Decades Ago [Closed, Probably NSFW At Some Point]

[Verad]

While I will relate to you, dear reader of impeccable taste and exquisite looks, many of my earlier exploits, I would like to assure you that I will not waste your time or mine with the very beginning of things. Beginnings! Such twaddle, as if the tales of when I was yet to walk could prove of interest to anyone! Too many memoirs concern themselves with these trivial fancies, sure that the lives of their subjects before they became important are as fascinating as they are after the fact. You, however, may be at ease in knowing that I have skipped over some of the dullest parts of my life.

 

-Introduction, Memoirs of a Masterful Merchant: The Verad Bellveil Story

 

 

Sixth Astral Era, Somewhere in the Shroud

 

"Really," said Corwin, glancing at his companion in mild irritation, "I think you're taking this a bit too hard. It's quite nice here, you know? There's shade for a hot day, there's cover, it's a nice broad space - you could do a lot worse for yourself than here."

 

The caravan driver's only response was to whimper as he lay flat on the ground in a sloppy approximation of the manner in which he'd been directed. Corwin frowned. "Well, suit yourself." He squinted out at the road. From his angle underneath the caravan, there wasn't much to be seen except the occasional spattering of feet, crunching out a steady rhythm in the dirt as combatants ran past. "But I think it's quite all right."

 

An arrow acquainted itself with the caravan's side with a solid thunk, prompting a yelp from the driver and a vigorous attempt to curl himself into the tiniest possible ball. Corwin sighed. He had taken a chance on the man - his first time driving in the Shroud, but he'd come with good references, and he'd been told that he had two things that were absolutely necessary for the journey: the ability to handle a chocobo well and a healthy appreciation for taking cover in the event of danger.

 

As things had turned out, he had proven himself quite ably in the act of the former, but Corwin felt there was room for improvement in the performance of the latter. Nor could he blame this on having left him unprepared. It had all been explained in advance: upon reaching the Shroud, the first caravan went a few thousand yalms ahead of the others as a decoy. The bandits attacked. The Wailers and the Quiver were signaled. There was just enough blood and death to scare them off, and the rest of the wagons could then proceed in peace. All of this had been explained. But no, Corwin found himself trying to talk the man through the act of hiding very still on the ground. What he got for taking a chance on a Lalafell, he supposed.

 

The kicking of dirt to his right interrupted his thoughts, and he noticed the driver kicking himself up to a crawl before attempting a scramble for open ground. He was quick to grab the back of the man's shirt and drag him away, holding him down and still, little legs kicking up dirt as he tried to wrench himself free. The position may have been awkward, and Corwin may have been short for a Midlander, but he was hardly slight, and he certainly had the strength to keep his driver in place.

 

"Can't have you doing that," He said. "Say the raiders win, and they see you, who's not a Wailer - well, maybe a wailer, but not a Wailer. They'll get curious where he came from, won't they? Might go poking around elsewhere. So you have to stay down. Do you understand?" He smiled, bright and razor-sharp, until the driver nodded, brushing a few tears from his eyes. "Good." Corwin released his grip. "Stay. Down."

 

A thought struck him as he took in the general din of scattered shouts and the occasional sound of an arrow striking something firm, whether the thump of a tree or the scream of a combatant. "It is taking a while, though. Is this how long it’s supposed to take? Worse aim than usual, I suppo - " A body collapsed in the visible space between the caravan and the ground, its face turned away from the pair, and even Corwin started up in surprise, a moment passing before returned to his face-down position, resting his hands in his cheek. "Better that than to hit one of the balloons and send the whole thing crashing down on us, eh?" Receiving only a quiet sobbing in response, his face turned sour. "Remind me to put this on your performance report when we get back."

 

"Clear! All clear! They yield and flee!" The call came from the east, where he had seen the Wailers break free of the forest growth, soldiers of the God's Quiver in support, before halting the wagon and ducking beneath. The driver wasted no time, scrambling out from underneath the shade and into the open air, hardly paying the body in front of them any mind in his effort to kick dirt out from under his feet and be free of cover. Perhaps a fear of closed spaces, Corwin supposed. He’d seen a few men have such frights. Later, he would have to lock the man in a box and see if it bothered him, to be sure. Couldn’t allow himself to take risks.

 

His own exit from his hiding place was far more leisurely, and he took the time to brush dirt from his knees and the front of his jacket - real goatskin, too high-quality to let it be ruined by a little thing like an ambush of an ambush. The day was clear and the sun was bright, and stepping out from under the shade forced him to squint, wrinkling worn eyes further as he surveyed the surroundings.

 

While no expert on the matter of how bloody a battlefield ought to look, he expected a little better, a little more in the way of carnage. There were bodies, to be certain, at least a dozen-and-half or so scattered along the treelines, or flat on the ground where one participant or another had broken cover for some fool reason. Mostly the local cave clans, as far as he could see, with a handful of the green-and-browns of Wailer leathers besides. Arrows, everywhere, stuck in the ground, the trees, into an outside the caravan. An archery battle, he supposed. Typical of these skirmishes, or so the brat had said - the Duskwights and the wilder of the Wildwoods preferred to use the cover to their advantage, and avoid engaging the open road.

