What You Are In The Dark【Complete】

[Coatleque]

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"I was afraid..."

"Of what, precisely?"

"That you were as hard-hearted as I was told."

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---

Coatleque stepped out of the lift with a wary sigh. Glancing back to it just briefly, she did not trust it since that day she had been stuck with Miss Primrose half-way. Surveying the lounge then, she noted it was at its usual emptiness which seemed to put her at ease. So few were the evenings she and hers could spend in quiet respite.

 

She crossed the room with slow but deliberate steps to find Jameson sitting quietly at his usual table. His latest 'adornment' stood stoically silent off to the side with arms crossed. Coatleque only peered at the armored sentinel as she approached the table and Jameson rose with a smile. He quickly rounded the table to her.

 

"There is a familiar dress, no?" he said as he bussed her on the cheek. She had chosen to wear her pink dress this evening - one that Master Vann had supplied her half in jest so she could match his trademark color if she so desired. It had left such an impression on Taeros that she decided it would fit such an occasion as tonight.

 

While she bristled at his touch she did not recoil or shy away from it. A hastily scrawled (in her opinion) letter was not a fitting apology after all. His acknowledgement of her choice of garb was a good start, however, and she managed a smile. "It has been some time since I wore it, yes."

 

"You're late" Jameson murmured, though not too harshly. "How are you feeling?

"I am." She replied as her head dipped. "Forgive my tardiness. I was delayed in the street."

 

"Duty called, did it?" He moved around to pull her chair from the table to which she promptly took her seat. Her eyes did not leave him for a moment and his casual, business-like tone served only to call forefront the reason for this invitation.

 

"More like a passing stranger. And is that genuine concern for my well-being? I am finding it hard to tell lately." Her expression remained neutral throughout. Jameson rounded the table once more to his own chair to sit. A bottle of wine had already been waiting with two glasses off to the side. He set right to the task of uncorking it and pouring for them both.

 

"I suppose an apology is in order. I lost my temper." he said as he slid a glass across the table to her. "Consider this my way of saying I am sorry. Truly. Matters have... pressed me of late. I oft feel beset."

 

Coatleque reached forward hesitantly to take her glass. She remained quiet for a good while just staring at the red liquid before finally taking a sip. She tossed another glance to the armed escort and sighed. "Yet you listen to none of my advice." She looked up to him then, studying his eyes from across the table. Measuring the lines in their corners, the weary circles below that were not present even a moon ago.

 

"None? Now you're just being dramatic." He took his own sip and tilted his head. Holding aloft the glass for a moment he looked to be considering the vintage. "I listen to all of your advice. I heed some of it."

 

Coatleque scoffed. "Far be it from me to care about the man I bed down with." Her eyes rolled off to the side as she glared at the silent guard once more. The armored man did not move or even acknowledge her presence. Perhaps it was that second ideal which irked her even more.

 

Jameson's voice lowered to a murmur. "You should care more that I have friends spilling blood in the street, with no seeming end to the mayhem. Our beloved Sultana does nothing but hide away in her manse. The Brass Blades are less-than useless. The Flames..." His face twisted between disgust and annoyance. "The Flames seem to think I am the cause of Ul'dah's troubles. At least one does. If not more."

 

Her attention turned back to him with a tilt of her head. "One?"

The question was waved off dismissively. "I have little and less time for fools." he continued. "But if they concentrated more on ending murder sprees and less on ending graft and corruption, we would all sleep better."

 

Coalteque took a slow breath before another sip of wine. She pursed her lips as the glass was replaced on the table, her mood not improving much. "Of that we agree."

 

A shadow seemed to fall across the table as tempers on both sides of the table slowly simmered. It was Jameson who finally inclined his head and spoke up, rather pointedly. "You seem to want something. Tell me what it is, and it is yours." She peered at him, caught quite off-guard from the sudden demand. "I have been lax in my gift-giving of late.", he added. "But I believe I shall see a windfall very soon. So ask and it is yours."

 

"What I want?" She asked softly.

"Yes."

 

The question had more merit than he perhaps thought, and she found it hard to look him in the eyes. Her gaze wandered to the side and out towards the landing as the next airship began to depart. The last glow of the sunset casting orange streaks across the clouds of the night sky beyond. "You have given me all I could ever want...", she began. "I merely wish to meet with your approval."

 

The answer was obviously not one he expected. Not here and now, at least. He gave her a bland and unbelieving look but offered no objection. "So... this..." He said even as he gestured all around. To the food, her dress, the extravagance of the lounge that surrounded them. "... is all you could want." The words fell not as a question but of an unimpressed observation.

 

She turned to face him then with a small shake of her head. "... there is more to our lives than the material, is there not?" Her voice had an almost imploring tone to it, but such emotion was lost beneath the creaking of armor as Jameson's man turned to face a crowed which had gathered by the ticket booth.

 

"Of course. You did not attain your personal goals simply for love of coin. But whenever I praise you, you are quick to demur."

"I did what I must to survive. You know that.", she rebuked him quickly.

 

"Yes." He began with a shrug and slowly narrowing eyes. "But we've known that. I would prefer if you simply forgot that and forged ahead."

 

"I do not have this... this will that drives you. But to stand..." her voice began to trail off as if to a daydream. "To stand with one who does, that is my place."

 

Jameson leaned forward then. "Is it? Is that your place?" His voice had taken on a familiar hiss of annoyance, anger even. "If I wanted a--"

 

"As opposed to.. to.. to what?" she interrupted. "You wish that I run off and conquer Eorzea with you? Is that it?!" He leaned back again but his displeasure was clear to her. She might have been concerned if not for the gathered crowed behind them. Few others knew his temper now as she did. Still, the weariness behind her own words was evident.

 

Jameson looked past her to the gathering. "This used to be a fine secret. Less so these days it seems." The attempted change of topic did not escape her and her head shook slowly. "I will never be more than your paramour, will I?" she asked with a twinge of sadness.

 

"I asked you once, out of curiosity," He continued, apparently ignoring her concerns, "how you attained your current position. You seemed... stumped, to put it lightly."

 

Coatleque crossed her arms and huffed. "Stumped, or amazed." she replied curtly.

"I'm not certain you aspire to more than... a mere guard's commander. Or a paramour."

The distaste behind his own words brought forth a stare. She chewed the inside of her lip.

"Now you mock me?"

 

"At one time," he murmured, "I thought we were alike. It seems less so." He fiddled with his napkin as the waiter arrived to take their orders. Salmon and fresh greens for him, steak and bitter herbs for her. As the waiter walked off the sudden and feigned politeness of the two turned back to shared anger as they stared each other down from across the table. She had never openly defied him in such a manner.

 

"After all I have done to prove myself to you?" She nearly spat at him.

"Do not mistake loyalty for drive. Or purpose. I hold you to a higher law than the common filth we both rose from. I expect greatness."

 

The last jab was all she could bear for the night. Her brows furrowed in anger and her jaw clenched. "Then perhaps I should apologize for delivering mediocrity into your cells!" Her arms had been crossed just then as her displeasure was evident.

 

"Now there is some fire!" Jameson exclaimed suddenly. "You so rarely show it these days. It is as though a black cloud hangs over your head and follows in your wake. Yet rare do I see it spark to lightning." The woman had no reply as she swirled her glass.

 

He watched her with his amber gaze, his eyes flashing as a Brass Blade captain approached the table to address him. But tonight he would have no distractions from her. After it was clear the newcomer was to be ignored, the Blade captain instead moved aside to address the armed guard. A scroll was passed between the two before the Blade turned to leave.

 

"... Where is Roen.", Coatleque said flatly. It was more of a demand than a question.

"Is that your truest desire? My gift? An answer to your question?"

His feint did little to subside her anger. "I have answered your little question already. What you do with it is up to your interpretation."

 

"You are still cross with me. This will not do. Roen has of late earned my displeasure and is...not comfortable. But she remains as healthy as any might in her circumstances. She has been placed in some of the lower cells. I have denied her visitation."

 

"Will it not do? Will it not? For a moment there I thought you preferred seeing me riled up. That I had some fire which appea..." her complaint halted as Jameson continued. She sat back in her chair then and her anger seemed to subside. Only slightly.

 

"I will of course allow you visitation. If that is your desire." The woman only sighed. "Does she plague you so?" He asked softly, his voice lowering then. "The guilt?"

 

"She does not. But you do, lately.", Coatleque admitted. "And guilt? She has abetted a murderer."

 

Jameson shrugged. "But you were close. You have a moral compass. I would not lay abed with a cretin of low morality."

 

Coatleque shook her head. "I feel no guilt at her being kept away. I wish I had used other methods than betrayal, but that is mine own guilt."

"Very well."

"I have a lead now, a name to follow-up on in Revenant's Toll. I should like to see her before I leave. And to be sure you will remain safe whilst I am gone."

 

 

"She is convinced Lazarov has given up his dreams of conquest and... 'city rehabilitation.'", he remarked before furrowing his brows. "When are you leaving?"

 

Coatleque inclined her head to the side curiously. "Did I not tell you the same before? I spoke with him. He sounded quite... mad, if his voice was any indication. And that would depend on how soon we want this pirate locked away."

 

"You should not go alone." he said with a scowl.

"Oh?", she snorted. "Is that genuine concern once more?"

Jameson made a face at that. "Really, this drama is beneath you. Stop, for both our sakes."

 

All at once she felt like a spoiled little girl who was being ornery for not getting her way. She stared back at him incredulously as if she should say something, fight against him. Then her head bowed. Closing her eyes and taking one long, slow breath she murmured an apology. "I am sorry."

 

He nodded.

"You are not the only one feeling the effects lately."

"Apology accepted. I hope you will accept mine."

It was her turn to nod then.

 

Jameson opened his mouth as if to say more, but was interrupted just then as the waiter arrived with their food. A plate was set before each of them and the servant waited for brief approval before withdrawing to the kitchens again. Once the man was out of earshot, Coatleque turned her attention to the armored Sentinel who stood quietly by Jameson's side. "What was that business a moment ago?"

 

The figure turned slightly to look in her direction. Jameson glanced to him as well, then back to her. "I'm afraid Feres is not very talkative." The guard then turned to his Lord.

 

"So I have seen. Whatever it is, if it is important..." She waved her hand dismissively before taking up her utensils to begin eating.

 

"Was it?" Jameson asked him pointedly. To that a hand reached out to pass along the scroll which Jameson received and promptly opened. He read it over then murmured half to himself. "The first good news I've received all day." Looking up with a smile he quickly added, "Next to your accepting my apology, of course."

 

She stopped eating for a moment at that admission. "Out with it then." Her eyes half closed. "Unless of course I am failing to gain your trust once more..."

 

"You're doing it again, dear..." Jameson replied almost in warning. To that she held her peace and focused on her meal. "A friend of mine. His... 'son' was safely seen away. We were concerned for the boy's well-being."

 

"Well, that is good news." she noted.

"Yes. Algincourt. Do you know them?"

The name forced her to take pause as she recalled a conversation she overheard from the back of his office some weeks ago. "I... may have seen the name before. Nobody I know of course."

 

"Ah. Well, my concern was... ill-founded, it seems. All is well. Would that I could say the same for others. One bit of news that should bring me cheer is actually disconcerting."

 

"James...", she interrupted his thought. "Tell me you are being careful. And not just with..." She gestured to the armed man off to the side. "Squeaky over there. This is becoming serious."

 

"I am always careful." He replied with a smile before turning his attention to the guard. "Do you hear that? My paramour thinks your armor could use some management. See that is taken care of before first light." The guard nodded silently in reply, excepting a few more creaks from the grinding of metal plates against one another.

 

"Perhaps." Coatleque agreed halfheartedly. "It reminds me of that relic you had at the back of your room." She had often glimpsed the suit of armor standing silently in the rear of his office, but till now had not brought it up. A used-looking and gaudy mockery of a statue that never quite fit the decor of the room. She was almost glad it had been moved.

