Scales in the Sand [Semi-Closed]

[Anstarra]

<< Further events come to pass, in the wake of the last, and as the dust stirs and things grow more dangerous, new threats arise... as holders of relics and wyrmtears alike become targets for those hungry for power... >>

[Zelmanov]

Night had fallen, the blazing heat giving way to unforgiving frigid cold. And yet, to Orrin, the sensation was the more bearable of the two, reminding him of his distant home. He emerged from his desert hovel, lance in hand.

 

It would be several paces from the offset that he would finally find his quarry. He grimaced visibly at the throbbing, writhing grizzly flesh of the sandworm. Its circular jaw lined with teeth, its myriad crawlers clawing about the sand in its reach, all entirely unawares of the cloaked Dragoon. His icy eyes peered from beneath his cowl, judging, gauging the foul vilekin. He then shifted his weight and in one quick motion he leaped.

 

The worm must have sensed something, perhaps its blind eyes sensing the sudden cool upon its body when his shadow crossed over its back, for it suddenly jutted its "head" upwards to meet Orrin's lance, the blade descending deep before the hooks and wings started to dig into what he would consider its face. His feet would soon follow, landing upon the worm. He is quick to slip down, straddling the worm, digging into the body with the blades upon his armored calves. It began to buck violently, clearly not all to enthused by its current situation. 

 

Orrin lifts the lance once more to drive it down hard, this time hitting his mark of where he assumed the brain or its equivalent would be. Skewering right through the pulsating flesh till the head of the Gae Bolg surfaced on the other side, wings and all. One final, quivering, twitching spasm and the worm fell limp and Orrin rolled off into the sand onto his back. 

 

He'd be quick to stand, drawing a knife into his armored palms he began to carve up his kill. He cut slices into the white meat, avoiding what he thought were organs to avoid the chance of consuming something he shouldn't. The rubbery muscle seemed to twitch still, as though it had yet to get the message that it was dead. His knife then tears into something, it looked like the guts of the creature and the smell was something else. He was so used to the gore of his homeland, of burning fat and flesh within armor that the vilekin's rend corpse nearly made him gag. He stuffed what meat he could into the bag and stood up to leave the rest for the vultures. 

 

It had to be better than goobue flesh, right?

[Verad]

The Sagolii was not kind to carrion. Outside of the few oases in the region, scavenger birds were unlikely, so corpses tended to go about the business of bloating and/or mummification (weather depending) with relatively little interruption. On occasion, a sandworm would rumble through the region and scoop up a body into its maw, but this was a messy process that left almost as much in the way of torn limbs and gobs of flesh on the ground as was actually consumed, an unfortunate drawback to not having a jaw. Otherwise a body fallen was a body in what would eventually become its grave, once the sand and wind got around to covering it up.

 

By the time the pair reached the Dravanian camp, the bodies had only had a few days to be subject to the desert's distinct lack of tender mercies. It helped that their killers had thought to pile and burn the bodies; even if the remains of their hastily-constructed shelter remained standing, the rest appeared to be ash and bone, piled near the remnants of what had likely once been a great wing protruding from hastily scrabbled earth. It was all, Gerchon noted from his position atop a rented chocobo, very thorough.

 

Sighing, he dismounted and approached the remains of the camp first. His companion chose to stay off his feet. Let him, thought Gerchon; the better to save his strength. How anybody could stand the desert heat in an outfit made of mostly black leather and buckles, he couldn't imagine. But his partner had insisted upon it. Image was everything, he said. Well, there was something to that.

 

He pushed metacommentary aside and squatted down near the pile of bones and ash, filtering through the remains with the tips of his fingers. "Very thorough," he said aloud, before glancing back over his shoulder. "Cultists and drake alike. Another dead end, I think."

 

The No-Eyed Man cursed, his words muffled behind a thick bandanna that concealed the bulk of his face. As if people wouldn't notice the buckles. "Suh thuh - " He said, paused, and then pulled down his mask. "So then that's the last of it, isn't it? Even this one was a shot in the dark."

 

Wrinkling his nose to ride himself of a few stray, windblown motes of ash, Gerchon shrugged. "It was a long shot. Has been for some time. But at least that's the Dravanians out of the way." Inwardly, he was disappointed - Fraideoux, when they'd spoken, had seemed a cultist at the end of his tether. He'd thought desperation would make him more effective.

 

"The Duskwight and the Keeper must have been freed, though. They've seen you. And me." The No-Eyed Man was good, to be certain, raising an eyebrow to express disapproval, looking proper and regal atop his mount. Dedicated, Gerchon would give him that. "We're at risk at the estate, are we not?"

 

"Mmm . . . " Gerchon blew air out of his lips in thought. "No. No, I don't think so. No law enforcement, yet. No proof. The Duskwight has a reputation for the outrageous, and there's still a Blade after him according to Dino. He'll keep his head down. They might make an assault, I'll warrant." He smiled. "But that's more fun than risk for us, and lots of risk for the dragoons."

 

Once he was satisfied that the Ishgardians had, in fact, destroyed a priceless relic of a corpse of the old Horde like so much kindling, he slumped down into the sand and uncorked his waterskin. The plan was going wrong. That wasn't cause for alarm. It was a plan that had gone wrong a half-dozen ways by now, and it was still in operation. This was how he liked things: flexible, mutable. He'd seen the schemes of the dune-turds and they operated like beautiful pieces of Ishgardian clockwork - finely crafted and well-tuned, but one small speck of dust in the wrong place and they went all awry. Better to be uncertain of success, he felt, then utterly certain of failure.

 

His partner, it seemed, did not share this enthusiasm. "We could just vanish," he said. "Plant what we need, and then light off for another city."

 

Gerchon raised his eyebrows. "You're saying this? After all of that? It seems anti-climactic, don't you think?"

 

"Mayhaps." The No-Eyed Man shrugged his shoulders. The buckles jingled, but even that sound seemed immensely important when he did that, as if this jingle was the jingle that would shake the heavens. "But what other recourse do we have? We're out of relics, and they're harder to find by the day. The drop-boxes are full with junk - I think one of Dino's men reported a rosary made out of dried pasta at one point - and our mutual contact was unable to confirm the second shipment."

 

"Then that's what you'll have to do, isn't it? No purchasing agents, no catspaw. Time to work the charm." Gerchon turned to smile brightly, though his eyes moved to a point beyond his partner's position. Something glinted in the light of the desert sun. Metal. It moved no farther or closer. His eyes narrowed.

 

"Do you remember that story from one of Dino's dealers? Haig, wasn't it?"