 

Still, he’d expected more. The plan demanded it. But far be it from Corwin to criticize for not killing enough people, as if he had done much of the same in his time, and things had gone well. He walked amongst the Wailers as they pushed the dead out of the road, surveying the cargo and caravan alike for signs of serious damage. “Always puncturing,” he remarked over his shoulder to one man as he pushed aside a Duskwight. “One of these days they’re going to learn to aim for the float, and that’ll be the end of it, hey? But good work, good work.”

 

He took the liberty of patting the man’s back, made him stumble and drop the carcass. Certainly there was a glare behind the man’s mask, if the frown  he gave beneath it were any indication, but Corwin grinned all the same. “So, shall we signal the rest along? All clear? I’d like to have everything in the markets by sundown.”

 

The Wailer’s frown only deepened. Something about an Elezen Corwin had never liked - when they frowned, even the faintest twitch of the lips seemed to indicate the greatest disapproval. Couldn’t they at least bare teeth or spit, or something? “This was nothing,” The Wailer explained, gathering the body a second time. “Too few by far. We came in force and if they had the same, we’d have been met in kind.” A grunt as he hoisted his fallen comrade up to waist-height. “This was skirmishing, harassing - delaying tactics. Do you not know this?”

 

The tone in his voice indicated the answer - Of course you do not, outsider. Corwin balled one hand into a fist. “Pardon me if I’ve been uninformed, ser, but I’m no martial man, y’see, I was told this would work. Even worked it out with the brat, special, to bring what I’ve got to you and your kin.” And a little bit to someone else, of course. But no sense in saying that. “So did it, or didn’t it?”

 

He was ignored, the man shaking his head and dragging the body away. Such priorities, Corwin thought. Pace shifted from leisurely to laconic, and may well have reached haste, as he searched amongst the soldiers for someone who could explain. “Here,” he said aloud, and with increasing aggravation, the wry, brassy tone of his voice taking on a hint of growl. “What’s the plan, then? What happened? It worked, didn’t it?” He gripped the shoulder of a man of the Quiver, directing his fellows to gather those few arrows that could see re-use. “Man over there says there’s too few, like it didn’t. Did it? Is my damn cargo safe?”

 

At first there was no response, save for a glance aside to the treeline, and for an instant Corwin felt as if he ought to raise his hand. No martial man, he, but he was stout and strong enough to break a jaw if he felt it. No need to be martial for that. It was fortunate that a response came, and in such a hesitant fashion that he didn’t think it Gridanian aloofness.

 

“It’s . . . well, we expected more, that’s all,” he said. “With the attacks they’ve made - it couldn’t have been with so few. There has to be more out there. We sent a runner with a squad to your liaison, but if there’s been a problem - “ He stopped.

 

“‘Liaison?’” Corwin’s brows, thick and beetling things, clumped together as they raised. “You mean the - “ He swore and released the man’s shoulder, jabbing a finger at the driver. “Unhook one of those chocobos!”

 

---

 

When he got back to Thanalan, Corwin thought, he’d have to praise the local chocobokeep for her discerning taste when it came to pack animals. Unburdened by the caravan, the chocobo was strong and, mercifully, fast, though every yalm of his ride through the forest paths only made him aware of how many yalms were remaining. It was a short enough ride south, no more than a matter of a quarter-bell at speed, and if the matter had been an idle one he would have enjoyed it. Instead there was nothing but a gnawing worry, one that grew when he saw one caravan float, detached and deflated, little more than a bright cloth sack, along the side of the road. He cursed, increased his pace, and rounded the necessary bends.

 

Credit where it was due, the cave clans were never fool enough to try to burn a caravan. They preyed upon trade, certainly, robbed and murdered, shot and stole, sometimes kidnapped to ransom, sometimes kidnapped for its own sake. But they never burned. The risk of the fire spreading to the Shroud was too great, and the risk of the elementals reacting greater still. Thus Corwin was not granted the benefit of a conspicuous plume of smoke rising out from the trees to presage the fate of his cargo.

 

The entire convoy was exactly as he’d left it when he had split off from them shortly after entering the Shroud, save for the small matter of being utterly destroyed. The caravans were upturned, the chocobos slain, or close to it, if the fluttering of a few feathers and the kicking of legs were any sign. Bodies littered the ground without the uniformity of character at the decoy site; his drivers and porters had been a mixed lot, and they were as diverse when prone on the ground as they were when they had seen him off on his part of the plan. A few members of the Quiver were present, checking the caravans for damage, for survivors. The cargo was irrelevant, of course. Priorities indeed.

 

“No,” he murmured, dismounting and leaving the chocobo to rest, the word repeated and rising in volume as he moved from a walk to a run, half-stumbling over a broken harness in his path. “NononononnononoNO!” Where the soldiers concerned themselves with the dead, his interests were in the inanimate, scanning amongst the wreckage for signs of cargo. Crates were to be found, certainly, sacks as well, but empty and broken as often as not. One, in particular, was missing.