 

Jameson was quiet. He blinked once, and may have even been caught off guard at her words. For a moment he looked angry even, then less. Coatleque noticed the change of his demeanor and tilted her head with an amused expression at having taken the upper hand for once, before taking up her glass to drink again.

 

"It is." he said quietly, and at length. "It was... a part of the arrangement. It is some of the finest plate in Ul'dah. I certainly don't use it as much, if at all. It would seem a shame to waste."

"Aaah, finer than mine? Hmm?" She was almost taunting him now, and enjoying it.

 

He toyed with the food in front of him. "In some ways, yes. Yours allows greater range of movement, but that suit has a few surprises of its own." She rolled her eyes as her playful tone had been missed entirely.

 

"Yes... I was well versed by Vandol Morn on the many surprises to be had while in armor."

That raised an eyebrow. "Should I assume half of those suggestions were vulgar?"

She smirked. "Only half? You appraise him much too low."

 

He laughed. Seeing him relax then put her at more ease. He needed this, in her estimation, and now she felt all the more foolish for having darkened the mood with her own selfish tantrum. "No, truly, I think I have appraised him quite on-the-mark." He continued. "At least in most respects. The girl he travels with, did they seem... close?"

 

Coatleque set her utensils down then. "In some ways, yes. T'was not my place to pry." She glanced at his barely touched portion. "You are... not hungry tonight?"

 

He shrugged. "It may not be your... 'place'... but information is power. You should know if a man is willing to die for the woman he lays with. At least I assume he lays with her. Unless he is a cuckold."

 

Whether it was his intention or not, the notion of dying for loved ones stood out more in her mind than anything else he had said so far. She found herself blushing at him for lack of any other response to the rest of his statement. Meanwhile he slowly began to eat finally, more over her concern than actual hunger.

 

"Love need not always be so... fatalistic." she said at length. "Though in my experience..." Her words trailed off just then, not wanting to relive her own experiences just now.

 

"I am not speaking of love, I am speaking of loyalty." He said, breaking her train of thought. "What if I wish to buy one mercenary and not the other? They were quick enough to jump and put an end to... unfortunate Dirk." He made a face then. "I simply want to know your impression of them."

 

Coatleque cleared her throat at the remembrance. "Yes, Dirk... well. It is in my experience that those two are inseparable. They are a pair and refuse to work apart. Or with others, in most cases, as you may remember when they dragged me to you." As she spoke the Brass Blade Captain returned and beckoned to the armored guard, who left Jameson's side to see what news was to be delivered now. Her gaze followed the man as he walked past.

 

Jameson smirked at her. "I do recall they were... let's call them rough-and-tumble." She turned back to him. "In either case, I will not run off to Mor Dhona alone."

 

There was a pleased nod in return. "Ah. Who will you have in your company?"

"I will assume Miss Callae would be interested. And Ser Tarry. That should be enough to handle one merchant. Alas, I believe Madam Grimsong will be quite busy at the time."

 

Jameson pursed his lips. "Should be. Always be wary of guards. Especially these days. Though I trust Brynnalia has tricks aplenty up her sleeves." His brow furrowed in thought. "Busy? doing what?" She could only smirk at his reaction.

 

"Planting flowers for all I know. Her business is not mine, and I am better off for that." He did not reply but his expression was one of agreement. He leaned back and pushed his plate forward signalling that he was finished, the plate still half-full at the time.

 

"But before that... Miss Denieth. We should speak to her together about this list."

Jameson canted his head. "Do you think she would be more or less receptive in your presence? She does feel you betrayed her."

 

"She knows I was going to use the linkpearl.. She should know the results. And... I would at least like to see her." The concern was genuine. Thoughts of Roen had been plaguing her lately. Despite all that had happened, she never wished ill on her friend. And she did promise to check on her when able. "The Blades told me she was moved, but nobody would say where."

 

Jameson shrugged. "That was purposeful, but if it would... help you alleviate this misconception that I do not trust you, then by all means. I care little for her umbrage if the sight of you causes her to bristle."

 

She noded once. "That is acceptable. She deserves to know her love's response. And I would have what she knows for your safety as well."

"Very well. Tell me when."

"As soon as possible, for I should not delay my pursuit either."

 

He thought for a moment before continuing. "I could arrange it this very eve. Though..." He glanced at her finery. "I am not quite dressed for dungeon delving, and neither are you."

 

A few expletives were uttered from behind where the two sat which elicited a sigh from each. Jameson's armed guard soon returned and held out yet another scroll which he took and promptly looked over. "Apologies, Coatleque." He said at length. This bit of news was not as good.

"... What is it? James?"

 

There was a long, drawn out sigh followed by a forced smile from across the table.

"Do not discount me... let me help.", she offered with genuine concern.

"We live in a city of scales, love. One hand brings good tidings, the next... Do you have a change of clothes nearby?"

She frowned but nodded. "As you say then. Yes, of course. We are not far from the inn."

"I warn you," he murmured, "The black cells are ... black for a reason."

"... Are you telling me to come armed, or in rags?"

There was a short chuckle. "Armed if you wish. But what I meant was, do not dress in finery. Your silks will be in jeopardy."

 

Coatleque drained the rest of her glass as Jameson settled the bill with a handsome tip. He rounded the table to pull out her chair, then offering his arm. She managed her first true smile of the night before standing and taking it. "Shall we?" he asked.

 

"See?", she said softly "You do know what I desire at times."

Jameson looked about to say something more but held his peace before leading her off to the inn.

[Coatleque]

There was the cold and ruthless businessman that most of Ul'dah had heard of. At times there was the confident and caring man that Coatleque had found. This man did not surface much and even she would sometimes struggle to see him under the mask. Yet it was this man who now led her through the Sapphire exchange to the Hourglass Inn.

 

The pair went on unmolested for the most part. There was the occasional turn of a head and personal confirmation that sight was not deceived. She had learned to turn a deaf ear to such murmurings though. Soon they reached her room. Jameson followed her inside. A rare event in its own right. His guard followed and took up the usual position by the door.

 

It was certainly no estate, and was clear that she hadn't been spending much time within lately. Why should she spend her nights here, after all, when his estate was welcoming and so much more grand. It almost brought the pain of embarrassment to even suffer him here.

 

She gestured to the chair by the corner before disappearing behind the privacy screen by the bed. A storage trunk situated at the foot of the bed itself was opened to reveal multiple changes of clothing of a more practical nature. He did not sit, of course, but wandered the room slowly straitening the odd this or that. A few moments later and she re-emerged wearing a simple doublet and jackboots. "This should suffice."

 

"Yes. Nothing trailing in your wake is the best thought." He replied. She finished the ensemble with a short iron spatha easily concealed along the side of one of her boots. His approval was evident, however. She straightened herself, pulling her hair back just then. "I am ready."

 

Jameson opened the door for her which prompted another smile. "A brief stop at my offices. From there it isn't far." A scant moment later the three were gathered out in the bar once more and ready to leave. That is before a piercing baritone nearly screamed from across the room.

 

"LAAAAAAARD TAEROS!"

 

They paused simultaneously and slowly turned with shared horror to find Lord Mandercrown staggering across the bar towards them. Two people could not have had a more synchronized reaction. Jameson clenched his teeth in visible pain while Coatleque groaned audibly. Jameson's sentinel moved to intercept the drunken Lord with a quick step.

 

"Hay! How's ya! Whoa ho ho! Lock at YOU!" The man began to holler at the pair even from only three fulms away. She found her grip on Jameson's arm tightening out of mixed fear and annoyance before forcing restraint. Sensing her Lord's own tenseness, she decided to step up to the initiative.

 

"Why... Lord Mandercrown. Such a... 'pleasant' surprise. You seem to have lost your pants again." The man was, sure enough, naked from the waist down once again. This seemed to be a repeating pattern whenever the man was in public. Coatleque found herself scanning the bar for the Lady Mandercrown's maidservant (whom the Lord always kept close by). She would no doubt appear any moment to lead him away again.

 

Jameson stepped up as well then with a forced smile. "Lord Mandercrown. What a pleasant surprise." He echoed her sentiments. "My lord, where are your pants?"

 

The man looked himself up and down before bursting out laughing. "Uhhh... I seem to have LEFT them somewhere!" The four of them all stood there now as the clearly drunk man laughed himself till he could no longer breathe. Coatleque only drew closer to Jameson while he in turn sighed disgustedly. Finally the man composed himself long enough to form his next thought.

 

"So about that LOAN, my lord?"

There was a brief pause to which she looked up at Jameson expecting him to tell the fool off. It was clear to her that more coin would only be wasted on even more drink, and Jameson would never see a return on such a deal. It was not her business, however, so she bit her lip.

 

"Business at another time. Perhaps when you are less... inebriated."

"But then it ain't FUN!" The man burst out laughing again, pleased with his own antics.

"If it were fun, it would not be business, my lord." Coatleque found herself speaking up to Jameson's defense just then. "Well, excepting our business." she added as her grip tightened again.

 

There was a deep breath from the man at her side. "Find your pants first. Then come find me. We will talk." But his words were wasted as Mandercrown had suddenly found another interest for the time being.

 

"Oh, cutie patootie...!" He blurted out as he absently tried to meander around the guard to reach her. Thankfully the sentinel, Feres, stepped to the side as well and remained in the man's way.

 

"That is not her name, milord." Jameson interjected.

Mandercrown snorted. "Sorry. Rayanne, is it? The North girl?"

"North girl?..." She inquired, suddenly confused and looking up to the man she was practically clinging to.

"No." Jameson said coldly.

"Well fuck, all these redheads look the same to me. Rowan? Wait no, her hair's pink..."

"... my hair is not 'pink'..." Coatleque began to protest

"Naaaah, I meant ROWAN's hair is pink." Once again the man burst out laughing.

"Auburn." she corrected him.

 

"This is Ser Coatleque Crofte. My paramour." Jameson said rather tersely before turning to her. "Shall we go?"

 

She gave Lord Mandercrown one more annoyed glance before nodding her agreement. "Please..."

"Pants, milord."

 

With that Jameson began walking off rather determined. Coatleque found herself taking double steps just to keep up with him. She released his arm for the nonze and they continued side-by-side.

 

"Is that man ever sober?" She eventually spoke up.

"That that man would actually hold a lordship is an insult to lords."

"Judging by what he asked, I doubt he shall hold it for long." she offered.

 

It was clear her attempt to lighten the mood was doomed and so they continued on. The streets were mostly empty save for a passing porter or merchant. Attempts at greetings were met with silence from the Lord. The rest of their walk reminded her eerily of another night the same trek was made. Luckily they reached his estate before things could become progressively awkward, and a slight renewal of their purpose came to head.

 

She followed Jameson up to his office and stood to the side upon entering. Suddenly she felt very much like another guard from her trappings. There was no fire lit yet and it appeared the Valet did not expect his return yet at this hour. Jameson stopped after a step and turned to his guard. "Unchain prisoner Deneith.", he murmured. "See that she has a fresh change of clothes. I do not want her looking unsightly for my beloved." There was a quick salute before the man left the room.

 

Jameson walked around the divide to the second half. Coatleque followed slowly. "... Unsightly?" She asked in her typical inquisitive tone.

 

"Pardon my mood." He replied. "Usually it amuses me."

She nodded and stopped just after the divide to lean against the wall.

"This night has been one of many moods." she said at length.

He frowned, but his back was to her now. "It has."

 

The man began to strip off his doublet to exchange with something more suited for work on the hanger nearby. She watched from a distance, half admiring and half examining for any new scars she should know about. He stopped after taking the shirt down.

 

"He should not have been born to his power. His wealth. I see that walking, stinking, drinking, laughing bag of suet, and I think... that is my coin. He is stealing it. By happenstance of birth."

 

"You needn't give him any more." Coatleque pushed off the wall then and turned to face him. He did not look back just yet but her words gave him sudden pause. "He--" There was a long silence. Jameson stood not willing, or perhaps not able to look back at her. His voice lowered and his muscles tensed visibly in the dim light.