 

"About the cat breaking in and gutting a visitor? Unexpected, to be sure." The No-Eyed Man didn't seem to follow the train of thought. That was fine; Gerchon agreed. It had been unexpected. That always caught his interest. "What do you think she wanted?" his partner continued.

 

"Grudge, from the sound of it. It was very focused. Reliable things, grudges. Point a person at their target and they'll do anything to help with it." He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, a habit that often occurred in the midst of serious thought. Back in Coerthas, people had likened it, both unkindly and otherwise, to the tapping of a dragon's claw.

 

"Well. We have Primrose. And we have a few other angles. And if push comes to shove, we have the last resort - if you're prepared."

 

The No-Eyed Man flinched. "If I must."

 

"Good. Now, let's see if we can get what she asked, keep things moving." Gerchon chuckled, and sincerely at that. "Drachen ore, of all things. Whatever she's making, it should be interesting."

 

"And how, pray, are we to find drachen ore here?"

 

"Simple, the same way we got our wyrmtears back." Gerchon rose to his feet and dusted off his knees. The glint vanished.

 

The No-Eyed Man furrowed his brow. "What - we have tears? Did you find more?"

 

Another chuckle. "Sorry. A passing moment's lie for my own amusement. Anyway, it really is quite simple - we take it from a dragoon."

[Verad]

“We have to stop. We’re done here. It’s over.”

 

Despite his usual composure, Gerchon couldn’t help but grimace through the words. He hadn’t enjoyed saying them any more than he was sure his partner did hearing them, in spite of ensuring that they could be spoken in as palatable a fashion as possible; Didino out at some nameless soiree and unable to interrupt, a good meal compliments of the Dino estate’s head chef (eft tail, cooked slow so the gristle turned to grease), and a pilfered bottle of Ishgardian red, one of the last bottled before the snows. A pair of lovers could not have asked for a better final meal.

 

Better, however, did not mean good, and the puzzled look in the No-Eyed Man’s “good” eye (why did he insist on wearing the patch when he was out of the public eye - haha, very amusing) bespoke the start of a longer conversation. “So soon?”

 

The grimace remained, and Gerchon cradled his goblet in his hands. A nice one, golden. Didino refused to touch them now, and given the rumors around the city, Gerchon could see why. He preferred the risk, however, and drank deeply before continuing. “It’s gone wrong. That’s all there is to it.”

 

“As it has several times now. And we have always found another opportunity. So you have said yourself. Was it the Seeker? I did warn - “

 

A raised hand. “You did.” Now that had been a mistake. Enticing some half-mad feral cat to stalk and nearly gut the pair before they’d left the Sagolii, only to convince her it was in her best interests to stalk the dragoons in the city and take what they were hiding to “bring their Nunh” power. She had been easy to sway; a mere mention of pleasing her master, however much it had made Gerchon shudder, had made her pliable. But since then, they’d received no word. Either she had failed, or, worse, succeeded and not shared the proceeds.

 

“You did,” he repeated. “In other circumstances, I’d wait it out. We had the benefit of time. Now, though - “

 

He paused, loath to admit what came next. “We’re not tipping the scales. Not anymore. If anything, we’d be helping to keep them stable. Tell me - you’ve been out amongst the people? Riling the crowds?”

 

“From time to time. A good appearance here and there, offering payment to the ‘right’ person. All as planned.”

 

“Right, right.” Gerchon glanced away, his grip tight on his wineglass. For once, his thoughts were muddled. The song had been ringing strong in his mind of late, and when it had reached a crescendo he had fought the urge to drop the plan entirely and take flight to Ishgard. That had subsided, but the sound was there even now, the beautiful keening of glass on slate. “And you’ve seen the swaps?”

 

“The meets? Yes, a few. Locals trading in trash.” The No-Eyed Man’s snort was small and slight, too harsh to be written off as a mere scoff. “I made an appearance at one. Paid the thousand for a ‘rosary’. It seemed to be keeping their interest.”

 

“Then you haven’t seen the buyers.”

 

“The - what?”

 

Gerchon nodded, and drained his drink. “Buyers. Monetarist purchasing agents, from the sound of it. Snapping up relics at twice our offered price. Halone’s arse, I’ve heard last night there was a woman offering ten times the amount. They were never interested before, you see? It was all trash to them - not worth their notice, in spite of all the accidents and trouble. Then there’s . . . whatever happened at that feast, and now they’re clearing the markets.”

 

Oh, to have been at that party, as a guest or a gnat on the wall. Didino Dino hadn’t been influential enough to secure an invitation, which was not a problem in and of itself. It was his middling pull with the Syndicate, and the Dunesfolk’s desire to increase that pull, that had made him ideal for the original plan. But it did mean that the rumors he’d heard were all that he’d heard, and the tales varied from the plausibly wild to the implausibly likely.

 

“So there’s that. And then Dino’s interest in the particulars. The angles, the move with Primrose, the last resort - almost every day since the feast. He wants it to happen, and soon. Between the two? Power’s shifted, I think. Dino isn’t keeping us under wraps to surprise the Syndicate and show them what he can do - he’s getting us ready to act to prove that he’s worth keeping around.” A quick shake of the head. “It won’t hit them both anymore. We’re tools now.”

 

Quiet passed between them, broken by wine hitting metal as Gerchon refilled his goblet. The No-Eyed Man, he noted, had yet to touch it. “So it’s done. We declare the problem solved, the threat ended, and we leave. We’ll try again elsewhere. Limsa, Gridania, Vylbrand, mayhaps Ishgard if there’s a turn in the battle.” He tried to smile. “You wanted this, right?”

 

“You offered me an end.”

 

Ah. There it was. He kept the smile, tried to keep it from turning brittle. “I did. You’ll still get it. I’ll hold to that. But not - not here. Here, it’s no end, you see? You overturn nothing, no matter how it looks. But elsewhere, matters are less stable.”

 

“You offered me an end.” His tone had dropped. Though Gerchon knew the source of it, the menace in the No-Eyed Man’s voice still made him shudder. “This is not a recurring role.”

 

“What - where, where is this coming from? A week ago in the desert you wanted to flee!”

 

“And you wanted to stay.”

 

“I did when staying might tip the scales. Now, though? If the Monetarists have taken the city? It’s futile. It would change nothing. Harden the anti-Ishgardian sentiment, perhaps. Give them more justifcation to have expelled those knights - “ That much he had heard, repeated with glee by panicked citizens sure of a reprisal, clutching “rosaries” and necklaces hammered into wings as if they were proof. “And use the one man crusading against them - “

 

Ah. There it was. “I see. It’s futile.”

