, then double-tapped at the linkpearl in his left ear.

 

“This is Sergeant Melkire to the Flames, please respond. We have a situation down off Pearl. Warehouse, corner of Topaz and Rubellite.” He glanced up and back towards the guards for just long enough to confirm his earlier suspicions, to confirm that peculiarity. “Seems a Brass Blade establishment… and the crates are filled with milkweed.”

 

He pivoted as he stood, hand falling from his ear, arms crossing as he frowned at the assembled guards, Brass Blades one and all… then he smirked wickedly.

 

Gotcha.

 

Nymeia be blessed.

[Roen]

Roen held the small vial up to the candlelight. The white liquid within was opaque and it left a light coating on the glass as she tilted it slightly this way and that.

 

"Milkweed milk. Packed in crates of grain - I know not the purpose of the grain, feed for all I know."

 

Verad Bellveil had given her the small vial a few suns ago, after his raid on the second warehouse. He had found the illegal drug hidden within the crates, along with some Ishgardian luxuries and Dravanian relics, according to the duskwight merchant.

 

"And...Sergeant Melkire was there as well?"

 

"Gift-wrapped and hand-delivered to the man. A false alarm regarding a fire in the warehouse attracted his attention."

 

Roen set the vial back down onto the desk, her eyes going to the central marketplace of the Silver Bazaar. Her rented room was small, but the window that looked out over the courtyard lent the illusion of airiness. Cool desert night winds wafted through the thin curtains that billowed with their caress.

 

The paladin leaned back in her chair, releasing a long sigh as she looked up at the full moon shining above. How long had she been staying out of Ul’dah now?

 

Ser Crofte had warned her of Natalie’s intentions, but to draw the attention away from Nero’s efforts in Limsa Lominsa, Roen had returned to Thanalan and made herself known once more in the Jewel. Now the trick was to be known to be in the desert...and to do it without being caught.

 

‘An accomplice to a criminal and self-avowed privateer, which in any tongue means pirate,’ Natalie would reason for her arrest. Roen still scowled when she thought of their conversation at the Bismarck.

 

With a sharp inhale and a shake of her head, the paladin dismissed those memories, pushing off the chair to study the single parchment on the table again: the list of the warehouses that belonged to Jameson Taeros. She had procured this list from Broken Nose, who had produced it simply by way of knowing which Blades worked in their off time for the Monetarist noble--as well as where they pulled their guard duty. He listed three of the most well-guarded warehouses and had given it to Roen, who in turn had given a copy to the duskwight merchant of dubious goods.

 

Apprehension stirred within her chest whenever she thought of Mister Bellveil’s involvement in the Monetarist affairs. Why did she ask him? Was it not enough that he had helped her since that fateful rainy day in Limsa Lominsa? She remembered how lost she had felt then, having been brought to La Noscea by Gharen after being rescued from Itar’s clutches. The distant memories of the emptiness she had carried brought a lingering ache to her chest even now, moons past.

 

The eccentric duskwight--with his bombastic jokes and strange fascination with all things considered worthless--had somehow coaxed her out of her darkness. His unconventional ways had often caught her off-guard; his offering of wisdom hidden within his facetious mannerisms then held her attention. She had not known then that he had lent her a rope to draw her out of the mire of hopelessness; in trying to understand his oddities, she had grasped onto it and slowly pulled herself out.

 

Roen wondered if she had thanked Mister Bellveil for it, along with the many others who had helped her back then.

 

Now she had a new purpose. She was standing up against the Monetarists, targeting one in particular. Jameson Taeros had many connections and many powerful friends, and was now even using Natalie to do his bidding: executing Daegsatz, hunting Nero, and even pursuing her to get to the pirate. All the while, Taeros strolled through the streets of Ul’dah, carrying about his business, spreading wealth and influence to those who already had it in bounty, and bleeding it from those who had none.

 

Would this help Nero’s efforts to choke off the wealth to the Monetarists? Jameson Taeros was but one of many corrupted and greedy nobles of Ul’dah. But Taeros was the one orchestrating the forces that were hunting Nero. Roen was convinced that he was the one who somehow convinced Natalie to execute Nero’s First Mate.