 

"He is loaning it to me."

 

"... w-what?" she stammered before daring to step closer.

"It was... a month ago? A mere... safe cache. The obese fool throws coin around as if it means nothing. Why should I not play his little game? I don't need to lick his boots. He is more than ready, willing, to loan me whatever I need just to invite him into my circle."

 

His words did nothing to convince her of any better. She could see the strain on him from just admitting such a thing. At his station, this was tantamount to begging once more. To require aid from another. Her hands balled into fists before she forced them to relax. "But it is not needed, aye?" She offered as both encouragement and for her own curiosity. "Tell me you are not depending on that fop..."

 

Jameson took a breath. "Today's news means I may have to suffer him longer." His lip curled then and she could see his anger coming back to the surface. "I still have many other options. But you wanted truths from me today. I just gave you one." He finally turned to sneer at her. "How does it taste?"

 

The curl to his lip nearly bared his teeth as his amber eyes flashed in anger. All at once the she saw the predator rising again and it caused her to recoil. "Far from droll." she said softly, reassuringly.

 

He sighed at that, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "Yes. Indeed." A small smile returning. "I came from nothing and built much. I can do so again. If needed." He said softly, his voice lowering more just then. "It still may not be so dire."

 

Coatleque stepped closer still almost venturing to reach out to him. "You... you should have told me sooner. Perhaps I... I don't know... I said I would stand by you, and I have held to that." She wanted to offer more. To help prevent further deterioration of his assets if she could. But what could she even offer? She was no financier.

 

"I am not yet through." He turned to face her finally, his smile broadening some. "But if one day you turn a corner and see me paying the fool an actual compliment, run the other way and never looked back." He ended with a smirk.

 

"I shall keep that in mind..." she replied flatly.

He watched her for a moment, silently judging her reaction to all of this news. The concern behind her eyes could not be feigned, however, though if it was concern over him or the coin he may not have been able to tell. In her heart she cared little for his wealth so much as it pained her to see him brought low like this.

 

Contented, he finished changing into a smock of his own. He bussed her on the cheek before leading her towards the exit then, saying "Let us see what spirits we find Roen in." He could not hide his growing anger, though, and she wondered to whom it was directed this night. Her questions, or his admissions.

[Coatleque]

[align=center]"Show too much compassion, and your enemies will become as dear as your family..."[/align]

---

There was no more conversation as the pair made their way through Jameson's estate. For as much time as she had spent there in recent days, there were still rooms she had never ventured to. Dark hallways that seemed to be forgotten by even the owner. More unexpected were the false walls that led to narrow stone passageways descending ever further under the Goblet. Jameson led her onward with torch held out before them.

 

Perhaps half-way (it was hard to pin-point where she was when traveling fulms below the surface and surrounded by stone) they met his guard once more. "Is she conscious?" The question was met with a nod but no more. Coatleque began to wonder if there was indeed someone within the armor at all. "Follow." Jameson commanded to his man before the three of them continued.

 

Eventually the tunnels opened up into a larger stonework room of holding cells (few occupied, mostly empty) and smaller passages to private oubliettes. The occasional Blade stationed here and there would cast them bored and weary looks as they passed by. An angry leer or two gave Coatleque cause to stay as close to Jameson as she could. It was evident she was here with him to any that would object.

 

It was to one of the side passages that Jameson led her. Through another narrow corridor and past a thick wooden door with massive iron hinges. Beyond was a small holding area just before a private cell. Four of his personal guard stood along the walls on either side, one of them looking directly at her as they passed. An off-duty Brass Blade she had the displeasure of dealing with before. Nervously she kept her gaze forward.

 

In the small alcove outside the cell was a chair up against the wall. Jameson deftly plucked it and set it out from the wall for the prisoner to sit. He then took up a position beside the cell door facing the corner of the wall. "Roen. I have brought an... old friend."

 

Coatleque stood motionless at the end of the narrow hall as a figure appeared in the opened cell door. Even concealed in shadows, she could see the figure sway back and forth out of balance. She leaned against the wall and rubbed at her eyes in an attempt to dismiss the bleariness of her own sight. At Jameson's voice her hands dropped and she turned to the opening, willing herself to finally stand in defiance. Coatleque cast a glance at the man in the corner before stepping a step forward. "Roen?"

 

"Help the girl." Immediately the heavily armored guard, Feres, clanked forward and grabbed the woman by the arm. Coatleque jumped back a step in shock at the sudden movement and treatment as Roen was half pulled out of the cell and roughly delivered to the chair. Her heavy, bloodshot eyes almost refused to stay open and refused to even take in the surroundings. Dark circles had formed after days of sleep deprivation. Her hair disheveled and knotted. She swayed side to side in a circular motion, barely able to keep balanced. "Coatleque would like to speak to you." Jameson added at length.

 

All at once her restraint fled and Coatleque rushed to the woman's side! She knelt beside Roen, pawing and prodding at her, testing for pain or bruises. Jameson's eyes were narrowly trained on the wall as if inspecting the mortar was suddenly paramount. "Roen? Roen! By the Twelve, James, what have you done!?" She cried out in desperation at the state of her friend, still half pawing at her yet trying her best to keep the girl steadied and upright in the chair.

 

The woman was unresponsive at first till her mind slowly began to register that this was no dream. She almost recognized the woman at her side before Jameson glanced over and interjected. "It's not as bad as it seems. check her for bruises. You will find few." He murmured. "We have, however, deprived her of sleep. Every hour on the bell."

 

Coatleque did not need nor care for his approval by then. Content the woman was not in immediate pain she did her best to steady her swaying again, softly patting her cheek to try and focus the girl's concentration. "Roen?"

 

Roen blinked slowly, finally able to focus. She swallowed, or at least tried to. Damp dungeon air was a poor substitute for water, and even that moisture did nothing to alleviate the sand in her throat. "Ser Crofte..." she rasped through chapped and cracked lips. "What do I owe... this pleasure..." Despite her condition she wore an oddly defiant grin though her eyes lacked her clarity of mind.

 

Coatleque turned back to Jameson. "For how long? James? HOW LONG!?" She no longer cared for words. The woman's health was failing rapidly now and she feared how much more she could take at this point.

 

"As long as it takes." he replied sharply. He needed say nothing further for her to know the seriousness of the threat. Coatleque turned her attention back to Roen for the moment. She had little time and did not want to tax Roen beyond what she could bear.

 

"Roen? Roen, listen to me... Nero is planning a bloodbath in the streets. He is not coming, and intends to let it play out. You cannot sit by and allow this!"

 

"I know nothing..." she replied. Her expression was almost that of delirium, twisting between focused clarity and an absent dream-like state. "But they do not believe--" She blinked slowly, her eyes resisting the movement as they re-opened.

 

"... Roen, the Blades are going to slaughter them all. You know this!" She spoke slowly, deliberately. She needed the woman to know the gravity of the situation in the city. Jameson also peered at her now from the corner, searchingly.

 

"Ah. Right. Nero." Her words came slowly. "He thought he could do it... non-lethal..." A bitter chuckle escaped her lips as she thought back to whatever words had been traded. "Non-lethal. Moons ago!" The woman swayed as Coatleque once again gripped her shoulder to hold her against the chair. She blinked and her grin suddenly vanished, a sobriety overtaking her expression. "Then he changed his mind!"

 

"Why?" Jameson snapped suddenly. "That makes no sense." His teeth barring now. "He was winning!" Coatleque nodded in agreement but did not look away from Roen. She met the girls gaze, her own emerald eyes flashing in the torchlight, in an effort to draw her back.

 

"I spoke to him. Do you understand? I used the linkpearl, Roen."

 

The girl's head swiveled to Jameson in an almost nodding fashion. She chuckled bitterly again, almost deliriously. "Because you had Daegs--" Her words were cut off at Crofte's admission. Her head rolling back to the front. Her own eyes flashed a temporary sanity "He answered did he..." She stared at the Sworn across from her in a long silence that ended when her shoulders began to shake and her head dipped. Her disheveled locks fell before her eyes. She may have even cried were her body not holding back every ounce of water available.

 

"I did not have him killed!" Jameson snapped once more in a way that belied his weariness of the same accusation being levied. "That dumb bitch Natalie went off script."

 

Coatleque shook her head and focused on keeping Roen's attention a little more yet. "He is not coming. He will let this city tear itself apart... please, Roen... if you know anything...?"

 

"I tried to find them. Him. Scythe." Roen muttered under her breath. "Guns. Guns sold to them so they can make a statement... You remember, do you not? That Elezen...? He died."

 

The Sworn nodded once. "Scythe? He is the one in charge now?" She threw a glance to Jameson as if questioning if he was getting all of this. The man returned his own glance between Deneith and Crofte but remained silent. Roen's voice cracked as she began to speak again, prompting the Sworn to survey the room for any source of water to supply even temporary relief for her friend.

 

"I tried to find him. His gang. To stop them." She slowly shook her head again, almost losing balance. "He said he would stop them but..." Her shoulders began to shake again from what could be a laugh or a sob. "That was another life, I suppose..."

 

Coatleque stared at her friend with horror behind her own eyes. A tear rolled down her cheek before the shell of her friend and she leaned forward to embrace her against the chair. "Roen... I'm sorry. I am so sorry." Jameson looked away with a scowl just then, and Roen did not react either. Her frame was slimmer than Coatleque remembered, obviously from lack of food as well. The woman seemed in a daze at first, but then frowned as focus began to return.

 

The Sworn pulled back again, wiping the side of her face and focused on Roen once more. "Roen, listen to me. I am going to stop him. I have a name of someone who will lead me there. But we need to know who his assassin is. If not him, then his targets. He is out of control now..."

 

Roen maintained her frown as she stared off at the distant granite. "His assassin... He would... He would not hire one. It was not... it was not on his list." she murmured. "He had a list." The woman swayed in her seat once more as Crofte's hand moved to steady her. "Assassins. It was not on his list. Non-lethal." The odd curl to her lips returned. "He wrote that down. Non-lethal." Her shoulders heaved and began to shake once more. "Can you believe...?" Her voice trailed off as her focus was lost. The smile quickly fading to delirium once more.

 

"Why? Why would he? After so much?" Jameson had turned and moved closer to them, no longer content to wander the cell. His anger was apparent. He stared Roen down, or as much as he could to someone in her state. "That makes no sense."

 

Roen looked up at the man through a squint and even Coatleque's attention snapped back to him. "James... she cannot go on like this." The Sworn stood then went to him, grabbing at his hand with an almost frantic voice. "She needs food, sleep, water... please... you asked what I wanted most... I cannot abide by this!"

 

He ignored her. His amber gaze locked on Roen.

"The list." Roen continued slowly as if explaining to a child. "It was made many moons ago. Mayhap a year?" She attempted to grin, but the pain in her parched lips stopped her. "So many changes since. So many lies."

 

It was then that Coatleque understood her ramblings. She slowly looked back from Jameson to Roen. "It... is not a list of names."

 

"What is on the list?" Jameson put forth the question to Roen as if it had not yet been asked directly. "Do you not see?" Coatleque broke in suddenly. "It was his plan... the fool wrote down his entire plan...!?"

 

Roen's voice trailed off once more, he expression saddening, but no tears would come forth. She licked her cracked lips in vain. "He was going to take the wealth... without gil then... what is your power...? He even had Blades and Sworns on that list. Circled. I guess... I guess that was me."

 

Jameson's hands began to clench. His brow furrowed and he may have lashed out to strike the woman had Coatleque not held his arm with both hands just then. She squeezed lightly to try and calm the man with a reassuring voice. "James."

 

"Then who--" he stopped himself. Whether her touch or her voice she could feel him relax just slightly. Roen continued to murmur, still in her delirious state. Her eyes drifted to Coatleque before her brows furrowed. "I was in the plan... I guess..."