 

“It is. You see precisely.”

 

“I won’t be party to this. It’s exactly why I left Coerthas.”

 

“You needn’t be. Flee; disappear. Leave the last resort, and all will be well.” The No-Eyed Man rose to his feet. Despite being indoors, his trenchcoat managed to billow. Gerchon always puzzled over that.

 

“There are better endings, Leofric,” he said as his partner left the table. “Better than this.”

[Verad]

The crowd at the Quicksand was busy, as it had been every time Malin had visited in the past few nights. Without her uniform, nobody paid her any real mind; a somewhat slight-looking Midlander woman who didn’t draw attention to herself with ostentation and armor could blend in easily amidst crowds of adventurers too busy with their own intrigues to pay attention.

 

At first she had thought this would make finding her quarry simple; he enjoyed standing out, if not to the point of ostentation. But for the past few nights she had returned home empty-handed. How Verad Bellveil could possibly hide himself, when all reports indicated he was out of hiding and back to “work,” eluded her as much as the man himself. Tonight would be the last effort before she grabbed whatever Blades her limited authority in the Ul’dahn division could muster and stormed his estate. If what Donnell told her was true, however, that wouldn’t be necessary.

 

A sour look crossed her face, and she sought out the leggy blonde who always served drinks in order to get an ale. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust what her husband had told her; working as a retainer, he no doubt brushed shoulders with the same lower circles as Bellveil. It was just that it was so . . . stupid. It couldn’t possibly be as easy as he said to get the man to reveal himself. Nobody was both smart enough to avoid capture and stupid enough to walk into it that easily.

 

And then there was just . . . what she’d have to do. Her ale arrived and payment was provided before the look could get any worse, but once she received it, she took a very long pull. It made her feel sick, considering it. She considered moving to assault the estate now, but the memory of a week ago, of that Ishgardian zealot tearing through good men and women like so much trash, made the sick feeling worse. Try this first, at least.

 

So decided, she found a space at a table, bumping shoulders with a Highlander off to some anonymous liaison, and had a seat. She took another drink. The ale didn’t feel strong enough, so she drank again.

 

And then, leaning forward and heaving a large, heavy sigh she tried to make as breathy as possible, she spoke, raising her voice over the crowd. “My, but I am in such dire need of goods of dubious quality! But all the local merchants will only sell reputable things. Whatever am I - “

 

She heard the rapid patter of footsteps behind her before they came to an abrupt halt. “YeshellomadamIamtoldyouareinneedofdubiousgoods?”

 

She fought to hide the smile, fought to avoid looking over her shoulder right away. She didn’t want him to see her face right away, and she was afraid that she’d see a dust-cloud in his wake when he approached. Then she’d be laughing too hard to catch him, and off he’d go again. When she was sure she could remain composed, she turned to face him with a smile. “Indeed I do.”

 

Seeing grey skin turn white, she felt, was worth the stupidity.

 

---

 

Despite having a good fulm’s height and fifty ponz over her, Bellveil was surprisingly easy to capture once lured into the open. He managed a half-hearted attempt at fleeing, got taken down at the legs by a seated tackle before she got too far (to the frowning disapproval of the barmaid, but while Malin did not bring her uniform, she had remembered to bring her seal of authority to quell serious protests), and, once wrangled with wrists placed behind his back, was led out of the Quicksand towards the Pearl Lane entrance with surprising compliance. Perhaps he had seen this coming.

 

There was an old rug a few yalms down the street, and it seemed as good a place as any to deposit him. A quick shove of her arms and Verad tumbled onto the ground. She thrust a finger at him before he could right himself. “You sit there,” she said, a cautioning note in her voice, “and listen. Run and I’ll call for help.”

 

“I - I assure you, Ser Greaves, that I haven’t a thing to do with the buyers on the markets. Those relics are well out of my purview, you see, and - “

 

“Did I say talk? I didn’t say talk. You listen, Bellveil. You can talk later, but for now, listen.”

 

Ever the protester, Verad opened his mouth, but another look from her clamped it shut. He seated himself in cross-legged fashion - seemed oddly comfortable on that rug, thought Malin - and gestured for her to continue.

 

“A week ago and a few dozen yalms from here I caught one of those Ishgardian meddlers harassing the local merchants for artifacts. You’d know her I think - V’aleera Lhuil? You met once at the Footfalls.” What a mess that had been, she thought. An Ossuary researcher injured and traumatized and a pair of the Rose Order’s guards brought to death’s door. Worse still because it now seemed mild in comparison.

 

When Verad nodded in recognition, she continued. “She’s had a bounty for weeks - resisting arrest from the Flames for refusing to yield weapons, you know. And she’s been terrorizing the markets for longer. Harassing merchants. Beating people who talk back. And when we arrived to apprehend her?”

 

At a downward glance, she noticed she was clenching her fists. She tightened her grip. “Five men and women dead. But just Blades, of course, so nobody minds. You can get a dozen to the gil if you dredge the bars around closing time. Still, five dead at her hand before we called it off, and she’s still out there, on her ‘holy mission’.” She smiled a razorblade at Verad. “And what do you think that mission is?”

 

He didn’t respond, just sat there scratching the scruff of his beard in a kind of nervous tic. She didn’t need him to do that. “Looking for artifacts. Relics. The same relics that led her to damage a museum with a priceless, er . . . “ What was a Tardaftigops, anyway? “A priceless skeleton, intervene in the city gaols, fight and kill and bicker her way around our city. The same relics that led to the aevis at Highbridge, and the Ossuary explosion - oh, don’t think I don’t know, Bellveil, you wipe that look off of your face - and some idiot in a trenchcoat convincing the locals anybody with an Ishgardian accent is the enemy. And with people like Lhuil around, I almost believe him!” Her voice rose as she spoke, the tired tone of her voice that Donnell always joked made her sound bored rising to a higher and higher pitch. She didn’t realize she was shouting until she saw Verad flinching at her words. She didn’t care. “And why, Mister Bellveil, why are all these relics out in the streets of Ul’dah? Why are people dying over stupid gems and trinkets?”

 

She stopped, catching her breath. To her surprise, he responded, his head lowered. “Because I stole them,” he murmured. “Or if I didn’t steal them, I let them be stolen.” His head rose his chin jutted out, a momentary defiance. “But I had reasons for - “

 

“If you like,” she said through gritted teeth,  “You may take your reasons to the families of the slain and explain them as best you can. Mayhaps they’ll forgive you. Twelve knows so many of your friends have with that tongue of yours. Not one would give you up, and I can’t even get you out of the estate without that clan in your house coming at me spears drawn.” She threw her hands up. “I can’t even arrest you here, alone, because I’m half-sure they’ll stage an escape.”