 

A Quiverman halfway through the process of identifying which of a number of arrows had landed the killing blow against one of Corwin’s drivers found himself abruptly grabbed by the shoulder. “Where is it?” Corwin’s eyes had a glassy, manic look. “Small crate, size of a chair, stamped with a one-winged imp. Did they take it? Have you seen it?”

 

A quick shove to the man’s chest pushed Corwin away. “Ser, please, calm yourself! We only arrived, drove them off. They seemed mostly through with the lot.” He gestured to the western treeline, where two or three Duskwights lay, arrows protruding to mark where they feel. “If you’re missing something, they’ve taken it. Assume that - “

 

Corwin stormed past and stomped on the ground. “Fucking Twelve, fucking Duskwights, fucking brat - just - fuck!” He kicked dirt in the air with a broad movement, lost his balance, and fell backwards into the road. There he lay for a moment, staring up at the sun with squinted eyes, obscured by trees save for glimmers of light.

 

“Brat,” he muttered, before sitting upright. “Shit, that’s right. My brother. Anybody seen him?” This he called out to the group. Their confused looks demanded he clarify. “You know? The brat?” The confusion remained, so he clarified the clarification. “Liaison? Fellow you were sent for? Verad?” More confusion. A fresh look of horror crossed his face. “He’s not - “

 

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m here.” A few planks from one of the caravan’s hulls fell away, and the brat staggered out from beneath them, shaking his head, trying to wipe away blood from the side of his head before it dried. “Just - relax, I’m here.”

 

Exhaling, Corwin stifled a relieved grin as Verad rose to his feet. The two were far from of a pair; over a decade Verad’s senior, Corwin was stout and weathered, bronzed from life in the desert, a stark contrast to his brother’s youthful features and slim build. Only their hair, the same shade of sandy blond, told the relation, and even given that, commenters frequently mistook the elder for the younger’s uncle.

 

Pushing aside the few Quivermen coming to check him, the brat held his arms open as if to embrace Corwin, the distance between them closing. “I’m glad you’re all right - I hope the attack went - “ He was interrupted by Corwin beating him about the shoulder with the back of his hand, each blow punctuated by a word.

 

“You. Said. This. Would. Work!” Verad flinched under the assault, and Corwin could see, from the corner of his eye, some of the Gridanian soldiers coming to intervene. He broke away, chest heaving from deep, aggravated breaths. “You did. Said it was the chance the Wailers needed. What happened?”

 

“I don’t know.” Corwin raised his hand, and the brat danced back a step. “I don’t! Maybe they scouted us splitting up once you were in the Twelveswood. Maybe they spied me approaching from the north, I can’t say. What do you expect me to say?” He searched for his bow as he spoke, picking amongst the caravan wreckage until he had its grip in hand. “I’m sorry, I am. You weren’t gone more than a bell, maybe half that. It was fast.”

 

“Does me no good,” he said, snorting and waving away the soldiers. “Look at all this! That’s benefits to the families, damages to the chocobokeep, that’s lost cargo, that’s new caravans to buy - I just -” Corwin held up his hands. “This is going to take years. Years.”

 

“You say that with every loss.” The brat shouldered his quiver, giving a salute to the soldiers. “Every loss, every time.”

 

“It’s true every time!” He thought of his ledger back home. He had very much enjoyed using black ink when he wrote a number into his accounts. It was a rare occasion.

 

“We’ll talk it over, all right? Mayhap the Quiver and the Wailers can cover some of the loss when we speak to them. They did agree to it.” This seemed to mollify Corwin, who harrumphed and folded his arms together. “Just - ride back with the main force, and we’ll meet you in Gridania, get this sorted - “

 

Verad paused. “Well?” said Corwin, frowning. “You could at least validate me a little more.” Taking a few steps forward, he saw his gaze was not quite fixed on Corwin, staring off into the treeline. “You! Come on, you’re not seeing an elemental, are you? Focus here! This is a serious lo-”

 

The brat wasn’t as strong as Corwin by half, but the latter didn’t expect him to shove him away and to the right by the waist. An arrow scattered dirt in the ground a moment after the merchant had been pushed away, and Corwin heard the rapid creak of a drawn bowstring and hiss of a loosed arrow from his brother shortly after.

 

“What - damnation, warn me when you’re out to save my life, would you?” said Corwin, picking himself up from the dirt and glaring over his shoulder. In the treeline, he could see a Duskwight, clad in the heavy garments of his clan, slumping to the ground, an arrow in his side. It wasn’t the only one; a shaft seemed to stick out from his leg as well, most likely acquired when the soldiers of the Quiver had arrived. A distracting shot may have been the only way to escape, he supposed.

 

“Sorry,” said the brat, grinning in spite of himself. “I’ll be sure to give you proper notice next time. Now can we please get out of here?” He looked as if he wanted to say more, but a long, high wail arose from the treeline. The brat frowned. “That’s - is he still alive? It doesn’t sound - “

 

Corwin’s only response was to grimace. He was familiar enough with that sound from his brother, years ago, when he’d been hungry, or frightened. “Wait right here.”