 

Jameson cut her off just then, either having what he desired or no longer content to wait. "Feed her. Clothe her. No more restrictions, save for no guests. And make sure North knows!" The armored sentinel bowed in acknowledgement before heading off down the hallway once more. The Sworn's relief was obvious. He looked directly at Coatleque and their eyes met. "I said I would give you what you wished. And here it is." With that, the man turned on his heel and strode out of the cell with purpose in each step. The remaining four guards made no motion or acknowledgement.

 

Roen swayed once more in her seat and Coatleque rushed back to her side to help steady the woman. Roen blinked, her eyes even heavier than before as her body fought against what her mind knew would happen should she close them for long. The Sworn leaned towards Roen then and whispered to her. "I will stop him... for both our sakes, I swear it. I never wanted this."

 

The woman's head rolled forward, her grey eyes glassy. She may have even nodded if her head would have lifted on command. "I never wanted..." her voice cracked. She closed her eyes as consciousness began to drift again.

 

"Let me help you, to the bed. Roen, you need to rest." Coatleque offered.

Roen's head only rolled forward once more. "Sleep..." she murmured before letting out a slight gasp as if she did not believe it herself.

 

No effort came forth from the smaller woman to stand, so Coatleque took the initiative to lift her to her feet. Holding her with one arm about the shoulders she led Roen back into her cell right to the bed and helped her to lie down. Once situated she pulled the blankets around the woman whom drifted almost immediately to sleep. A welcome feeling after days of laying on the stone floor.

 

Coatleque examined her wrist and ankles, noting the marks from the manacles. She stayed a while longer to ensure the woman was asleep before whispering. "Sleep, Roen... it will be over soon." Her concern was real, even if Roen could not know it in her state. Coatleque wiped the tears from her own eyes before taking a breath for composure and standing. "... for both our sakes."

 

---

 

It was nearly half a bell later when she returned to Jameson's chamber. She closed the door quietly behind her and turned to find him standing at his desk staring down at a locket in his hand. At the sound of her entering he quickly closed it and glanced back up.

 

Coatleque slowly walked up behind him. "... who is she?" she asked in slow and curious tone. There was no hint of jealousy in the question. She had seen this locket before resting upon his desk. She even ventured to look within one night while he was away, to examine the coppery-haired woman with the mournful blue eyes within.

 

Jameson did not answer her immediately, nor turn to face her. He did almost smile at her presence though. "But I thought you did not care for the traitor."

 

"Just because I know she must meet justice does not mean she has stopped being my friend."

 

He nodded. "That is why I brought you to her." A sigh followed. "More things are making sense now. And less."

 

"James... why so long? In that state... you need not become a monster to hunt one." She ventured the question with mixed anger and fear at what his reaction may be. He took a deep breath of his own.

 

"Her... stubbornness irked me. But I did not harm her. She will bear no scars from this."

"Not physically."

He gave her a certain look. "We all bear those."

Coatleque shook her head once before lowering her gaze. "Thank you for heeding my demand."

"You should have asked for money." he smirked.

She blurted out a bitter chuckle. "I have you, though." she offered.

"Yes", he said softly while staring forward at the wall.

 

He glanced downward once more and opened the locket. Her eyes followed as well, standing next to him now as she was. "The first woman I ever loved, in truth." he murmured. "A good woman. She... was kind. I was a fool, of course."

 

Her head inclined to the side to rest upon his shoulder. "What happened to her?"

A shake of his head. "It does not matter. She is long gone. Dead."

"Then I am sorry."

 

There was a shared silence of mournful regret. The same conversation recalling to her mind as she recounted a similar story to him not too long ago. "I promised to guard her memory," he continued, "And all else that remained. And I have... mostly failed in that."

 

Coatleque drew back and looked at him, not expecting such an admission. There was a strained laugh, an odd bit of emotion behind it. "But how many promises do we keep? The ones we made as boys?" His voice lowered to a whisper. "So few."

 

She leaned back towards him, looking down to the locket once more before he closed it. Pressed against him she felt a heaved sigh. "A different list than I expected. You got out of her what I could not. I thank you."

 

"She knows nothing else", she whispered.

"It does not explain who is killing all the..." his lips pressed together just then.

"No, but I will find out."

"If I free her..." he continued, "Will she go flying back to him?"

 

Coatleque looked up at him with a hard stare, taking in the question itself before considering her answer. "Doubtful. Nero has abandoned her." she confessed with no small regret. The notion stung her almost as much as it would Roen. "Whatever madness has taken him, he would sooner see her dead with the rest of the city, I believe. This 'Qujon Zamajon' will either talk, or meet a worse fate than that boy Grimsong maimed."

 

"I will consider it." He heaved another heavy breath at the absurdity of it all. "His love knows no bounds, clearly." There was a disbelieving shake of his head. "If you will excuse me... I have some sleep to try and catch."

 

He pulled away from her, heading towards the back of the room. "Shall I stay with you?" she asked. Her voice more concerned than suggestive. There was a brief temptation before something hardened within him. "No," he whispered. "Go resolve what you need to. And I will do... what I must."

 

"As you wish, my love. Take what rest you can, and dream of me."

"I will consider freeing her."

"... thank you.", she whispered.

He glanced once more at her with what could only be regret before disappearing behind the room division.

 

She lingered for a moment to be sure his mind was indeed made up before turning for the door. She stopped just there, taking notice of the heavily armored guard standing silently to the side. Stepping up to him, she peered with narrowed eyes and a determined glare right at the man's eye-slit.

 

"Nobody sees him tonight. Understood? Not even me." Her command carried an odd weight to it that she had never used before with his servants. The figure regarded her in puzzled silence before nodding. She hummed to herself before taking her leave.

[Banquo Viaquo]

"Hope yer boss knows this stuff ain't exactly easy to come by." The merchant wrinkled his nose, unevenly bronzed by the midday heat. "Next time I'm puttin' my foot down. Gil in advance, supplies after. Y'hearin' me?" He adjusted his displays almost before he even finished the sentence, his attention no longer on the valet, but on catching the attention of the bazaar's spending passersby.

 

North bowed politely. "Of course, sir. I shall expect receipts delivered to the manse."

 

"Yes. The manse." There was a sneer in the merchant's mutter, but North could hardly begrudge him. Working the Sapphire Avenue Exchange in the hottest part of the day would be enough to wear on even the valet's nerves... not, of course, that he had had the opportunity to find out. The package clinked gently as he set it on the storefront's counter; heavy with gil and bound in a crisp, neat square with weaver's thread. Lost in thought, North paid little attention to the merchant's quick grab for the cash--nor to the Miqo'te who eyed him briefly before sidling up, examining the fieldcrafter's wares.

 

"Now, then..." North exhaled, once more flipping the notepad out from his pocket--briefly scanning through the itinerary. Dark matter, spinning wheel, ornamental hammer all present and accounted for. That left cooking supplies for the evening, high-quality textiles, and of course, the visit to the apothecary...

 

"Excuse me." North paused, eyes flickering, as the turbaned Miqo'te alongside him spoke. Her tone was low, discreet, but casual--by all appearances, she was still examining the fieldcraft seller's wares. "I wish to head north to find a red-haired Paladin. Know anything about that?"

 

North paused, absolutely still for the barest fraction of a second, then cleared his throat politely. "If Miss seeks to file a report with the missing persons department, then I shall provide escort. If you please." He bowed to her, more out of reflex than anything else, then set off at a brisk pace, heading for Pearl Lane. The Miqo'te shot him a sideways glance, but followed him nonetheless.

 

She caught up fairly quickly, as the hum of the busy market street faded behind the walls of the backstreets. She removed the mask wrappings with a slow, deliberate motion, keeping an eye on the valet. "Gideon North?"

 

At her question, North exhaled--though there was nobody around this was still questionable territory. "...Miss makes... bold maneuvers in the open clearing of the bazaar." He turned his gaze on her with another brief bow--more bemused than offended, though. "I am he, Miss. At your service." Almost instantly, however, he turned once more. "But--come. The Sacrarium is more discreet."

 

The Miqo'te smirked, following with a nod. "Well met. Lead on."

 

[align=center]--[/align]

 

The open air of the Sacrarium was hardly any more secluded than the bazaar, but was in a far more out-of-the-way corner of the city. More than suitable for a sensitive discussion--though, North pondered as he examined the Miqo'te, it remained to be seen exactly how he could assist her. Dark hair, previously obscured by the turban. Lightly armored, lithe, but not coiled to spring. Likely trained, but not paranoid. "I presume Miss is the very individual that our mutual acquaintance spoke of?"

 

A nod. She--or rather, Kiht Jakkya, the ally Miss Deneith had spoke of--appeared to trust him. "I am. I was told about you by a Highlander woman. I was told many things that disturbed me." Her voice was quiet--though North supposed that this could be for the sake of discretion rather than any emotional distress.

 

"I am agog, Miss." The valet laced his fingers over his midsection, listening with polite attentiveness.

 

Kiht perked a brow. "I am told she has been captured, and taken to a place called 'Black Cell'. I was told to find you." The dark-haired Miqo'te sounded concerned, and more than likely still wary. North knew his friend's recommendation, though helpful, would hardly remove all Monetarist traces from his first impressions.

 

"Such is indeed the case, Miss." He studied her expression for a moment, quietly considering her options. "Understand, however, that my position makes it markedly difficult for me to influence such matters."

 

She would not be deterred, however. "Then you know? Does the one you serve have her?" She focused on him, intent on the truth. "Where is this place?"

 

North paused, coughing politely in response. In the brief pause that followed, Kiht inclined her head slightly. He considered his words carefully... then lowered his head, almost in apology. "I do not believe, Miss, that our mutual acquaintance would be best served by a daring escape that may result in general loss of... vitality, all round."

 

Clearly displeased, Kiht's ears lowered, her brow furrowing. Despite the tenseness of the situation, the reflex of it almost made North smile. She spoke plaintively, and honestly. "I am open to suggestions, but I am not sure I can just leave her there."

 

"If I may, Miss..." North grimaced. An unfortunate duty, but he had promised to represent her interests. "She wished that I guide you in a specific direction." He bowed, this time to mask his own distaste.

 

The Miqo'te immediately perked up. "Of course."

 

"..." Though North straightened, he was still clearly hesitating, speaking with the same delicacy one might employ to remove a corpse from Thanalan footpaths. "...Heavens know that I certainly would not find it a... palatable task. Nevertheless, I am bound to tell you in her stead."

 

She nodded, clearly determined. "I know not what she told you of me, but I would go through Hells for her."

 

A very earnest girl. Birds of a feather, it seemed. With Kiht's attention, North took a short breath, continuing with every appearance of calm. "Milady would ask that you, ah... find her errant partner. That man." Nero Lazarov. It remained unspoken, but the acid still dripped from North's tongue; the very thought souring his palate.

 

"The one who she was helping?"

 

"...I believe so, Miss. The... pirate."

 

A nod, with perhaps more familiarity than North's. "I know who you speak of."

 

"She would have it, Miss, that you would... talk sense into him, and make him see his obligations through." He shifted a shoulder, eyes briefly flickering to the stone walls of the Sacrarium. "Frankly, from what I have heard of the man, it seems a fool's errand. I hesitate to bestow it upon you, as you do not seem a fool."

 

If she made any judgments as to the venom in North's tone, she did not show it. "Is that all I can do? What of her? Or does she think he will help her?" Her concern was evident--and, North was pleased to see, she at least shared his incredulity.

 

"I cannot say, Miss. It is what she would ask of you, through myself as intermediary." He paused, remembering the notebook in his pocket. "I have... certain possibilities at hand that may see her freed. But circumstances must be correct for me to act on them."

 

Kiht sighed. "I will do it then..." She paused, meeting his eyes. "I hope to Gods you do. I... I can not stand the thought of her being a captive again."

 

"Again, Miss?" Curious. North tilted his head, politely questioning.

 

"...Has she not told you of her past? Before she joined with him?" Cautious again. Only to be expected.