 

There were other problems, to be sure. The evidence was flimsy; the only item linking him to the scene was a report of his Imitation Fool’s Gold being used as a weapon, and even that hadn’t been found. If she left it to an honest inquisition, she had little. Yet he was flinching, Twelve, even his beard seemed to be wilting. Let up for a moment and he might come to the same conclusion.

 

“That’s why you’re getting a choice, Bellveil. You can turn yourself in for negligence leading to interference with trade routes, head high, and take what’s coming. What we both know you deserve, and probably less. Nobody comes with you, nobody tries to break you out, nobody pleads about how badly you feel. That’s one option.”

 

He swallowed. “And - and the other?”

 

“You stay holed up in your estate, and I pass word to the Goblet Housing Authority that you’ve been implicated in this business with the relics. I don’t even need to say much, I think, but I have more than enough.” His eyes widened. “They’ve been itching to evict you, haven’t they? The Dubious Duskwight? He’s not a real adventurer. This is some kind of fraud. It would be more than enough for them to act.”

 

“I-it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve lived hand-to-mouth - “

 

“Mayhaps, but your guests? All those friends? Do you want to see that little cub without a home?” His mouth gaped in horror. For a salesman, she thought, he wore his emotions too freely. “I thought not. You give yourself up, and I’ll keep them off your back. I’ll give you that much. And that’s all I’ll give you.”

 

Silence passed between them before she spun on her heel. “You have a week. Turn yourself in at Highbridge - or be prepared to start packing.”

[Verad]

[align=center]Over the last few days, the following image, drawn on cheap parchment, can be seen plastered around the city and streets of Ul'dah:[/align]

 

[align=center]

[/align]

[align=center]No signs or wordings accompany the image. Some of them are torn down if they are placed in unauthorized locations, but some remain.[/align]

 

[align=center]On occasion, the following words are painted on city-streets, intermingled with other local graffiti:[/align]

 

[align=center]Topple the Scales[/align]

[Anstarra]

The day was hot, which wasn't saying much. Sea of chaos though Ul'dah could be, at least it was reliably hot. That the one thing it was reliable about was a source of constant aggravation for Anstarra was more or less the summation of her relationship with the infernal city. (And with certain people, but that wasn't something she felt like thinking about today.)

 

"Don't feel like thinking about any bloody thing today..." she murmured, in response to her own thoughts. No one noticed the comment, or at least, if any of the servants on the café's terrace did, they were polite enough to pretend not to notice. Unfortunately, not thinking about things wasn't an option.

 

For the twelfth time or so, she looked at the parchment. And for the twelfth time or so, she had that gut feeling that foreboded nothing good. The drawing was clever.. visually-derived from Ul'dah's flag as it was, it surely caught the eye. The draconic symbology was more worrisome, and likely the cause of her indigestion.

 

Taking another sip of chilled wine, she struggled to wrap her head around what it could all mean. In retrospect, trying to take time to think while in the heat and mildly drunk was really just not the most efficient of methodologies, but she didn't want to leave town just yet (and not drinking wasn't really an option). Despite how much she hated it here - especially of late - this is where things were happening. If only she could catch a glimpse of whoever was putting these blasted things up...

 

"It has to be those two. Right?" More agitation, more chaos. It stank of Gerchon and that No-Eyed Man. People were buzzing, to be sure. No small number took offense at the obvious deformation of their beloved flag. Combined with all the madness in the skies over Mor Dhona and upper crust of the city alike... well, her sense of foreboding had ample soil in which to take root.

 

They needed to hurry up. Destroy the wyrmtears, clear out the threat for good and all. She needed to talk to Orrin about that.. while she'd been watching the skies the night before, the blindingly obvious realization that even if destroying the tears drew the Horde down on them, it would likely take days to arrive by flight unless they did it somewhat closer to Dravania, had chained onto the notion that the dragons would likely arrive seeking a LOCATION, not specific PEOPLE. And would proceed to unleash their rage on anyone and anything they found, at that LOCATION.

 

Which had kindled other possibilities.

 

An abandoned locale might be a good place for dragons to show up in force, but how much better, oh, say, a Garlean Castrum?

 

"Now that would light up the skies..." she muttered, smirking as she folded up the parchment, tucking it away. "Topple the Scales indeed..."

[111]

"Hmmmph..." Evangeline scowls, running a finger over the rough paper of the poster.

 

"Only one person gets to topple Ul'dah, and that's me."

 

The next few minutes are full of rustling paper as Eva pastes one of her own Revolutionary posters on top.

 

She takes a few minutes to admire her handiwork, before pulling a small glass jar from her pocket, the pair of wyrmtears rattling inside. "And I hardly thing these are the way to do it." Evangeline had begun to keep the stones on her person, Orrin's ambush proved they were too well sought after to leave alone.

 

"This seems Leofric's and Gerchon's work. If only I knew why they gave me such stones... they curse Ul'dah and the dravanians with one breath, at the same time they support them both."

 

"Ah well." She pockets the stones again, "Hopefully Orrin is having some luck rounding up the troops." She sighs, "And Leofric and Gerchon will speak to me before interfering."

[V'aleera]

"Topple the Scales", that this poor nation would be so fortunate.

 

A sneer curled the edge of V'aleera's lips as she held the paper in her hand, eyes narrowing at the bare and obvious draconic imagery. She had never liked heretics; the depths of their trickery were matched only by the wells of their insanity and cowardice. In some ways, she regretted the fact that her purpose in the homeland did not give her the pleasure of ending more of their lives. But in other ways, she was grateful that her duties had her face off against the far more ferocious and forthright enemies of the Fury; the dragons themselves.

 

A pained cough resounded from the ground below, and the noisy jingling of chain-mail alerted her to the Blade struggling to rise to his feet. A growl emanated from the Ishgardian's throat and she delivered a swift blow to the man's head with her boot, sending him back into an unconscious state like his partner who lie still several fulms away. As much as she despised the wretches called Brass Blades who pretended at being keepers of law, she had come to realize that sending them to their makers only complicated her stay in the city further. Since her last close encounter, she had elected to begin exercising some restraint.

 

Turning her attention back toward the parchment, she quietly reflected on her recent encounter with her fellow knight. Halgren was a Fortemps man, and their judgement was to always be taken with a large grain of salt: naive mavericks, the lot of them. Nonetheless, his proposed plan was not a terrible one. It offered many possible victories, with few drawbacks.