 

“What do you mean? Saved your life. Without notice, I admit,” said Verad as he shouldered his bow. His thin eyebrows knit together in confusion. “I thought it was a clean enough hit, but - Corwin, please!” Verad tried to reach out to pull him back, but the elder brother had already stepped out of reach, making his way towards the treeline at a cautious pace.

 

The walk wasn’t far, and the body easy to spot even if the keening noise hadn’t provided signal enough. Corwin knelt down in the grass and dirt near the fallen Duskwight, the body heavily garbed. Too thick for the kind of movements bandits and poachers in the Shroud would require, he thought, unwrapping a few stray pieces of cloth torn from the impact of Verad’s arrow. Pulling aside a few more stray scraps, Corwin guarded his expression, kept his face neutral. The crunch of footsteps in grass and leaves signalled Verad’s approach. “Well? What is - “ He began. His face, too, went blank.

 

An infant wailed, swaddled against the Duskwight’s torso, too tightly bound to do anything but squirm and scream. The arrow had been a clean in hit in the bandit’s side; shock, coupled with the previous injury, had likely proven fatal. Clean, but close; an ilm to the right, and the child’s head would have been split open.

 

“Verad,” said Corwin, giving an aggrieved sigh. “You missed.”

[Verad]

“Now who does that, I ask you?” said Corwin over the rim of his mug. “Who even conceives of such a thing?”

 

“Very few. It’s not quite conceivable.”

 

“Don’t know much about duskwight culture - not the wild ones, the cave clans - “

 

“Who does, really?”

 

“And certainly, if a woman has to care for a child, and there’s no other alternatives, who could gainsay taking one along on her daily labors?”

 

“Hardly anybody. It’s a sensible choice.”

 

“I’d even go so far as to say, Miss Mason, and I’ll grant this is my being a bit radical, that taking one along on a bandit raid could be seen as being necessary.”

 

“Children have to learn a trade. Best to start early.”

 

“But even then. Even then! Who carries the child in the front?”

 

“Nobody, of course.”

 

“The back, now, that’s one thing. Child carried on the back? Safer, more secure. ‘S reasonable.”

 

“Indeed so.”

 

“But in the front? The front. Might as well strap it around your torso like a breastplate!”

 

“An outrage.”

 

“Well, Verad was fair sore when he saw that, Miss Mason, let me tell you. Most aggrieved. He’s at the Quiver dealing with the problem now. Not sure what they’re to do with an orphan grey as dark as that. The pale ones, you could dye their hair and call them wildwoods, but this one is nearly blue.“

 

“Corwin?”

 

“Told him he ought leave it to the whim of the spirits, but such a look he gave me. Oh that face looks soft enough, but his tongue’s getting so sharp he doesn’t even need to use it. Takes after mother.”

 

“Corwin, what, if anything, does this have to do with my crate?”

 

Biddy Mason didn’t sound annoyed when she asked the question, nor did it show on her expression; even so, Corwin fell silent as if she’d bellowed the question. To the unfamiliar, the pretty little Midlander, slight as a sparrow and seeming no older than Verad (or so Corwin supposed, having never worked up the courage to ask the details) with her short brown hair decorated with braids and dimpled smile, seemed a better fit for the genteel life of the Gridanian well-to-do than her true profession. In some respects, this was entirely correct, as Miss Mason would never slit a man’s throat when she could have one of her four brothers or dozen cousins do it for her, and it was those connections which made her very well-prepared to coordinate the arrival of contraband across the borders of the Shroud.

 

She set down her cup, still half-full of tea, and folded her hands together in her lap. “I do apologize for the interruption,” she said, “and I very much hope you’re able to make your brother see sense. But you came to speak about the cargo. You insisted that you could get it here safely. Have you done this?”

 

Corwin choked off a curse, bowed his head and held up his hands. “Right, yes, well, ah - I was getting to that anyroad, yes. It’s just when we got hit, when we found this, er - well, I suppose he’s a foundling now, isn’t he? Wouldn’t know for sure if - “

“Mister Bellveil, sir.” Biddy smiled, tilting her head to the side in polite encouragement. The hearth in the Sleeping Boar was kept dim, an old habit from the Mason patriarch’s days, and Corwin was glad for it. Kept the sweat beading on his forehead from being noticeable.

 

“Well, we sort’ve, ah, lost the shipment, Miss Mason. Not sure if the greys took it or if it was damaged when they hit the back caravan. Porters still taking inventory on that count. But it’s gone in any case. Could tell you that much at a glance.” He had to choke the words out while discreetly nudging his chair an ilm further away from the table, one carefully nudged leg at a time.

 

“Is that so?” She spoke with the thoughtful air of a rhetorical question, glancing up to the ceiling while taking hold of her teacup once more. The conversation paused, leaving the sounds of a quiet tavern - a feebly crackling fire, the rasp of a too-well-used rag against mugs as one of Biddy’s brothers tended the bar, and the throb of Corwin’s pulse as he tried to calm himself, left marinating in his own worries.