 

"I do not ask questions, Miss, and sensitive matters are not for me to delve into." North had not come this far without discretion. As he bowed, she seemed somewhat relieved to drop the subject as well.

 

"'Tis not my place to say anydusk..." She gazed around the area. "Is there more I must know?"

 

North hesitated only a moment, then softened. "She is being taken care of, Miss." Another bow. "Milord has explicitly given me order to ensure she is most comfortable, and by virtue of this, I have attempted to ensure that her stay is not excessively unpleasant."

 

The Miqo'te frowned at his words, but responded with sincere enough emotion. "...I hope so..." Her voice was quiet again. "You have my gratitude. I will not hold you up any longer unless you have questions."

 

That brought a smile from North in addition to his reflexive bow. "I do not ask questions, Miss. I will aid you in whatever facility I am able. I hope the future finds you triumphant and your worries relieved."

 

Kiht let out a final sigh, preparing to leave. "If that is how it must be."

 

"And..." North swallowed, seeing Kiht's gaze flicker up at his words. "If this... Nero..." He scowls, the revolutionary's name passing his lips with disgust and cold condemnation. "...will not listen to reason... then that is his flaw, and not a failure of yours." He bowed once more, icy composure instantly assumed and returning his voice to normal. "I bid Miss bear that in mind."

 

With a quick salute, the Miqo'te gave him one last look. "I understand. Menphina guide you."

 

"Very kind of you, Miss." He watched her go. "Safe travels." Five seconds passed, then ten... and he pulled the notebook from his pocket. To the apothecary.

[Melkire]

An eternity.

 

He spent an infinite eternity staring at the green linkpearl that Endemerrin Rosethorne was holding out to him. His own linkpearl, the master he’d had on him ever since he’d stolen the bag of originals during a long-ago gallivant down Hawker’s Alley, the one that had only left him for a time when he’d been collared. He had lent it out to one Sizha’to Chalahko for safe-keeping during the Epinoch Incident, to keep his linkshell, his network of contacts, uncompromised. It had been returned to him when that threat had passed.

 

This threat would not pass.

 

This threat needed to be dealt with.

 

All those moons ago, he’d woken to the sight of a gentleman in white standing over him. A man he’d been assigned to assist… in an investigation that had ultimately led to the routing of key personnel from the Order, despite his own recommendations otherwise. It had been their demotion and subsequent “transfer” over to the Brass Blades that had opened the floodgates for subsequent suffering, and while he’d never be able to prove that the fop had been in league with the runt – though the thought of Natalie ever so conveniently producing a cure for the blue blood virus out of nowhere, despite beseeching Kanaria’s help mere suns before, and getting reinstated for this was never far from his mind – it was as clear as the heavens to him that Jameson Taeros was a key instrument of corruption in the Monetarist machine that was eating away at the sultanate.

 

Jenlyns Straightblade was too close to see that.

 

That was why, when Melkire and Lazarov had last met, the sergeant hadn’t shied from the audition the pirate wanted from him. That was why he hadn’t shirked his duty: because, to his eyes, there was no one else.

 

No one else cared.

 

The dispute between Lazarov and Taeros had grown into a feud, and that feud - and Lazarov’s plans - threatened far too many, innocent or otherwise. He’d spoken with Grimsong once, on what might have been, what could have been, and what should have been, had there only been someone to act… or, at least, supplant the tragedy that was the Kinslayer’s legacy with something… more. Something that was not... less. While they hadn’t spoken at length, per se…

 

…they’d been exchanging letters ever since.

 

He only hoped she’d live up to her end. Two men. Two deaths.

 

The denizens of Pearl Lane were running out of time… and in the current climate, Pearl Lane was a powder keg in the midst of a ceruleum-drenched city. That keg needed emptying. Careful handling, at the very least. Nero was the only one who knew how. Nero was the only one who could tell them.

 

For that, Osric Melkire would hand Nero Lazarov the keys to the kingdom, just in time for Delial Grimsong to sidle up alongside the smuggler and teach him what a true viper was capable of.

 

As for Taeros, the sergeant had gone ahead and enacted the very plan which he’d so vaguely outlined for Lazarov. He hadn’t dared risk exposure before now, though. He knew better. Plausible deniability. Alibis. For those, he needed someone else to do his dirty work. Dirk Problemsolver could not solve this problem. So he’d gone to the one professional he’d once been gaoled with.

 

He had hired Blizzard Yuko and given him the names of known associates of Jameson Taeros along with the names of other key Monetarists.

 

Blizzard Yuko was an oddity. There were more riddles to his enigma than the unusual name. The miqo’te male had been snubbed on payment by the albino following the failed “assassination attempt” on the sultana. Once Askier Mergrey had broken Melkire and Yuko out, the two fugitives had fled for the hills surrounding Black Brush… and there, Osric had offered to take up the two million gil debt owed to the man.

 

”Small payments, mind. Increments o’, say, twenty thou’. I pay you? You work for me.”

 

It had started out as an exercise in prevention, paying Yuko to stay out of Thanalan and away from Ul’dah. Small payments made out to the male and delivered at seemingly-random drop points all over Eorzea. He’d kept up with his end of the deal, which had required some creative redistribution of Red Wings’ funds and an… odd apprenticeship or two, but he’d kept the gil flowing for moons. Then Lazarov demanded his price, and the sergeant had known just who to go to.

 

Osric could only hope that the rising body count had Taeros fraying at the ends of his rope, because in three sun’s time, he, Kiht Jakkya and one other, along with some assistance from Tylwyth Narah, would be making for the Black Cells, ostensibly to rescue Roen. Melkire cared only to slit one man’s throat and hopefully not die trying.

 

But first, a message. Psychological warfare, was what folks called it. A mental assault, intended to induce panic. Classic assassin tactic.

 

He inhaled, breaking the eternal moment, and eyed the green linkpearl again.

 

I have help.

I have my knives.

I have everythin’ Masters Rosethorne and Armstrong ever taught me.

And I have that.

 

If I ever needed help, it’s now.

If there’s anyone ‘sides the runt who’s ever deserved steel, it’s him.

There’ll be pain, but I’ll endure. Survival is a matter of will and desire.

For everythin’ else, much as I hate sharpin’, there’s a stacked deck.

 

I can do this.

 

He breathed out then back in, one deep breath that came out in a sigh as he smirked and nodded at Endemerrin. He plucked the pearl from the former Garlean’s fingers, placed it in his ear, held it there, and spoke.

 

"This message is intended for Taeros. I would appreciate if those who can would pass the message along. Dear Jameson, you fop, my condolences. Your friends must have meant the world t'you, as mine do t'me. Hopin' t'see you soon."

 

He almost pulled the little marble to hand back to Rosethorne, but then he paused… and tapped at it again.

 

"Oh, and one last thing--“

 

Kage. Natalie. Roen. Gharen. Itarliht. Askier. Coatleque. Now Roen again. Himself soon to follow. Sultansworn, paladins, the reformed. Falls from grace. A procession of them. The fault to be laid at one man’s doorstep.

 

And now the gods-damned bastard had compromised the sergeant’s network.

 

“--quit stealin' my shite."

 

He all but ripped the linkpearl from his ear and tossed it underhanded to Merri. The male caught it one-handed, hammer in the other, and nodded. Words were exchanged, but the sergeant was barely paying attention… until, that is, Rosethorne strolled over to his furnace, considered the linkpearl carefully… and then just tossed the little sphere into the flames. Osric’s lips curled upward at the ends.

 

“…you’re jokin’.”

 

He was still smiling that shite-eating grin when, what felt like a handful of moments later, Endemerrin pulled the master linkpearl from the forge with a set of tongs, set it against an anvil, and brought the hammer down. The white-hot marble all but disintegrated.

[Roen]

Armored boots splashed through shallow puddles, the tall arched stoneway carrying the sound of lone footsteps further into the hollow winding tunnels.

 

"I asked you once, Mister North. Forgiveness or compromise. You said forgiveness is unconditional."

 

Torchlight flickered and glistened off old grey walls aged with years of neglect and darkness, and shadows cast a ghostly pall upon the fingers of mildew that clasped onto the cracks of the stones. Rats scurried into their holes, away from the sole armored figure running through the waterways beneath the earth.

 

"I...chose to forgive. But it is not a decision everyone agrees with."

 

Roen's mind whirled with too many thoughts. It had been days since Coatleque's visit, and since then she had been given water, food, and a cot to lay upon. Sleep had finally come, and she had been left undisturbed; no longer did the heavy irons bind her immobile to the stony floor for days on end. She barely recalled the conversation that she and the Sworn shared, and the preceding days of exhaustion and delirium had blurred into one another in her memory.

 

“I apologize, Miss Deneith, but that death is not yours to forgive.”

 

Her legs felt steady enough to carry her once more, although the crimson chainmail hung loose from her thin shoulders. The paladin did not care. She was finally free of that cursed cell and equipped with one of the off-duty Brass Blade’s armor and sword. She raced down the ancient tunnels beneath Thanalan, even though she found her weakened body stumbling, demanding her to stop for breaths more often than not.

 

“If Miss prefers, consider not what you believe you must do, but instead what you must not do.”

 

Mister North had delivered to her guards plates of thick tender eft steaks. The valet had even made them choose which plate to give to her while hoarding the rest for the watch. Clever, that. Removing himself from possible blame, Roen thought to herself. While he set out the steak for her, he bemoaned the fact that he should have spiced it as well as he did the nopales dumplings. Such an addition would have perfected the flavor, he said.

 

That was when Roen regained that breath of hope that had been robbed from her for too many suns. Even while they stripped her and chained her to the floor, the guards had not searched her cell. They had not discovered the small vial she had hidden beneath the cot, nor removed the hairpin buried under her ponytail. So when Mister North was allowed to deliver her the complete meal as he had promised many suns ago, she was prepared.

 

Roen added the sleep ward potion to the steak after the butler left, and ate the whole thing. She cared not for the strange aftertaste that the potion left behind. The piece of meat was a welcomed addition to bolster her strength for what was to come, and she suspected it counteracted whatever spice he had added to the rest of the eft steaks.

 

“My life...what is a measure of a life’s worth?”

 

When the paladin drew the hairpin shaped lock pick from her ponytail and opened the cell door, she was relieved to find the rest of the guards sound asleep outside next to their empty plates.

 

“To turn away from my path would mean rendering all of the sacrifices thus far meaningless...and I cannot do that. Those deaths...they had to have meant something.”

 

She knew she should have turned right when she turned left. Fresh air led to freedom and Western Thanalan, as she was told by the valet.

 

But she took the other turn instead -- the one that led toward the Goblet. She tried to recall the turns she had taken, albeit blinded with a hood over her head, when she was first brought down to the Black Cells.

 

"Conflict in this world is not brought about by evil people, but by good people who believe they are doing evil things for the right reasons."

 

A few memories refused to leave her from her days of starvation and fragmented thoughts. Trying to keep things in focus then felt like treading water while chained by heavy links of fatigue, thirst, and hunger. But there remained a few thoughts, and they were painfully sharp and fixed like a nail hammered into her head.

 

"I won't cut where it ain't needed. And I won't be the one makin' most o' the cuts, anyroad."

 

Perhaps it was the effects of the sleep ward that sharpened her senses. Her heart was pounding like a wild animal caught, and her eyes darted constantly left and right to spot any stray movements of shadows. Was it this heightened anxiety that lent even more focus to the goals that had coalesced in her mind during those fevered dreams?

 

"Nero wants to cut deep t'make things better. I'm content t'just cut out the bullet."

 

All that she had endured in the past cycle, Roen could trace to one man. Of all the Monetarists nobles that she and Nero had opposed, only one face emerged as the most manipulative of them all. Aside from the members of the Syndicate, who else could she target? Who else could she affect? In the chaotic churning of agitated thoughts, Roen’s mind settled on one thing and one thing only. The only thing she could do, when all the other goals had failed.

 

"There's one man that needs puttin' out."