 

Crumpling the paper up in her hands, she tossed it aside into the gutters of the street like the garbage it was, setting on her way back to the hostel where she kept residence.

 

With luck the scales will topple in this wretched city; but not by your hands. I will find you where you lurk and slither. You will suffer. You will die. And the Dragonsong will fall silent in Thanalan once more.

 

Praise be Halone: the Fury's will be done.

[Zelmanov]

It was naught but a moon’s time away from Thanalan and the heat was already unbearable to his Ishgardian sensibilities. The covers were kicked to the foot of the bed in a crumpled, wrinkled pile. Despite being clad in just his small clothes, his recovering body was covered in sweat. He tossed and turned to one side and the other before he shot up, wide eyed, panting. He pivoted so that his legs hung over the edge of the bed, feet pressed against the cold Ul’dahn marble of the inn room. He put a single hand to his forehead and closed his eyes.

 

All he could see was the defiant silhouette, outlined by the sun, as it bared down upon him. He had barely survived that fight. Setting down his lance into the stone of the Steps of Faith, pointing skyward, bracing against it as if in prayer while the front claw of the building-sized dragon fell upon him.

 

When he opened his eyes to banish the vision, he saw what remained of that battle upon his own body. Though unscarred, he was nearly crushed: armor dented in, spear blunted, spikes torn away; the impact resulted in a myriad of blackish-blue bruises, remnants of the internal bleeding he suffered. He remembered his blood seeping through the scales and plate of his equipment. He had been bedridden for nearly a fortnight, barred from combat for days and as soon as the fighting died down he made way back to Ul’dah to finish what he had started. And it was only now that the injuries all but faded away entirely. Yet Orrin could see them still upon the pale skin of his.

 

It was some 20 years ago when Nidhogg last reawaken and laid waste to Coerthas. Orrin was only 8 summers old back then. He was sequestered off safely with his mother and newly born brother behind the walls of the Holy City. It was a luxury that could be afforded by a nobleman inquisitor like his father. He only had tales to go on about the terrible might of the horde. It was said that Nidhogg’s call to chorus blanched the face of men who have been hardened by years of war. That none had seen the true power of the Dravanians until one fought while Nidhogg no longer slumbered.

 

Indeed, it was when Orrin laid eyes upon Vishap at Daniffen’s Collar did he truly understand the battle cry of “banish your fear”. And banish it he did. Vishap fell, corpse consigned to the void beneath the mighty bridge that led to the sea of clouds, vanquished by him along with a veritable army of sellswords and Ishgardian loyalists. However he knew that he and the unit he commanded were lucky, getting away with wounds as opposed to deaths.  He had witnessed what was just the beginningof Nidhogg’s fury and he knew full well that Vishap was only the beginning, the prelude to a true baptism by a bolero of fire and claws.

 

It took an army, he reminded himself, a staccato of cannon fire with accents of Dragonslayer cannon, all bolstered by the harmony of spears and arrows singing through the air to fell Vishap. What if a dragon of similar might were to show upon the tear’s concerted destruction? What if it was something bigger? He had no army, only a small band of allies he deemed suitable to orchestrate what he considered a fitting finale. He had to afford every advantage he could for them for he knew not what would come. He needed an area large enough to accommodate the beast, cramped enough to rob it of its flight and movement for the sake of his comrades, and remote enough so that should they die, the dragon’s ire could not fall upon any other settlements of man.

 

His eyes then trailed to the armor neatly piled in the corner. The faint runic glow on the helm of his newly forged Drachen Mail mimicking the selfsame glyph upon the head of the stalwart dragoon statues that acted as protectors of Ishgard’s wards. Gifted by Ishgard, executed skillfully by Camp Dragonhead's own Belldonna Angelimiuex, it was a symbol of his service. It was humbling and empowering all the same. Should he lead these allies and friends into battle, he would not fail them.

[111]

Evangeline finishes hitching the carriage, wood and leather connecting its sturdy frame to the pair of draft Chocobos. Their panniers were bulging with parcels and bags, small kegs of gunpowder strapped to their side. It had taken weeks to prepare the powder needed, countless anxious hours in the workshop, one spark away from annihilation. Yet she had succeeded, and hopefully it would be enough to strike a blow against the beast.

 

The carriage itself was a simple two wheeled affair, holding a long and slim brass cannon, reinforced with bands of Ishgardian steel. The Phoenix Rose had taken this struggle personally, and her companions had sent multiple teams to brave the battlegrounds of the Stone Vigil, in order to retrieve cannon diagrams and raw materials. Vaughn, Jaques, Lyria, Angora, Syress, Mattias, and others, risked their lives so that she might have this chance. Still others helped in constructing it. Otto's workshop had forged the barrel, bronze for weight and flexibility, Ishgardian steel for strength and power. The cannon was light, less than a thousand ponze, but could throw 12 ponze shot with terrific power. Even more important were the special armaments Kage Krueger had constructed. Built from a split anchor, two great harpoons, linked to strong chain, lay nestled next to the cannon. These would be fired first, hopefully preventing the beast's escape.

 

As she begins leading the birds down the long path to the Burning Wall she runs her fingers over name painted on the barrel, "Thorn..."

[111]

The rain poured down, thunder echoing through the narrow canyon while bursts of lightening illuminate flashes of a frantic, desperate struggle. The Drake was not what they had expected. A best that assaulted the mind more than the body. The Dragoons and Lady Crofte struggled with it in the canyon below, dodging snapping jaws and slicing talons as they attempted to close with the beast.

 

However more dangerous than the claws, were the screams.

 

Evangeline crawls over the muddy ground, tears mixing with rain as she pulls herself up onto the cannon. It was a beautiful thing, a work of art in soft bronze and firm steel, polished and engraved with the mark of Otto Vann. It was in fact, elegant enough that its cargo, an ugly harpoon of twisted black iron, seemed almost sacrilegious in comparison. This was the work of Kage Kreuger, his ship had given its spare Anchor and Chain for this enterprise, reborn as an implement to bind a dragon, rather than a ship, to earth.

 

It was this harpoon she needed to fire now. She had spent the last day calculating and planning, figuring out firing arcs and solutions for all possible landing spots. Yet before she can fire the charge, the dragon's scream once again pierces the air.

 

Her mind flashed to another time, another place, the flash of swords, a severed head on bloody flagstones, the screams of a small girl. Cruel chains, burning irons, if only... why had she... when... someone.... help...