 

Practically speaking, Gridania had two sets of laws. There were the laws of the spirits, which everyone knew, even if they didn’t understand them: don’t hunt here, don’t harvest this tree, everyone can prevent forest fires. And then there were the laws of men, which were, in some ways, more esoteric and even more inexplicable because men dictated them: take this much tax from this business, don’t drink on these days, don’t beat your children unless they really have it coming, so on. While these laws did not always overlap, there was one point on which both codes were quite clear: don’t bring strange things into the Shroud.

 

Yet they did not precisely overlap, because just as the spirits might keep a good man out of the forest yet allow a murderer free passage, so too might they forbid mundane things like seeds and certain kinds of pots while completely overlooking minor things like several tonze of drugs and firesand. So it was that Gridanian customs was a twofold affair in which most goods traveling into the Shroud were checked by both Hearer and Wailer alike to ensure that nobody, spirit or man, would be harmed.

 

That was the system in its simplest, ideal form, of course, but while the laws of the spirits were hard to avoid, the laws of men could be skirted. A coin to Wailer in the right place and an item concealed in the right caravan, and the walls of the Hedge were not as stout as the locals might have hoped as a small trickle of contraband made its way into the forest. They would never match the open markets of Limsa and Ul’dah for size, but it was a profitable trickle all the same.

 

And six moons ago, Corwin had received a letter from his brother at his home in the Silver Bazaar, telling him in all great excitement of how he had become a proper Quiverman at last. And the merchant had thought to himself, ah-hah. There’s a way to widen the stream a little.

 

Biddy ended the silence with a light sip from her cup and a quick sigh, and Corwin straightened himself in his seat. “Well, I do suppose that’s the end of it then. I am very appreciative of your coming here to inform me, Mister Bellveil; your forthrightness does you credit. I think that ends matters, don’t you?”

 

He frowned. That was milder than he had expected, but Miss Mason was mild even when having a man gutted for losing a shipment to the Wailers. Even so, there was none of the reproach he’d expected, and the half-dozen arguments he’d made on the way to the Boar about why he should be allowed to live were cast aside. “That’s, er, that’s it then?”

 

“Mm!” She nodded, one braid bobbing atop her head. “I have little reason to be cross, do I? The Wailers do not have the crate, correct?” Corwin nodded. Whatever had happened to the cargo, it hadn’t been placed in Wailer custody for inventory of damages.  “And they don’t know of the operation, correct?”

 

Again, he nodded. As far as the forces of Gridania were aware, the entire business had been an operation, enthusiastically laid out by Verad, to trap a duskwight clan. Corwin had given him no reason to believe otherwise.

 

“Then, since you were generous enough to use your own coin to fund the matter, I see no reason to treat it as anything other than a bit of bad luck and unfortunate planning, don’t you agree?” finished Biddy, offering an upturned palm. Corwin knew better than to take it. “You can take your recompense from the Wood Wailers, spend a few days in the forest, and return to the desert with your conscience clear.”

 

He didn’t try to hide his sigh of relief, or worry about his shoulders slumping in front of Biddy. She was known not to mind bad manners in the actions of her associates - only bad results.  “Right. Yeah, right, I’ll do that. I’ll - with the coin I get from what’s left . . . “ He trailed off, calculating. He might owe money to to some lenders in Ul’dah, people who could crack even Miss Mason’s pristine facade, in order to finance the next trip. “With some outside investing I should be ready to try again in four, maybe five moons?”

 

She shook her head politely, but firmly. “No, I think not, Mister Bellveil. It was a fine idea, but something perhaps best left to other merchants, don’t you agree?”

 

“I - what? No, no, Miss Mason, I understand the concern, but I’ve still got my brother, the Quiver would be keen to try again!”

 

“Indeed they would - and with added men to ensure they succeed the second time. More security, more scrutiny, less chance of success. That would put us both at risk, Corwin, and mayhaps you are fine with that - “ She placed her hand against her chest. “I would be as well, of course, but my family, you see. They couldn’t bear the thought of seeing me in chains. I can’t imagine what they’d do to stop that.” She cast an adoring look towards her brother at the bar, who gave Biddy a cursory nod in response. Corwin briefly considered the rich inner life the man surely must have had while taking orders from Miss Mason, but discarded it as being unnecessary to his immediate and continued well-being.

 

“Surely you understand, Mister Bellveil?” she continued. “As I said, bad luck and unfortunate planning, but I just don’t see the sense in taking the same risk twice. I do wish you the best, and if you do have any other opportunities for mutual profit, then I will be eager to hear from you again.” Biddy slid her teacup across the table for her brother to take it. “Will the evening crowd be coming soon?” she asked as it was collected.

 

Corwin knew a signal when he heard one. Wouldn’t do for the Boar’s regular clientele to meet its irregular customers. “Right then. Thank you for your time, Miss Mason, and thank you for being, ah, understanding.” He received little but a polite, perhaps even a little warm, smile in return, before he turned to leave, a few coins on the table left behind for his drink.