 

It was in such a state that she somehow spotted the small side tunnel hidden amongst the stones. She ascended the steps to find herself behind the wooden door.

 

"The man is entirely too competent at stirrin' up suffering. It needs to end."

 

When she crossed the threshold, she found herself surrounded by deep maple walls decorated with rich paintings and plush rugs beneath her feet.

 

“You're on the edge of a knife. Don't fall."

 

She was in Taeros' manse.

[Roen]

“Is it even remotely possible you could be the slightest bit wrong about me?"

 

Gideon was there, with Jameson Taeros in his study.

 

Roen had entered with a scimitar in hand, the small round shield of the Brass Blades buckled onto her arm. She did not notice the aching fatigue to her limbs nor her breaths that came short and quick. Her senses were almost spinning with the thoughts of failed plans and hopes. Her heart was pounding and her mind throbbed with a need to do something. Anything.

 

All those deaths could not have been for nothing. All the suffering…all that had happened…

 

Anden Anduron.

 

Crimson Mountain.

 

Natalie.

 

Crofte.

 

It had to end.

 

“I would not expect you to follow, especially if I decide the snows of Ishgard are more to my--” Taeros was seated behind his desk, fingers laced upon his lap, speaking evenly to his valet when he spotted her at the door. He raised his brows at the woman in the Brass Blade armor. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

 

Gideon turned with his gaze upon her as well. “Sir is not to be disturbed without prior appointment or myself as an intermediary, Miss.” His tone was sharp and crisp.

 

Roen knew she had only seconds to act while she still had the advantage. Both the men’s attention went to her drawn weapon, and even as she took quick steps across the room, she spotted Gideon drawing his thin book from his jacket in a smooth languid motion. She did not want to, but she had to incapacitate the butler. Anything else would implicate him or put her at a disadvantage.

 

“Milord, the prisoner has escaped!” She knew her lie would not be believed, both men would recognize her voice soon enough. But it bought her enough time to close the distance between herself and the valet. With a hidden grimace, she bashed Gideon on the head with her shield. She forced her expression to remain neutral as she saw his head slam from her fist to the desk, sending a tea tray there flying. The paladin could not afford another glance to the man -- her friend -- as he lay motionless on the floor.

 

“Now see here…” Jameson started even as his hands unclasped from his lap and slipped beneath the desk. Roen knew not if he was reaching for something, but she could not take any chances. She summoned aether into a blinding flash of light as she darted around the desk.

 

“Do not move, lest you lose a hand," she ordered. "Or something more vital.” She held the blade at ready.

 

“At ease, friend,” the noble said calmly as he slowly brought his hands up into plain view. She could see that he did not remain blinded for long, as he slowly stood from his seat. He frowned. “Roen.”

 

The paladin took another step forward, setting the edge of her blade against his neck before the noble regained his full bearings.

 

Taeros did not seem fazed. He glanced to his unconscious valet. “Gideon treated you with utmost respect. That was unworthy.” His disappointment was clear in his bent brows. “He is no threat to you.”

 

"He is another one of yours. At least he will come to no further harm if he remains unconscious." Roen forcibly kept the guilt from her tone and refused to look to where the butler still laid. She prayed that he was not hurt badly.

 

"He should come to no further harm regardless."

 

Roen narrowed her eyes on the noble. "You, on the other hand."

 

Jameson only smiled. "The end for me?" he asked softly.

 

The paladin flexed her fingers slightly around the hilt of her scimitar. There was hesitation that coiled her wearied muscles. "Why not? You have caused so much sorrow." She hated the emotion that was already rising in her voice.

 

"Many. Yes. I am rarely who people want me to be.”

 

"There is a reason why so many believe the world would be a better place if you were no more." Her arm shook slightly from the weight of the armor and the sword. Or was it her doubts that made her tremble? "Would this not be a better place, if today was your last?"

 

“One life to save many. That is so very Lazarov of you,” Taeros said with a sneer.

 

"I am…nothing like him." The anger in her retort could not be muted.

 

He tilted his head. “I am very willing to die," he said softly, "but I would ask for a few questions to be answered first." He inclined his head deferentially. "If I may go screaming into the hells with due knowledge.”

 

Roen clenched her fist tight to steady her grip. She nodded once.

 

"These recent murders. You truly know nothing of them?"

 

Roen blinked behind the fly-mask. "The nobles...?" She shook her head. "I knew of no such plans for assassination." Even in her denial, she felt a sudden chill in her spine as she looked to the length of her own blade that ended at the man’s throat. What was she considering now if it was not assassination?

 

Jameson nodded. "Then perhaps Lazarov's aim will be met regardless. I have come upon some recent information which leads me to believe the Syndicate's demise may very well be accomplished from within."

 

“What…?”

 

The noble’s eyes flickered to the blade, just a moment, and then back to the paladin. "One of the councilmembers, if not more than one, is beginning the necessary steps forward toward an ultimately bloody endgame, now that the Sultanate has taken some notable defeats." He curled a thin smile. "I was just discussing with Mr. North our relocation options. Ishgard is cold, but dragons are safer than my friends these days, it seems. The removal of certain key Monetarists only lent my enemies more ammunition."

 

The paladin stared at him. "...You think yourself a target then. From the Monetarists reorganizing from within?"

 

"Trimming the fat, so to speak. Congratulations, Roen. All your efforts have paid off. The scales have been tipped, and not in my favor. I do not intend to be here for the end result." His smile broadened suddenly. "Nor, it seems, do you intend for me to be."

 

Roen gritted her teeth. "I never wanted your death. Despite all that you have done. I thought targeting you would cause a disadvantage for the rest of the Monetarists. Along with the rest, I wanted you and your kind to face justice.”

 

Taeros shrugged. "I was paranoid. I admit to as much. Lazarov's threat blinded me to the actual enemy, and it was not at my gates, but within. Too many secrets have spilled out of this wound. I must concede the game."

 

“Justice is all I wanted from the start. But laying in that cell for suns, delirious, I began to see that you must have something personal against me."

 

The nobled blinked, surprised. "Against you?"

 

"Why else disgrace three Sultansworns? I was freshly sworn in. Is it because I am a Garlean like you? You had me placed under Anduron. Do you know what kind of man he is?!"

 

Taeros seemed to bristle a little. "My treatment of you was ill becoming of me, I will grant, and I had hoped to make amends of it with my more recent gentle care and your eventual freedom. But..." He frowned, and his words turned sharper. "I have actually been protecting you. Did I not relinquish the evidence of your heritage to Natalie? As to Anduron..." he sighed. "Yes. Another misstep amidst so many. He owed me a favor. I thought you were shielded. I did not know Anden for the creature he was. I have him far away now, where he can harm very few."

 

“No more lies!" Roen snarled, as she gripped again her sword, the edge of her blade turning just slightly against his neck. "Every word out of your lips is a lie, that is how you play the game is it not? You yourself sit here in your gilded throne of wealth posing as an Ul'dahn noble, and yet you worked to condemn me for the Imperial heritage that you and I both share."

 

The smile on the noble was unsettling. “Is that what you think?”

 

"What else should I think?"

 

“Words will not sway your mind, but...they say a picture is worth a thousand. Might I stay my death a moment longer to show you something I have in my possession? It will require me to unlock a strong box I keep beneath my desk. If I may?"

 

Roen swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. She nodded, and took a single step back to allow him room.

 

He glanced at the sword still hovering near him. "You needn't shave me with that. You are armed and armored, and I am not. Just plunge your blade through my back if you find my movements offensive."

 

Taeros lowered his hands, and it was only then that the paladin spotted the blade that slipped immediately into his palm...but he casually tossed it onto the desk as he lowered himself to one knee, drawing out a key from a chain around his neck.

 

"We share Garlean roots. That is true. But moreover..." He unlocked the strong box. "I was allowed passage to Ul'dah because of my roots. I was very good at blending in with the rest of the Eorzeans. Once I arrived, the Empire found many uses for me. But after the Calamity, I had a singular task assigned to me by a woman named Raelisanne Banurein. It was to find you and return you to your father, Dorien nan Luraes."

 

Roen found herself frozen and rooted where she stood.

 

The noble removed a locket from the strong box and opened it carefully and slid it across the desk toward her. When it nearly slid off the edge, Roen lowered her blade instinctively to catch it. Taeros only waited patiently as she studied the rendering within, a red-haired woman with deep blue eyes.

 

The paladin stared intently at the face she knew all too well from her childhood. "What…is this."

 

"That is the locket Melia Luraes gifted to me the day she agreed to wed your father. She hoped I would remember her kindly. I have.” His tone softened. "I loved her. If you can believe it. But I was not worthy of her returned affections."

 

Roen could not tear her eyes away from the locket and the picture within. "You…you knew my mother...?"

 

"You remain a quandry, I will grant.” Jameson sighed. “I cannot return you to your father. In truth I despise the man, and not for his more obvious crimes. And yet you continually ally yourself with my enemies. It would be one thing to forgive if you merely remained on the side of the law and sought to bring me in for justice. No doubt I have wronged many of the people of Ul'dah in some fashion. Although…I have come to love them too, in a way. I am unwilling to return to Garlemald."

 

The paladin could only stand in shocked silence, her eyes darting from the locket to the man standing before her. The man she thought she knew everything about.

 

“But no.” Jameson sighed, his gaze boring into her. “It had to be Lazarov. Of all people.”

 

Roen’s eyes were wide beneath the mask and her words came slowly. “I...do not...believe..."

 

“Yes, you do.” He seemed almost disdainful of her as he glared back at her.

 

The paladin’s sword only hung limp by the leather loop from her wrist, she had released it without knowing, the locket still in her palm. She did nothing as Taeros rounded the desk to kneel by his valet who was now stirring on the ground.

 

“My...humblest apologies, sir…” Roen heard Gideon murmur.

 

Roen shoved the locket in her belt pouch as she too walked around the desk. Gideon had a line of blood trickling from his hairline and shards of shattered porcelain littering his dark hair.

 

“No offense at all, Mr. North," Taeros said calmly. "I do not believe you will be assaulted any further.” Jameson’s tone was surprisingly gentle and reassuring as he removed the valet’s handkerchief and placed it on the wound. “Be at ease, and do hold that there."

 

Gideon kept the cloth held while his other hand fumbled for a little silver booklet he had drawn out earlier. “Yes. I will...my book, I can...repair myself, adequately.”

 

Roen approached both of them hesitantly and somewhat awkwardly. "I can...I should heal him. I am the one that..." She was fumbling herself for words, she could not recall any of the rage or the certainty that drove her to come here in the first place.

 

"No arcana at this moment, Mr. North, please,” Taeros chided. He then shook his head the looked at the paladin disapprovingly. “You struck a servant, woman.” As though the act were beneath the basest villain.

 

Gideon looked up to her as well, speaking with mustered politeness, his words somewhat muddled. “Miss's...deliberate non-lethality is...well-noted, and appreciated.”

 

The words only made her grimace. She was glad for the mask for it hid her deep guilt, even as she knelt next to the butler. She gave the noble one more single wary glance before she removed one gauntlet, laying her bare hand on Gideon’s temple. “Hold still, please.”

 

“Could I perhaps find a chair for anyone…?” Gideon mumbled.

 

“No, Mr. North, please remain still for the nonce.” Jameson laid a firm hand on the valet. He shot the paladin a frown even as she closed her eyes to summon the aether for a cure spell. “He did not present a threat to you," James said, continuing to chide her. Few things apparently made him as irked as having an injured manservant. "It was absurd and emotionally triggered.”

 

Roen inhaled sharply when the healing was done, her eyes opening to assess the mended wound. She gently took the handkerchief from his hand and lightly dabbed the bloodstains from Gideon’s cheeks. “My apologies,” she murmured.

 

“My humblest thanks, Miss.” Gideon nodded. His eyes then went to the shattered porcelain about them and frowned in dismay.

 

“And there we go," Jameson murmured. "Friends anon.”