 

Evangeline flashes back to reality, biting her lip until she can taste the coppery flavor of blood. Grimacing she adjusts the wheels and levers, the cannon barrel gliding smoothly into position. The Elezen fires, and for the moment, the canyon is not filled with the roar of dragons, but the roar of mortals. The Harpoon sails, flying on a sheet of flame, its chain drawing out behind it in a long arc, before it sinks deep into the flank of the dragon. It roars, this time in pain as the chain wraps around it in its struggles.

 

Without even watching her handiwork, she begins packing powder into the cannon once more, as V'aleera and Orrin pounce on the distracted beast.

 

She just... had to concentrate...

 

The dragon roars again

 

------------------------------------------

 

Evangeline wakes up, chest heaving and sheets slick with sweat, a now familiar situation for her. The dreams had not gotten worse, but they had also not gotten better. That night had broken something in her, something that simple healing could not fix. She stares up for a moment, before the gently snoring of Klin breaks her musing. The titanic Roe lay slumbering on her couch, like always. In the side room, she knew, also lay the smaller form of Angora. Smiling softly, Evangeline closes her eyes, content that whatever the future held, she would not face it alone.

[111]

It had taken some time, to find a copy of the text.

 

"The Lay of Leofric" was indeed banned, as Lady Anstarra had said, but what was banned in Ishgard, was good business in Ul'dah. It had been just as dour as Anstarra described.

 

Leofric, the Ishgardian Knight, had fallen in love with a heretic, a grave sin. Yet despite his love,he still condemned her at her trial, sending the woman to be executed. At the end of the play he faces the dragons, wracked with sorrow, and is slain.

 

The no eyed man had edited his copy of the piece, and Evangeline did the same with hers, altering the story and characters for a more romantic outcome. In her version Leofric did not denounce his love, and upon the eve of her execution, absconded with her. The two travelled far away, and lived the rest of their lives in love and peace, away from the spectre of war.

 

A little sappy, but just the kind of ending she liked. Reading through it one last time, she nods, closes it, and tosses it into the shallow grave. It had not been fun, the trek out to the burning wall, finding the site of their battle, and digging the pit. However something inside her screamed it must be done.

 

In front of her towered the crumbling pile of rock which interred their recent enemy. The great drake, whole wailed for Leofric as they pierced it with cannon and lance. Certainly they owned the beast no favors, it nor the One Eyed Man, yet at some point the cycle must be broken. Perhaps just once, a pair of souls might escape this struggle between Ishgard and Dravania.

 

On top of the book she tosses the calcified heart of the No Eyed Man, dug from his corpse, at rest in Verad's house. She had not seen the end of the man, nor seen much of him at all. His heart was perhaps the final mystery about him, half human, half stone wyrmtear. She watches the softly glowing organ at the bottom of the pit, wondering once more what the connection was between the man who called himself Leofric, and the tale of the same name.

 

Shrugging she begins shoveling dirt into the pit, the dull glow of the heart fading beneath the soil. Eventually she finishes, and stamps the dirt flat. In the stillness of the night, she moves to her knees, and gives an awkward prayer for the souls of both who are buried there.

[Verad]

Panic at the Sacrarium!

 

No-Eyed Man Shot!

 

Top Royalists Under Suspicion!

 

Normally, Didino Dino was not one to read the myriad scandal-sheets that plagued the city of Ul’dah. It was all trash, so he was told by those he paid to read such things, mere rags that often sought to propagandize against the rightful place of the Monetarists and the Syndicate within Ul’dahn society (though, he noted with some pleasure, a few buyouts of late had many of their editorial staff changing their tune). Even when they were aflutter with the rumors of conspiracies and Dravanian cultists lurking about the city, he’d abstained. Gerchon had requested a free hand, and Dino had given it, for as long as he was able to manage.

 

On the evening that the No-Eyed Man had left the estate to give his final performance, however, Dino had requested as many of the broadsheets on the incident be brought to him as soon as possible. He rose just before the noonday bell, much earlier than usual, in order to read the results along with his breakfast. Each headline left him with an increasing state of glee, and when he reached that about the Royalists, the Dunesfolk bounced in his bed, spilled a bit of his chilled apkallu egg and opo-brain soup. Well, that was all right. It was time for a new one anyhow.

 

The only headline that gave him pause, a slight frown, and a desire to fire the person who’d collated the information, was Spahro Llorn’s. It was an earlier article, surely mixed in with the rest of the dross, and likely relevant to the larger picture, but this kind of inattention to his specific instructions was unforgivable. He made a note to dismiss the man. Although - had he given specific instructions? Well, of course he had, he wouldn’t have said otherwise. Better to dismiss him anyway just to be sure.

 

The Lantern’s article was troubling, of course. It came too close to the truth, even if it was misplaced. Whether or not the No-Eyed Man had been Dravanian himself, Didino didn’t know. Gerchon had assured him otherwise, just as he’d assured him he was himself an ex-patriate. But it was still too close, and if Miss Llorn had mentioned Didino’s own name in the paper, it would have put him under suspicion. Fortunate for him, then, that no such connection appeared.

 

Fortunate, too, that the No-Eyed Man had been able to use the article so neatly, to deflect the claims at the scene, so the article said. Fortunate that he’d been able to implicate the Royalists that had hired the cultists to spread relics in the first place, mere moments before his tragic end. A strange thing, watching a man arrange his own demise; Didno had been sure he had a double somewhere, but no, he’d been insistent that he die, well and truly. Curious, but one rarely found a loose end that tied itself.

Between that, the sellswords in the crowd, and the assistance of the Blades, the No-Eyed Man had a final showing that left dozens injured, members of government exposed to charges of corruption, and a dramatic, definitely permanent exit. All well and good.

 

Didino smiled and took a sip of his soup. It wasn’t quite chilled enough, the texture of the opo brain a little rubbery. He’d have to fire the chef, as well. It had been a shame to see Gerchon take his leave from his service - he really seemed to take to being a steward. A pity that he’d parted ways once the Syndicate had taken an interest in his plan, but that, too, resulted in one less loose end to tie off.

 

Minor annoyances, all. The names of the Royalists that had hired the pair in the first place had been passed to the Syndicate. In due time there would be an investigation, an announcement, and their little “conspiracy” would collapse. And finally, finally, Didino would reach the upper-middle ranks of the hierarchy. Mayhaps he’d finally get an invitation to the better parties.

 

The thought very nearly made him spill his soup again. He was careful to finish it quickly and cleanly, however, and soon went back to sleep, never minding the spill in the sheets.

 

---

 

“It’s been nice, though,” Donnell protested, underplaying his dismay. Malin was at least well-versed enough in the nuances of his smirks to know when this one was really an upside-down frown of a very literal sort. “You haven’t had to go back to the garrison in moons.”