 

Outside, the winding paths to the Boar were visible in the soft glow of the city’s lamps, though a few cracks of orange in the overgrowth above the city suggested it was pnly twilight in the Shroud. Corwin gripped his upper arms in each hand, taking care to avoid looking too closely at the forest. Remembering the active presence of the spirits was one of the worst parts of returning to the city, and on bad days Corwin could feel his skin itch with the unstated judgment of the spirits. You do not belong here, the forest seemed to say. We allow you here, but you are not a part of this place. And we remember the wrong that you do.

 

Two sets of laws in Gridania - spirits and men. All told, Corwin preferred only one set, and that written by men. They were easier to avoid; that was part of why he left for Thanalan. But at least he could appease the spirits with a trip to the conjurers and an appropriate tithe for their troubles. Once caught out, the laws of men were not so easily avoided.

 

“Twelve take me, if it isn’t Corwin Bellveil!”

 

Not the laws of men, nor the men who enforced them, it seemed. Corwin didn’t need to look down to recognize the voice, rough and rasping, full of a cheery, casual confidence that never actually seemed to match the words the man said. Corwin still heard it in his dreams from time to time; not the worst nightmares, which were reserved for his father and the forest itself, but some of the bad ones and a very few of the good.

 

“Hearns.” Corwin kept his tone of voice relaxed, trying to attribute his pose to a chill in the air that wasn’t really there. “They let you slither out of the barracks to drink now?”

 

“It’s only the recruits made to do that, Cor. A corporal in his spear? Bad form if he’s not drinkin’ with the people, y’know.” He grinned, the only part of his expression that was really clear. Corwin was an infrequent visitor to the Shroud since his departure, preferring to keep his business in the Silver Bazaar.

 

When he did come to trade and to visit Verad, he kept clear of the Wailers, and clear of Hadrian Hearns in particular - not a difficult feat when the Spears patrolled the forest as much as they did.

 

Every so often, however, he caught a glimpse of the man, seeming the same as he was in his youth, his dark hair loose and near his shoulders, his grin as shite-eating as ever, save for one point - he never took off the damn mask. Even now, Corwin was staring into the painted black circles of the half masks that were the Wailer’s trademarks.

 

It was a pity, that. His eyes were some of his best features.

 

“Didn’t expect to see you at the Boar - ‘fore the busy bells at that. You had business with the Ol’ Biddy?” He advanced up the steps towards Corwin, moving at an unhurried pace as if the man were no obstacle.

 

“Something like that. Had to square up an account.”

 

The last thing he wanted was to discuss the particulars with Hearns, but the man clucked his tongue and smiled as he drew a step too close. “Risky stuff, workin’ with the Ol’ Biddy, Cor.”

 

“Riskier calling her that where she can hear, don’t you think?”

 

Hearns only laughed. “It’s fine. Friend of the family, you could say. Cards with her cousins every other sennight or so.” Corwin glanced past him. The evening crowd Miss Mason had mentioned had yet to materialize - Wailers off-duty often moved in groups in case a grey needed a lesson taught, or tried to teach a lesson to the Wailers in return. So he was that kind of friend, then.

 

“Well then.” Corwin forced a smile. “Lost some cargo for the inn on the way through the woods, was just keeping her apprised. Nothing interesting.”

 

“Right, right,” The Wailer nodded in understanding. “That caravan attack. Damn shame. Swivin’ greys, right?” Hearns spat against the side of the staircase. “Clan’s been trouble for a while. Found some old caves near Lilystone, can’t seem to pin ‘em down. If I could just get one on a spear-tip. Glad you made it out. You and your brother.” He patted Corwin on the shoulder, squeezed just a moment too long.

 

“So, you enjoy your visit. Let me know if you find something interesting. Or you need it. Either way.” Stepping past Corwin, Hearns pushed open the front doors of the Sleeping Boar with a bright and genuinely pleasant-sounding call of “Miss Mason, so good to see you!”

 

Corwin didn’t hear any of the rest. He tried to hide the shiver in his spine and hurried down the steps. Verad. About time he checked in at home with his brother. That’d make a bad day better.

 

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It did not get better.

 

“Godsdammit, you are not keeping that thing!”

 

Verad made a harsh shushing noise. “Not so loud. He’s just been fed and if you spook him into crying it might all come up again, okay?” He turned away from Corwin, patting the bundled duskwight infant on the back with the clumsy enthusiasm of a young man who thought of the infant as being both fragile and explosive.

 

“Don’t - “ Another look from Verad, and Corwin dropped his voice down to a hiss. “Don’t distract from this. You do not dare distract from this. You are not taking in some grey you found on the ground!”

 

Verad’s house was an old one, and with only three rooms, a small one. It was therefore no stranger to angrily-whispered arguments. Three generations of Bellveils had hashed out their differences underneath their breath so as not to wake the children, a tradition in which Corwin himself had taken part in his arguments with his father, and which the brothers seemed intent on continuing now.