 

The paladin stiffened, dropping her hand as soon as she heard those words, setting the handkerchief upon the butler’s lap. She rose abruptly, only to find herself swaying slightly at the effort. She hid it quickly enough, but her hand went to the hilt of the sword just in case. The fire within was gone. The pounding of her heart had ceased. Her body ached once more and her mind and muscles screamed with exhaustion. The sleep ward was fading from her system, as was her bloodlust. She turned for the door.

 

“Roen,” Taeros called out after her. “That is my locket.”

 

The paladin stopped just by the doorway, fishing the locket from her pouch and laying it on the nearby mantle. She did not turn back to the men behind her.

 

“Also, I would advise against returning to the city,” Jameson said calmly. “You are still wanted for crimes against the city-state.”

 

Roen did not answer him as she exited.

[Warren Castille]

They say a man can be most at peace with a fishing rod in his hand. The quiet challenge of man versus nature, cunning versus instinct - a baited line goes taut and it becomes a battle of wills. If you fish for amusement, merely besting your indigenous foe is enough. If you fish for survival, the difference in success can be life or death.

 

Warren Castille was never much of a fisherman.

 

He'd existed on the periphery, as he was wont to do - He would never be so bold as to say he was hiding in plain sight, but he was aware of his position in the public eye. Moreso recently, given his status at the Grindstone. Warren was a public fixture, as much as any Sultansworn or timely Brass Blade. Warren was a figure you would trust, someone who did the Right Thing. Even in the face of tricky questioning - Have you heard this name? Did you see someone matching this description? Do you know which lights in a particular manse turn off, and when? - eyes would shift but words could tumble out.

 

Secrets are safest with the trusted, after all.

 

He wasn't able to uncover the gritty details, the true nuts and bolts behind whatever blood feud had been the catalyst for his own involvement. It was a gut feeling, the sort of thing that had kept him alive and returning home to his wife - because she was his wife now - and had served him for the years leading up to that. Instincts that he had come to embrace, instincts that had pushed him across boundaries he felt he could never truly return from. Instincts had reunited him with his whole, and in spite of the fact that the man who'd requested his help had once tried to use a terrorist attack as a distraction for assassination, his instincts told him that this was a worthy endeavor.

 

Warren had spent the days between Osric asking him to be present digging. It had been moons since he and Howl had watched her slink away with him and it seemed like an eon since the rumors had started spreading. He kept his distance, as Warren always did, but he also continued listening. There wasn't a question in his mind what was transpiring, and the details - the big picture - weren't as important as the minutiae involved. It was a truth that Warren held to his heart since he first picked up a sword and shield. It was never about a greater good, or doing the best for the realm. He'd begun learning a lifetime ago for the sake of a girl, and it had always been about the smallfolk. He was one of them, and he was in a position to see through their survival and help them thrive.

 

There was a phantom noose hanging around the throats of Ul'dah. The particular gallow it hung from wasn't important; Only the rope that threatened to draw taut like so many fishing lines in the past was on his mind as he double and triple checked the buckles and straps protecting him. Whispers on the wind alluded to some larger plan, some grander threat, but that was a phantom for him now. Warren wouldn't be distracted by what-ifs and rumors.

 

There was enough evidence, both gathered and observed personally, for him to know that he was doing the Right Thing. He knew it was entirely possible that his actions would pave the way for something worse to march through uncontested in the hole they intended to create. If that was the case, Warren would do what he was counted on and relied upon to do.

 

Judgment.

[Nero]

"A wonderful device, is it not? I think we can call this 'evening the odds'." Nero lightly kicked the sheet of carefully manufactured metal plates he was standing next to. Bright lanterns blazed to illuminate the inside of the ramshackle building. The windows and doors had all been carefully and thoroughly boarded in order to prevent any light from escaping. "Of course, it's not going to be as big as the final product was originally intended, but it should be a fun little thing to use anyway."

 

The Highlander made no response, sticking a tongue out of the side of his mouth as he pored through a thin leather-bound volume. As the pair spoke, members of Scythe's gang carried parts and pieces from a tunnel that had been dug beneath the building. The tunnel didn't extend very far--it reached to just outside the walls and was flimsily hidden by shrubbery--but it was enough to avoid the gates and it more or less avoided most road traffic. Of course, even that small, cramped tunnel had taken several months of nonstop work, and more than once its construction had risked detection, but so far it seems that the gang's efforts had been worth building such a route.

 

Nero frowned as he leaned against the wall, folding his arms. "I even labelled the parts for you. Getting the pieces into Thanalan wasn't easy, you know." The Hyur snorted. Of course, given that he no longer had the Forte, leaving Thanalan undetected would be far more difficult than entering.

 

Suffice to say, he was more or less committed to this course of action now.

 

Scythe made no attempt to respond as he carefully traced a meaty index finger through the ink of the paper, his gaze having taken on a quality of sharpness that most would consider uncharacteristic of a brute of his size and girth. It was only after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence that he spoke. "And this will work?" he growled.

 

Nero shrugged. "I'd certainly be disappointed in a certain genius Elezen if it didn't. He had all of that raw material and wanted his precious reactor to have some practical application. Though, if nothing else, you can use the plates as shields. Maybe whack some people over the head with them."

 

The pirate received an unamused glare for his efforts.

 

Another shrug. "Just be glad I'm not charging you for this. I'm giving you all of this out of the goodness of my heart, you know." The familiar smirk flashed itself across his face, a twinkle in his eye. "Call it a sentimental gift for old times' sake."

 

"The sooner I am rid of you, pirate, the better," the Highlander pressed his lips together disdainfully.

 

"After everything we've been through?" The Midlander put on a wounded expression that came across as grotesquely demure and wholly inappropriate for a man of his age.

 

"Enough," Scythe snarled, folding the leather-bound pamphlet into his robed sleeve. "As long as this device works, then I've no more need for you or your coin." Nero merely grinned for several minutes before unfolding and refolding his arms, his countenance taking on a considerably more serious expression.

 

"The device will work, I guarantee you. I wouldn't have bothered getting the parts into the city if there was a chance it wouldn't. And have no worry, after this little escapade I've no more coin to spend anyway, not that I'd give much more to you if I had." True, this endeavour had cost him practically everything. Though his savings would lend him a modest living--at least for a decade or so, if he maintained some measure of frugality--all of his funding was truly required in order for this to work. Nero was certain that someone had noticed him liquidating all of his assets, though by the time they connected the dots, it'd likely be too late.

 

It was absolutely an all-or-nothing gamble.

 

Nero lightly tapped the sheets of metal with his foot. "Just be aware that once you've started the reactors, you won't be able to turn it off. A little bit of a design flaw. It'll keep chugging until it explodes or runs out of fuel. The run time will be about seven or eight bells of continuous operation.

 

"What about magic?" Scythe grunted. Nero shrugged.

 

"Gilding it would have taken money I don't have, but it should be reasonably durable. It's not as flimsy as your average reaper. Then again, you boys have guns for a reason." Another shrug. "Anyone starts trying to cast aether at it, just kill them." The pirate brushed a hand through his hair. "In any case, try not to waste this, hmm? I'll be very disappointed if I can't see the fireworks from Vylbrand."

 

Scythe grunted and gestured to a group of idle men nearby. "My associate assures me that assembly should be relatively easy so long as you're careful. Oh, but you won't be able to fit it out the door, so when your little revolution is ready, you'll probably have to simply bust down the wall."

 

Nero received no response from the Highlander who was now thoroughly absorbed with the thin leather volume. With a smirk, he pulled his hood over his face and ducked into the tunnel to leave.

 

He'd thought his involvement in this was done, but it seemed he was wrong about himself. A rare occurrence, perhaps, Roen was right about one thing: he couldn't have left it as it was. It required some resolution, some ending. If Scythe was successful, then Nero would be vindicated in his beliefs, and if Scythe failed, then Nero would also be vindicated in his beliefs. So long as he himself didn't get captured or killed, this would be worth it.

 

Women and children, women and children. The phrase was enough to give him a rousing headache. Nero pinched his temple between his thumb and index finger as he sidled along the narrow tunnel. No, at this point he didn't particularly care about women and children. It wasn't as if his conscience had fully left him--probably--but this had ceased being about lives long ago, though Nero's past self failed to recognise it. This was a war of ideals, and it was a message, too. It was a message about inaction, a message about crossing lines, a message about morals, a message about change.

 

It was a message, that everything had a breaking point.

 

Nero pulled out a chronometer from within the folds of his tattered robe. Soon, all of the principle actors would be where they needed to be.

 

It was just about time for the curtain to rise on the finale.

[Roen]

“Are ye sure?”

 

Brynnalia bolted to a seat from her lazy recline, the heels of her leather boots stomping hard on the wooden floor as her index finger pressed hard on the pearl in her ear. She could not believe what she just heard.

 

A group was heading down the tunnels from below the Hammers, towards the Black Cells. That news itself was a bit of a surprise considering the most likely prisoner of interest in those cells had escaped but a day ago. Brynnalia had expected cold rage from Taeros with the delivery of the news, but instead she found an odd quietude about him since. Where she may have assumed to see murderous ruthlessness, she now only saw a shadow of weariness about him that was uncharacteristic of the Monetarist noble.

 

Then the very next day, she had to deliver another ill tiding to her employer: a third Monetarist noble was found murdered. This news came from Vesper Bay, where the head of the House Mumuqaru had been found with his throat slit open. He had been on a carriage that was to take him to the next ship bound for Limsa Lominsa. No one could say exactly when the Lalafellin noble had been killed, only that it was on the way to Vesper Bay. They had not discovered his body until the carriage had reached its destination however.

 

Of course, upon his person was yet another letter, one that detailed a conspiracy between Mumuqaru, Quillburn, and Rezhenne. The setup was almost predictable now, but even so, it did not bode well for her employer. The fact that it was the third Monetarist noble killed, and one within Taeros’ circle…

 

Jameson Taeros did not take well to that news either. But this time, as expected, he took it with his usual air of detachment. Brynn could still see his displeasure in those pale amber eyes however.

 

Brynnalia knew that Taeros was affected more by his conflict with Lazarov than he would ever show. She had learned some details of his recent financial debts which made her worry about her own employment. The increased number of guards he had hired and the losses he had suffered in terms of reputation and material goods, slowly but surely drained the Monetarist's resources. All because of Lazarov and that Deneith girl.

 

With at least the latter in custody, and Crofte and Grimsong's recent partnership, Brynnalia thought for certain that they had some viable leads to track down the revolutionary pirate. But their recent trip to Mor Dhona proved fruitless yet once again, as they only found another middle man to the smuggler with no direct contact. All they discovered was an abandoned cove where the pirate used to store Garlean metal and ceruleum cores. But nothing remained by the time they had reached the place, and nothing led to Lazarov. Crofte and she had returned to Ul'dah empty handed.

 

Perhaps this news may change things, she thought to herself as she hurried through the manse toward the noble’s office and private chamber. When she entered, she saw Taeros flipping through papers at his desk, and his valet at his side. The heavily armored guard that had recently become Taeros’ ever present shadow also stood by the door, and there was a fourth figure--a cloaked man with a scepter hanging by his side near the hearth. She glanced to all of them as she collected her breath.

 

“I have some news.” Her urgent tone drew the attention of all those within. “A group is headed down the waterways toward the Black Cells.” When Taeros arched a single brow, she continued. “And one of them, matches the description of Nero Lazarov.”

 

That brought Jameson’s full attention as he set the parchment in his hand down. The armored figure turned toward her with a metallic creak as well. “Are you certain?” the noble asked sharply.

 

Brynnalia nodded. “He matches the description given to the guards, and given the fact that the person kept there until yesterday was supposedly of interest to the pirate…” She shrugged. “It might be him.” She fished out another pearl from her pouch and plugged it into her other ear. "I'll notify Crofte."

 

There was a determined set to the noble's jaw as the Taeros rose from his seat. "Mr. North, help me get into my armor."