 

The paladin hoped that if she could turn the focus back onto Taeros in his own home, that perhaps some attention can be taken off of Nero and brought back to Thanalan. So that Nero can do what he must do, and Roen could ensure some measure of safety and freedom for the pirate.

 

But at what expense? Was she putting someone like Mister Bellveil at risk? She was already asking for aid from those she should not have--those who had no stake in this. Mister Bellveil, Mister North, even Shaelen. But she did ask them and it weighed on her even now, to contemplate putting certain people at risk, although some were more capable than others.

 

She had tried to talk the merchant out of his plans to continue to look into Taeros’ warehouse; poking at the beehive enough times, one was bound to get stung. But Mister Bellveil refused.

 

She had asked him why he was so adamant about helping her.

 

"There needs to be at least one person - just one - in your life, who you can trust. Someone you can implicitly know will not betray you, will aid you where possible. I remember you speaking about your betrayal. And, in that, I thought, 'At least one fixed point in the aether. That's all. Just something she can rely on when she needs it'."

 

His earnest words had made her speechless.

 

"And that's...fine. It is. It was. When all I could do was talk, and lift your spirits, I was happy for it. There's nothing wrong with that and if I did not know certain things thanks to the Grindstone, well - that is what I would continue to do. But there's more I can do, now. We know this. There may be even more I can do in the future. Knowing that, it behooves me to try."

 

Roen could do naught but peer up at the duskwight then, openly shocked, and touched by his sincerity and compassion.

 

"But - the way I see it, I am on the periphery. I'm your ally, not a central figure. I can be the resource that comes through when you need it most." Roen recalled the wide grin that split the merchant’s face. "I can be your very own plot device. And I've never had to sell myself!" He paused dramatically before adding, "Yet."

 

"You are...my own plot device." Roen had replied softly.

 

"You see? You just get in a pinch, and think, 'But of course! We can call upon Verad!' And I'll be sure to arrive at a dramatically appropriate time and do something critical."

Roen found herself staring back out into the night, looking out over the Silver Bazaar. Despite the worries she had for his safety, she could not deny the twinkle in his eye when he spoke of the fun he had in outwitting and outrunning his enemies, and the comfort she took in the friendship Mister Bellveil had offered. She could not deny her fondness for the man, and how she craved his wisdom whenever she felt lost or conflicted.

 

She almost wished she was raised to believe in the gods, for she would say a prayer for his safety, and the safety of all she cared for. As she stood and blew out the candle on the desk, she recalled the last of the words they exchanged.

 

"So! There you have it. You will not break from your ideals. Ideals I find noble. Ideals that the world will try to break. Why should you not have a fixed point?"

 

She remembered smiling, finally. "I would have no other, Mister Bellveil."

[Verad]

There were tears in her eyes.

 

If someone asked Verad to find a pattern to the nature of his meetings with Miss Deneith, then he would have been able to point it out with ease: he would find her at a low point, and he would raise her up again. It had happened in Limsa, during their very first meeting and in the conversations after; in Ul’dah, when he had come into the Sultansworn gaols during her imprisonment; and in Limsa again, when, during a heavy rain, she told him of the death of a man in custody, one that had shaken her ideals to the core.

 

Knowing her expression in those moments pained him. He had seen her broken and blank, muted as if she were a mannequin, unable to say what troubled her in anything but dull words and empty expressions. For a man accustomed to easy smiles and bemused looks, such things had proven unconscionable from the start, and when Verad saw her like that he did what he could to draw her from them. He never expected much; things weighed on Roen heavily, and he considered it a success to see even a small smile that could reach her eyes by the end of the conversation.

 

But this time, there were tears, and he had never seen those before, edging around the corners of her eyes and threatening to spill over. And try as he might, he was unable to fight them. When he was their cause, fighting them was a hard thing to do.

 

---

 

Verad shook himself of the memory. He never liked remembering things; things remembered were never half so interesting as things in the moment. This was why he often sold multiple times to the same people who denied him; it wasn’t that he didn’t have a head for faces. He just cared not to remember the unpleasantries.

 

He placed his hands on the stone railing and looked out over the masses in the Quicksand. It was as it always was, a solid, permanent form of mutability. Always a crowd, always a clamor, always an Aya (he noted with a smile and a wave) serving the customers. And always, always, some poor soul by themselves, looking lonely and benighted and, to Verad’s eyes, in desperate need of dubious goods.