 

“It’s just for the sennight!” Verad countered, bobbing the infant around in a rocking motion. “God’s Quiver said they’d not the space at the barracks and the orphanages weren’t all that friendly to the notion.”

 

“Because it’s a grey. Might as well put a wild couerl in the orphanage. Wouldn’t be surprised if it ate one of the younger ones to survive if you did that. And I know you well enough to know damn well it won’t be a sennight!”

 

“How do you know, hm? How are you so sure?”

 

Corwin rolled his eyes, mouthing Verad’s words back to him in a sing-song falsetto before continuing. “You remember that wolf-pup when you were three? The one you found wounded?”

 

“Yeah, of course.”

 

“When did you finally bury it?”

 

“When I was eleve - “ Verad flushed. “Look, it was abandoned!”

 

Corwin gesticulated wildly in the infant’s direction. “So was that!” The baby managed to open its eyes enough to regard Corwin from over Verad’s shoulder. The look of mild-disdain from blue-green eyes, even at such a young age, felt unsettling and somehow personal.

 

“Well, fine, not abandoned,” Corwin amended. “I get it. You shot the mother, you feel guilty, you think you can take it in. Think it’s as easy as that? You’re not even holding it right.”

 

“What do you mean? I swaddled it and all.” Turning, Verad held out the baby at arm’s length for inspection. “This is wrong?”

 

“Brat, I swaddled you when you weren’t even a summer old, and I swear to the Twelve I’ll swaddle you now if you don’t give it here. It’s swivin’ leg is sticking out, for one!” Making grabbing motions, Corwin took hold of the baby and laid it out on the table, unwrapping the blanket Verad had clumsily tied it in, grumbling all the while. “Don’t need knots, honestly,” he said once the grey was laid out face-up on the home’s sole table, before laying out the blanket in a diamond shape and re-wrapping the child.

 

“First of all,” he said as he worked. “It’s still nursing. Don’t know about you, but there’s a lack of women in the house, and Nophica’s tits are good for worshipping but not for nursin’.”

 

“I’ve a wet-nurse,” Verad said, his tone defensive as he hovered behind Corwin to observe his work. “My sergeant, his wife just had her first. He said she’d be agreeable, wouldn’t even charge.”

 

“Taking a chance like that. Might not want a grey near her teats no matter what your sergeant says. Can’t say I’d blame her. That aside, you’ve the coin? On a new Quiverman’s pay? It’ll be tight.”

 

“I can make it work, Cor. Really. I’ve been fine on my own so far.”

 

“Surely, on father’s savings and mother’s keepsakes once she passed. Going to have a harder time on the coin the Quiver’ll give out to you.” Finishing his handiwork, Corwin stepped back and examined the child, now bundled so as to look appropriately grub-like. Verad had chosen a blue blanket, and the baby seemed to disappear into the color if it weren’t for the eyes. “After nursing it’ll be clothing and real food and schooling, and teaching it a trade, and that’s coin, coin, coin you do not have, and may not.” He looked across the main room, with its sparse furnishings. There were fewer than he recalled, and some spaces along the walls where dust was absent. “Do you even have a crib?”

 

“I had thought a blanket and mother’s old dresser for now - “ Verad was cut off by Corwin’s short, mocking laugh.

 

“Give him to the orphanages,” he said, passing the child back to Verad. “At least if they raise it, then people shan’t call you a fool when it gets caught pinching money. Or if they won’t take him, off to the forest. Call it the will of the elementals or somesuch. Mayhaps another clan or the spirits or, I don’t know, the Ixal will take him.”

 

“What is wrong with you?” Verad was the first to push past the whispered level of volume and shout. “His mother died in front of us, and his clan isn’t coming back for him! Yes, fine, you’re right, it’ll be hard going, but I’m not exposing him in the damn woods! It was tough for father when he had you, and ma fell ill, but he still did the best he could - “

 

“He damn well did not!” Corwin slammed his palm on the table for emphasis, and that was noise enough. The grey made its displeasure known with a high, keening wail, and Corwin stepped away from the noise, his hands gripping his hair. “All right! Gods, all right - rock it to sleep and shut it up and we’ll deal with it in the morning. No, not like that, slower. Is your dresser set up?”

 

Verad nodded, bustling out of the room and into the master bed with the infant in his arms. Its eyes opened enough to cast what Corwin was sure was an angry glare at him before leaving his sight. The distance didn’t help the screams much.

 

He passed his eyes over the main room, trying to tune out the wails and Verad’s clumsy efforts at soothing. It had been eight years since he’d left the Shroud, four since father passed and he’d started making trips back into Gridania, one since the sickness had taken mother. In all of his trips, he had not spent more than a handful of moments inside, preferring to lodge at the city’s inns. The time made recalling the exact layout of the room difficult - he remembered the stove, still warm in its corner, the long central table where father would meet with his friends off-duty and drink.

 

Cabinet with the tableware in its place, and if he opened it he was sure it’d be the same wooden plates and bowls from his grandfather’s time. Other things, though - there had been a few more chairs, hadn’t there? A clock? He was sure of a clock, the ticking was very clear in his memory. He could recall it in the background when he was arguing with father, filling the air when each caught their breath.