 

Malin dared not look over her shoulder, merely shaking her head and continuing to fill her pack. “A few moons too many,” she said. “It’s been long enough that even Longhaft has looked up to wonder where the Twelve I went. Any later and he’ll be asking questions. I already expect a bell’s-long verbal report to give him.” She was careful not to say “oral.” The captain’s reputation of dallying with his soldiers was well-known, and though Donnell had never been jealous or suspicious where it wasn’t warranted, he was one to tease. If he teased, she’d turn around, and if she turned around, she’d be tempted to listen.

 

“Just at least consider a transfer, would you? The other orders can’t be all that bad.”

 

Her face soured. The riot had passed around the news among the city’s guard posts with all due haste. It hadn’t been anywhere near as serious as the refugee outbreaks last year, but a few dozen or so saw a fair bit of action that day. She recalled one guard in particular, a bruise on the side of his jaw, chuckling and treating it like a badge of honor. This one bitch, he said, she’d put the fist to him when he was just trying to calm her down, so of course he had to kick her teeth in, and she’d fallen back with blood from her mouth, and see if she stood up again after that.

 

Was she a cultist, Malin had asked, in spite of her better judgment, and the guard shrugged.

 

Sure, he had said. Why not.

 

“Oh, they can,” she said to Donnell, taking another bundle of clothes from her dresser.

 

“Come now, at least the Rose - “

 

“Would still put me out in Horizon, and that’s close, but not the city. There would still be travel.” At last she turned her head, lips up in a smirk of her own. “Don’t tell me I spoiled you here in the city all this time?”

 

“A bit.” He frowned, picked at the ring on his hand. He said it itched quite often, and had since they’d bonded. She tried not to think of it as an ominous sign.

 

Heaving a small sigh, she tied up the bag of her belongings and rose, turned towards Donnell, clasped his cheeks, pressed her lips against his temples. “You’ll be fine. You can come with me once the qiqirn aren’t like as not to kidnap you for being there. It was all work anyway, save for Starlight, so I’ll be back for Moonfire. We’ll talk transfer then. All right?”

 

A bow of his head and he nodded. There was less protestation on his part, more assistance with the packing. They sorted out their affairs, said their goodbyes and loveyous, and she was out the door. She walked a hundred yalms before she let a frown crease her features.

 

Transfer? There was no hope of it. But try explaining that. Try explaining that it was better by far to work in the hinterlands, where the enemies were in front of you trying to attack the Highbridge road, where the corruption was a little bit of graft and a few fines and putting up with the captain leering at your arse when his usual girls were out on a mission but never touching it because he wasn’t that kind of man, where you could see a problem and make an excuse and go take care of it because everybody knew when you said you were going to try and solve a problem, they knew you meant it.

 

Take that, and then take the cities, where the guards were yesterday’s gangs made strong enough for someone with a shrewd mind and no scruples to decide to co-opt them, where people panicked at the mere thought of a threat they couldn’t see, but still tried to exploit it for everything it was worth, fearing dragons and their relics but making cheap fakes to sell for the faintest hope of a half-gil. Where you could find a criminal and know, know in your gut that he had done something wrong, but be unable to perform any kind of real justice between apathy from the city’s orders and the hordes of the wrong-doer’s heavily armed friends, who were sure he was being a better person now and therefore could not possibly be called to account.

 

Compare the two, she thought, and it was clear a transfer was impossible. It was the one gap in her marriage that would never quite be bridged. But compare it through her eyes, and a transfer was a slow creeping death, where a few compromises could be made, and then suddenly she was no better than a guard slapping his own somnus on a caravan; no better than a Monetarist hiring sellswords to hurt civilians and kill his own agents while the Blades looked the other way; no better than another leaving holy artifacts in a warehouse for some idiot peddler to loot.

 

Bellveil. The frown faded. In the end, she let him go, let the earnest pleas of a few of his friends convince her that three cycles in the oubliette wasn’t what he deserved for his role in the whole mess. They had insisted on his better nature, the redhead in particular. Strange that she’d accepted responsibility for the robbery, she thought, but a sun later she’d checked old records and found the woman was wanted for a half-dozen different colors of conspiracy against the state. Character references in the city were useless without references of their own.

 

Too late to take it back now, she supposed, as she made her way through small streets and alleys to the city gates. She could only hope he wasn’t already making her regret the decision.

 

---

 

The fire had spread faster than Verad had anticipated. He wasn’t used to the business of building funeral pyres, particularly when they were on his front lawn. The body had been cold enough thanks to being stored on top of used ice-sprite cores that he had presumed he would need to make the flame especially hot, otherwise he wouldn’t so much have cremated the remains as lightly thawed them. And, yes, true, he did stumble a bit and spill a bit more diluted ceruleum on the logs than he’d intended, and tried placing a bit of spare Vylbrand gunpowder on the logs he’d managed to stack together (a ponz was only a bit, right?), but these were all minor details in the scheme of things, mere wrinkles in the tapestry of the event that added up to a lengthy fold in the form of the semi-massive explosion that issued forth once he’d set the pyre alight with a torch.

 

Once Verad had regained his senses, checked to ensure he hadn’t lost his eyebrows (which was bad) or his beard (which was worse), he frantically gathered dirt from his garden patch to try and contain the blaze. Somewhere in the white-hot fire, he knew, lay the remains of the No-Eyed Man, his body recovered from the scene. Once he had enough dirt scrabbled around the blaze to hopefully contain it and keep his yard at least somewhat respectable, the Duskwight stood before it with hands folded together in front of him. Eyes closed in a respectful silence.

 

Kyrael, he knew, would mock him for this, but Kyrael stuck his fingers in the corpse’s nose for fun, so Verad considered the opinion unworthy of consideration. Other, more credible people might also consider this gesture somewhat amiss. Here was the funeral of a man who had riled parts of the city into panic, drawn Dravanian cells into their midst, and been at least partially responsible for Verad himself being kidnapped and nearly sacrificed out in the middle of the Sagolii. One did not need to be vindictive to find Verad’s behavior somewhat odd.

 

What he would tell people, he thought as he watched the blaze, his eyes lowered enough to avoid being blinded by the bright light of a white-hot fire, was that it may have been so, but if he did not respect someone who had been his enemy after a fashion, then he could hardly respect himself. Dubiousness was all well and good, but it was possible to be both dubious and decent.

 

What he could not tell people, save in this moment, he murmured to the by-now ashen remains.

 

“I am sorry,” he whispered, his voice making the noise a bit low. “You were brought here because of my own foolishness, and mayhaps you needn’t be here at all otherwise.”