 

It was time to get back to basics. The robberies were no longer necessary; he’d gotten evidence enough, and what he couldn’t get himself, he had passed along as leads to Sergeant Melkire. The incident  

 

their smiles reached their eyes, that was the worst of it, the real pleasure they took from it

 

had passed, and Verad had healed fully. It had been a trying half-moon, that was for certain. The heist going awry, the visitation, retreating to Gridania and to friends in the Morbolvine for convalescence, not to mention the problem of Quarrymill and everything that had come up there; all of it it had taken his time, and taken him away from his proper calling. That required scanning the crowd, looking for his usual criteria - someone who was more likely to be amused than annoyed by his approach and doubly so by his pitch.

 

There were a few false starts. He would spy someone, move his arm as if to push away from the railing, and then they would be joined by someone else. Groups were tricky. Pairs,

 

two of them, one to lock his warehouse door and guard it from the inside, the other to get to business

 

doubly so. Pairs often wanted to be left alone. Groups often asked too many questions all at once. Not insurmountable, but if he wanted to be sure to walk away with at least a handful of gil, he tried to catch out someone alone.

 

At last he spied an interested party, or at least someone bored enough to be interested as a form of distraction, a Midlander woman absently pushing a utensil along the rim of her drink, dark hair and dark clothing, keeping her eyes out of his or anybody else’s sight. Terribly mysterious business, thought Verad. He’d need to move quick or somebody might approach first in order to cheer her up, ask her

 

do you know who you’ve upset they asked, and he knew, and they said that made it easier but only for them

 

what made her so forlorn? It was something Verad did but rarely, and only then as an angle to sell his wares. Often, talking about himself was easier, more effective, than talking about other people.

 

His push away from the railing was a final one, and he approached the interior of the tavern with his usual easy confidence; nothing quite like a swagger, but direct and clear enough to attract attention. He cleared his throat and offered a smile, his voice loud enough to be heard at a short distance, deep enough to attract attention. “Pardon me, madam,” he began, “But would you be interested in any fine dubious

 

shards of his wares falling down over his body, ribs folding in on themselves from the impact of plated boots

 

goods this afternoon?” He followed up the question with a tilted head and a broad grin, as always. She’d ask what he meant. They always asked, or always assumed, but asked anyway.

 

It took a moment for the woman to recognize she was being spoken to, and that the speech did not involve asking if somebody could sit at the conspicuously empty table nearby. She parted her hair and looked up at Verad with a puzzled expression. “I’m sorry? Dubious what?”

 

His mouth was halfway to open, to respond, when a flash of metal, caught his eye at the corner of his field of vision. Copper or brass, under a shock of something red, nearly faded to pink.

 

forced him to his knees and one took the red wig from his head (her hair it was her hair) and struck and struck and laughed

 

Verad made a small, panicked cry, taking a few steps back and shielding himself with a hand thrown up near his head. In his retreat, he stumbled over the back of some adventurer’s propped-up lance, and fell without grace onto his rump. Even then, he skittered back a few steps, fear in his eyes, hunted expression on his face.

 

He was fortunate, in some respects, that the Quicksand was as busy as it was. The staff was no stranger to such outbursts, and apart from a puzzled look, most of the onlookers paid him little attention. Just the odd duskwight with another routine.

 

Looking behind his prospective customer again, he saw a Seeker man with a shock of pinkish red hair walk out the bar’s front entrance, lugging a bronze hoplon over his shoulder. Even so, he did not rise to his feet, risking smashed fingers and toes as he waited for his breath to return and his heart to stop pounding.

 

A hand, small and pale, appeared in front of him, attached to the woman he’d sought as a buyer. “Are you all right?” she asked, her lips a polite smile, her eyes all puzzled concern.

 

Verad shook his head and rose to his feet. “Ah, yes, thank you, I’m just - “ He swallowed, scanning the crowd with a suddenly wary expression. “I’m fine. Another time, miss. My apologies for the interruption.”

 

He knew the Quicksand crowd well enough to know she might start asking questions about the source of the problem, but she seemed satisfied. “Of course,” she said, returning to her seat. He waited until she was preoccupied again before turning to reach the bar, signalling for Aya’s attention. She would know something strong enough to help forget, and he was never much for remembering unpleasantries.