 

He should have stayed at another inn, he thought, if only he had the coin. The memories weren’t worth the screaming. Or worth much in and of themselves.

 

Minutes passed, and the grey’s cries softened and ceased. Verad returned to the main room with an exhausted expression, leaning against the frame of the door. Corwin raised his eyebrows and gave him an amused expression. “Now imagine that,” he said, “Most nights for three to four years.”

 

This, more than any other argument, seemed to mortify his younger brother. “That long? Surely when they can walk they stop.”

 

“Elezen age a bit slower, and as they get older they just find more things to scream about, really. But that’s not elezen specifically, that’s kids. Don’t really start being people until they’re eight summers or so.”

 

Verad’s horrified expression gave Corwin the smallest bit of hope. But he shook his head to chase away the thought, and the hope died. “Even then, I can’t just leave him to the city.  Besides, ma said I stopped really crying like that at . . . two summers, I think? Is that true?”

 

“Yes, well, you were in a damned hurry to become a person compared to most children,” Corwin grumbled. Verad had been so well-behaved as a youth that their parents had checked him regularly for padjal horns. “Fine, not you, not the orphanage, just - some other family, all right? There’s some other damn fools’ll take in a grey, surely.”

 

“The morning,” Verad chided. “We’ll talk it over then. Anything else we can talk about? Please? How’s Esmond?”

 

“Fine enough. Minding the store back at the Bazaar, griping about the humidity on the shoreline, same as always. He’d have come along, but with the plan we had, and the ambush, he didn’t want to risk it.” He gestured to cabinet. “You’ve anything strong in there? Bring it here.”

 

“Would’ve liked to meet him,” Verad said, fetching a bottle of nearly-full bourbon and a pair of tin cups. “Seems to keep you calmer.”

 

“Of course he’d say that, he’s the one writes the letters.” Corwin was the first to pour, offering both a healthy measure of the stuff. “If he were on the raid he’d be talking about the silver lining in all the damages. Man fits the Bazaar, I’ll tell you that.”

 

“Is there a silver lining? What’d the Wailers say about the damages?” Verad took a careful sip, and made a face, stifling a cough.

 

“Come on, you can do better than that.” Corwin took a longer drink than his brother. “It’s not even that strong. But the damages.” He smacked his lips. “Some good, some bad. Most of the cargo’s ruined, so that’s a little bit less grain going north to Coerthas, less soil for the botanists, other such necessities. Most of the valuable goods were on the lead coach, so those’ll sell, but not in bulk. And the Ul’dah insurers won’t touch most Shroud caravans, on account of the Hedge. And then the lost drivers, and replacing the chocobos . . . “ He placed his cheek in his hand. “It’s a loss, but I’m not in the poorhouse yet. Few people I need to check with first.”

 

“You could always move back. Esmond’s welcome too, of course.” Verad drank again, to the sound of more coughing.

 

“Maybe with you, but the elementals might have other ideas. And the markets here aren’t so strong as they could be for the same reason.”

 

“Still, you could come back. We could make a good go of it between the three of us. And it’d be easier to-” He said nothing, glancing over his shoulder into the bedroom, where the dresser’s middle shelf was open.

 

“Suppose so. We’ll think about it.” He held out his cup. “But fill this again, and do the same for yourself.”

 

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Corwin was never jealous of his younger brother, not exactly. There was too much of a difference in age between them for him to resent Verad’s looks, or the ease with which he got on with others. Corwin had to talk and talk to get someone to listen, and often Verad just had to be in the right place and offer a smile at the right time. That was fine. They were different people, and Corwin’s way of things served him well in the desert, the way that Verad’s did here.

 

No, there was no jealousy, but there was pity. He had a terrible tendency to see the best in things, but none of the strength to make the best of things happen. That’d been so with his family, and, he had no doubt, it would be so the further along he went in the Quiver. He revered the elementals, and couldn’t at all see how others might see them as harmful, how the stories about wildlings and kidnappings struck him as unbelievable. And Verad could see himself raising a grey and being a proper father to it - but there was no chance of him defending that grey from the rest of Gridania. Corwin was sure of it.

 

And, most of all, he pitied Verad’s constitution. Corwin had his father’s build, and out of adolescence he’d had more than a few rounds with the Wailers that his father called friends, a hobby that had done him good in his few years in Limsa, where there was no such thing as a sober pirate. Verad, on the other hand, was built more like ma when she was healthy, and ma  had never had more than a tipple before it hit her.

 

So, three bells later, when night had long since fallen and Verad’s head lay against the table near an mostly-empty bottle of bourban, Corwin carefully slid his mug aside, rose from his seat, and crept into the bedroom. A few moments later, he tiptoed towards the front door more quietly than his heavy build would suggest, a bundle wrapped in a blue blanket tucked in the crook of his arm.

 

He had to admit, Verad had done an excellent job calming the baby down. It slept soundly as he left the building. In better, later circumstances, he might well do a decent job of raising a child. It was a pity to waste that effort on a grey.