 

People would argue with Verad on this point, he knew, as they had several times. He would, publicly at least, agree with them. But it was still his hands that left a warehouse door open, that left a pile of relics to fall into the hands of the Ul’dahn populace, and left the city open to the predations of mischief makers like Gerchon. He was as complicit as the hands that brought the relics to the city in the first place.

 

“We thought you a pawn at first, of your partner,” he said, as if the fire could listen. “But you had your own plans, didn’t you? The Lay of Leofric, the stones . . . “

 

Verad quickly shook his head. There was no use speculating. The leads were dead in their entirety, in many cases quite literally. “Whether it was my hand alone or something else that brought you here,” he finished, “I’m sorry it ended this way.”

 

That said, he took a deep breath, and made a small gesture in worship of Oschon at his chest. “May your path on the lifestream guide you to a better one than this.”

 

A spark jumped and hit the grass. Verad yelped, and stomped it out with his boot. He went looking for more dirt. The blaze was growing, and the smoke rose high; someone from the Goblet Housing Authority was sure to file a complaint.

[Aya]

"So the rumors were true..." she thought to herself.  Her position somewhat back from the boulevard didn't provide a full view of Verad's lawn, but it was enough to bear witness to the roaring flames of an all-too-dubious pyre.  Slender shoulders shrugged beneath a long, hooded cloak--the natural accompaniment to a sad-toned sigh.

 

Lewin had never known her - but, she knew the two had not been so very different.  Had not the approaching steps of the censor hastened her own flight from the Towered city?  Yet - he had dabbled in the forbidden - and when danger had surrounded him he still sought the spotlight of center stage.  He had invited his end, perhaps relished it, and that is where their paths departed. 

 

She sighed again - reflecting upon just how much everything had changed since those days in Ishgard.  Here she clung, yet, to the shadows.  Here she shied away from prying eyes; diverted probing curiosity.  How very, very different, than those nights before the adoration of the crowd. 

 

She pulled the hood a little tighter, taking one slow step forward.  She thought, for just a moment, of what Verad must make of the entire affair.  What indeed--she followed with several more, just as slow, light blue eyes drug along the scene in the fenced lawn-unconsciously seeking a sight of the man at the center of it all.  The start of another long, quiet walk back to the city center.  There the future awaited - in this too, she was different.

[Zelmanov]

Orrin backed up with a little sigh, crossing his arms for a moment as he looked upon the freshly tied bundle upon the table. His hand reached out and traced over the front of it, feeling the firm steel that lay underneath. The campaign that had derailed his quest for answers to Ishgard's weakness had finally come to an end. Though disheartened somewhat by not bearing witness to the death of the two instigators first hand, he found it somewhat fitting. He was a Dragoon first, slayer of dragons, not a persecutor of heretics. To find his part concluded with the slaying of the mourning dragon was more than fitting. However, there was a bitterness that lingered in his mouth still.

 

Thefinale came none too soon, wyverns managing to make it into Ishgard proper, emboldened by the reawakening of Nidhogg, meant that the nation was in dire need of the competent and healthy. Though he was returning, he felt as if he brought nothing back beyond his own conviction. In a sense, it was that he sought when he had first left, leaving behind his Drachen Mail in search of proving his true worth. What had he to show for it? For the lives he could have preserved if he had remained in Coerthas to fight?

 

He had saved a heretic from the influence of the horde, had a hand in destroying a cultist cell, saved the lives of Ul'dahn men and women. These were things of worth to him, but to the state of Ishgard? He was no closer to helping his nation regain the strength that he felt they were lacking. Furthermore a single Wyrmtear still was free, in the hands of that damned Miqo'te. 

 

His face turned to that of a snarl for a moment before he closed his eyes and inhaled and exhaled deeply, letting the draconic rage subside. He takes his hand off the pack to turn away and thread his arms into the leather straps at either side to shoulder the weight. There was hope.

 

For even though much was left unanswered for him, he found answers to questions he did not know to ask. He knew now that his title was not given to him for lack of more worthy candidates: that he too measured to the men and women that fought and died before him. He knew now the strength of men over the will of dragons and those who surrendered themselves to them. And he knew now that people could find redemption and with that, perhaps a nation could as well. It was all he had to bring back with him to Ishgard and it would have to do, he could linger no longer.

 

Orrin made his way to the door,opening it wide, letting the bustling sound of the Quicksands coming from below be heard. He ducked his head to get the burdensome pack through the frame and he shut the door behind him. In a way, his hopes lay with her, the woman who would return to Ishgard and seek hearing in front of the High Court of heresies. This was a woman who had the mind of the likes that first sought to forge the Drachen mail. The Ishgard he believed in would see her conviction and forgive her. Or so he hoped so dearly.

 

He took solace in that the Mourner and its pall bearers lay dead and with it, perhaps granted Ishgard some reprieve by dispatching such a powerful member of the horde. It would have to do for now, he had a war to fight and a rogue tear to seek out. 

[Boo the Hamster]

Enju looked along the pyre from a fair distance away, believing he did far too little to help those who needed aid.  He didn't want to be seen near the body, though he recognized Verad as he lit the body ablaze.  His eyes were filled with anger, though his brow showed the pity he felt for the now fallen man.  He can't really show how bad he was if he wasn't bad in the first place.  So here he stayed, along the edge of a line to show respect or spit along his grave.

 

He thought back to the conversation made between Anstarra and Evangeline.  The tale of Leofric.  He's heard of it many times, the sad tale between a knight and a supposed heretic.  He accepted death when she had died, walking to the horde with nary a shred of arms or armor, letting whatever grisly fate come to him.  To hear of the Mourner was the dragon this whole time.  Was the tale true after all?  His mind raced to many possibilities, the tainted memory burning into his mind as he recalled that terrible battle, thinking he may have been just like Leofric or the Mourner herself if not for his master's aid.  She helped save him from himself, and that was a debt that will keep for life.

 

He had a few words muttered, letting the wind catch them.  But none were for the Hyur or Elezen. Nor was it for the Lalafell or Miqo'te or Roegadyn.  It was for the heart that now remained seperated, and for the body of the No-Eyed Man.  He spoke in the traitorous, heathen tongue.  He knew of the language, but it was something every Dragoon knew, for each one could hear it speak in their mind.

 

"Rhesh lo van hel.  Min hil Leofric sai kril.  Lech orr sel kril.  Shess ftarh ah kril."

 

("I pity you, creature of man. Your heart might have been for Leofric's plight, but now it can rest. I hope yours was not of similar plight, but now it may rest with theirs. Please look forward to your eternal sleep.")