[Leggerless]

Lynx looked down at the note that C'kayah had written on the job board, reading it quietly to herself.

...We're working with Osric and Kiht to draw Taeros out and attack him.

 

To do this, we need the location of the Black Pit, a Monetarist prison in Western Thanalan...

 

Must be another opportunity to make some gil to pay for her funds, right? Being an informer does not bring steady pay. Some days you can make a few hundred thousand gil and other days a paltry sum of less than a hundred. She would need to get gil whenever she could, and this job... this was an opportunity to do what she was good at.

 

Her real performance in the grand scheme of fate and destiny--if she were willing to call it that--soon developed with a woman named Stormchild. Red hair, a pair of pince-nez, and red clothing adorned her figure, as well as a feisty appetite for alcoholic beverages--specifically of the rum and brandy variety. Lynx had considered her a quaint little bird that has found its way into a cage. The best way to meet with someone such as herself? Why, bring her guest down to a bar and have a few drinks, of course! Be a gracious host and perhaps receive a gracious guest in turn, she thought.

 

Their pleasant exchange mutually benefited one another. She got the location of the Black Cells, an underground network of tunnels and cells a small distance north of the Hammers in Western Thanalan and a description of what type of guards would be there, while Stormchild got her fair share of free drinks.

 

A few suns later she made an attempt to convene L'kenthi, C'kayah, Osric, and Kiht all back to the estate. The first two were unable to make the meeting, which left Lynx alone with Osric and Kiht to deliver the information and allow them to formulate their plan. For Osric, a small glass of pineapple juice mixed with rum sated his thirst. For Kiht, no drink was required. She gave the information, with a little bit of embellishment and pizzazz much to Osric's frustration, and talked with her two guests. She told them about the Brass Blades and mercenaries that were expected to be guarding the cells down there, as well as a warning that the guard information may not be accurate due to some developments in Ul'dah. Osric and Kiht were free to do as they pleased now knowing where their friend was held.

 

What she didn't know, however, was why these two were so keen on reaching this place. Some extrapolation on Lynx's side would assume it's someone of high value who's being purposefully kept alive... yet she did not have a name for a face. She pressed Osric and Kiht for this information, yet received no quarter or even the slightest hint of an answer to her questions. One last look through her options on how to know that which she must know were slim, and she decided on something a villain would not normally consider.

 

Helping out the heroes of the tale for no extra cost.

 

If anything were to get the attention of Kiht and Osric, it would be that. Osric, though reluctant in his decision, allowed her the chance to help save whoever was inside of these cells and more openly talked about their plan to save the captive. It was agreed upon to be a group of four to five people in the rescue party: Lynx, Osric, Kiht, and one--possibly two--others of Ala Mhigan descent. She was to directly assist Kiht, while Osric and the others provided the proper distractions.

 

After Osric and Kiht left the estate, Lynx was stopped by Lani, a white-haired female Miqo'te; a woman she would consider her direct boss. She gave a few warnings about Osric and his past, to which Lynx had dismissed given the current situation.

 

"Osric? It isn't him that I'm afraid of... it's the Miqo'te woman that was with him. I know nothing about her, yet she was able to peel away a layer of my personality within two bells." She pauses for a moment before speaking again to consider her implications. "...Thank you for the warning though. I'll be more careful around him." With this, she headed up the stairs and back to her room, to her books, and to her maps.

 

It was true, afterall, that Lynx knew nothing about Kiht. A fear of that which you know nothing about passed through her mind when she pondered about the Miqo'te, but it was nothing to be concerned about now. There were more pressing matters at hand.

 

---

 

Many suns later in the present, outside the Gate of the Sultana where the group was meeting, she found Warren covered in armor from head to toe standing next to Osric, his face and body covered by the black robe he wore. She paused a moment, looking at the robed man with a raised eyebrow.

 

Wait a minute, who was this again? She thought to herself briefly, before hearing his voice as confirmation. Nevermind, that is Osric. She chuckles a bit to herself as the group of three wait in the rain for their next companion Kiht, who arrived soon after Lynx with a spear, leather armour, and a mask covering most of her face.

 

Right, right… a quick, tactical analysis. She tried to ponder through the rest of her thoughts without bringing too much attention to herself. As she pondered, the fireteam made their way towards the North Hammer, where the Black Cell is located.

 

Her thoughts coincided with whom she looked at, assessing each person’s skills at a glance. She looked first at the front of the group.

 

Mhm… Warren. Plate armour, brandishing a sword and shield. He’ll be useful for any encounters against arrows, so long as he doesn’t receive a hit in the cracks of his armour. At the very least, he will provide a counter towards any heavily armoured personnel.

 

A glance to her left followed after Warren’s quick assessment.

 

Kiht. An elusive Miqo’te to be sure, yet her combat capabilities are likely with that spear of hers. I’ll expect her to break through the line while Warren attempts to keep the more dangerous enemies on him.

 

From Kiht, she turned her head over towards Osric. A slight smirk showed on her face as she looked his way.

 

And Osric! Equipped with two dagger-sized blades, he’s going to be the person—besides myself—the most capable of slipping past the enemy vanguard. His sergeant status will likely set him as the ad hoc leader of this group. If he has knives he can throw, he can improve his function within the unit.

 

She looked down at herself, patting down her coat and touching the hilts of both of her blades.

 

Let’s see here… lockpicks, a few bandages, throwing knives, and a small logbook. Doubt our enemies will sit for a story this time though. And both of my blades look to be in good condition... Hm. It seems like I’ll have to act the part of an archer for a time, though with knives instead of arrows.

 

She looked across the other three in the group once more before taking out a pair of goggles and putting them over her eyes.

 

Warren in front, Kiht and Osric behind him, and myself as the rear guard... I’d imagine they’ll consider the same kind of formation as well.

 

The group set foot at the entrance to the Black Cell. Osric removed his robe to show a person quite unlike the man she remembered seeing at the Tylwyth Narah estate. She stayed quiet about this, trusting the man to have a plan behind the appearance similar to a very certain pirate her organization has been investigating. One could even say he perfectly resembled Lazarov in height, stature, skin color, and hair color! Though… his eyes. If someone took a second glance, they may see through his carefully made disguise.

 

Within moments after they made their way inside, shouting is heard at the other end of the tunnel. Thuds and crashes, chainmail bashing against the stone, and the splashing of water echoed down the path.

 

“They’ll hire anyone these days, won’t they…?” Warren said.

 

“Recruitment standards are lacking, that’s for certain. You think I boasted and poised and postured and called out his name enough times? I’d like to drop this atrocious accent as soon as possible.” A bit of disgust marked his words as Osric spoke.

 

More footsteps were approaching from the other end of the tunnels. Three? Four? Lynx questioned the number, but didn’t assume that a large number could quickly traverse the tunnels with ease. The light touch of their steps on the ground could assume they were trying to be sneaky, and then—silence.

 

“Kiht, Lynx, from here on out, eyes ‘n’ ears open. Expect anythin’.” Osric says, likely anticipating an encounter. The silence is broken as Warren clangs his sword on his shield, the wardrum of battle echoing throughout the halls.

 

Lynx sighs to herself as she speaks in a soft, yet annoyed voice. “Well, now we can expect anything.” The others either didn’t respond or dismissed her attempt at a joke.

 

“They’ll be in touch on pearl at the very least. They knew we were here before we did.” says Warren.

 

Osric grins, his red shirt and black vest making him an easy target to spot. “Blades, paladins, archers, musketmen… anythin’ ‘n’ everythin’.”

 

“Indeed, I think we have even awakened ancient spirits by now…” Kiht states, before readying her spear.

 

“Front and center, Arbiter?” Osric chimed in.

 

“Makes the most sense.” Warren says, as he steps to the forefront, keeping his shield raised and his eyes open. Lynx almost made a comment about how the enemy knew they were coming, but she stayed her tongue. Pointless questions won’t do much good here.

 

“Line it up.” Osric states; the group putting themselves in order. Like Lynx predicted, they set themselves into a formation much like the one played out in her mind. “Know what folks use t’bring down gates, Ser Castille?”

 

Warren smirks before replying. “I’m familiar. Hold tight, watch your corners.” The team interpreted his sentence as a final piece of advice. Osric tightened the grip on his blades, Warren kept his shield tight to maximize his defense, Kiht prepares her stance, and Lynx puts a blade in her right hand and a throwing knife in her left hand.

 

Osric laughed. “Battering ram.”

[Coatleque]

Meanwhile . . .

 

She had not known that Roen escaped. This news hit her even harder than the rumored intruders as Brynnalia Callae explained the situation to her over linkpearl. "What?! Where is she?" Desperate words from an equally desperate woman who had seen her every attempt at bringing the man to justice thwarted or subverted by incompetence. And now she was to believe the man himself was leading some haphazard assault on a secret prison?

 

"...I have no idea. But ye want tae get Lazarov? This be the perfect chance."

"Fine, fine. I will be there. I only know of the entrance from the manse."

"We gatherin' in the office now."

 

She was met just outside by a Brass Blade she did not recognize. Most likely a new recruit. He stopped her with a halt before questioning her business. She pulled off her visor and glared. "My business with him is rather private." There was a moment before the blade realized who she was from a description given and quickly backed off. "Un, in there, milady." he stammered.

 

Muttering to herself about 'bureaucratic inconveniences' in security, she pulled the turban and visor back down over her eyes and pushed her way through the door into the office. Inside she was immediately greeted by what could have amounted to the small army of those assembled. Miss Callae stood to the side of the room while Jameson's latest security asset stood silently by the door per usual. A cloaked figure that Coatleque remembered from days before was also there, though nowhere nearly as dark and mysterious as the last time they met.

 

An argument was being waged between Brynnalia and the cloaked man, whom appeared to be a thaumaturge of some sort. She was reminding the man of his contractual obligations while he did his best to weasel out of them. Coatleque nodded her approval to the heavily armored figure by the wall before inclining her ear to focus on what was being said beyond the office division. Jameson was there with his valet, and his well-being was of more import than cowards to her at the moment.

 

"The guards posted underground reported a group, one of whom matches the description. Headin' toward the Black Cells. I can only imagine it be Lazarov." Brynnalia began to relay what little information they had when she realized Coatleque had arrived.

 

"Heading? They simply let them pass?" The sworn asked rhetorically. Their thoughts were cut short though when Jameson rounded the corner of the division in full-plate armor matching the heavily armored guard by the door. She quirked an eyebrow almost amusingly at the sight of him before stepping forward. "James? What are you doing?" The man lifted his visor.

 

"They think it's Lazarov."

"Yes, I've heard but..." Her weak objection was only met with a smile.

"Well it seems for once we'll be engaging in intense physicality back-to-back."

"Milord, is that... are you...?"

"Insane? Yes. I have considered that. Do try not to point me out in combat. I require surprise to be on my side."

 

"Your side? An unnecessary risk!" She stepped forward again as if she could personally stop him or change his mind. He could not see the worry behind her eyes through the mask. "You do not mean to face this man yourself?!"

 

Jameson's expression turned suddenly serious. "Oh, I do." She opened her mouth once more to object but the familiar look in his eyes silenced her. Her lips pursed as her defiance began to fade before stepping to his side and bowing her head submissively. "I will stand with you."

 

He directed his attention to the guard by the door then. "You will flank with me. We will take the fight straight to the teeth of Lazarov and remove them, tooth by tooth. Coatleque, I will require you to take whomever is leading their charge. If it's Lazarov, and he is not leading from the rear, let him through to me."

 

She and the guard nodded almost in unison. "As you will, milord.", Coatleque replied.

 

"Mr. North, I fear your finery is at risk."

"Sir...?"

"Your clothes. I am afraid you will have to bill me for the bloodstains to come. Apologies in advance."

"... I am sure I will manage, sir."

 

The raven-haired rogue, meanwhile, regarded them from the side of the room, touching her linkpearl now and again as more information was fed to her from below. A glance was thrown to Gideon momentarily, but he valet merely stared blankly ahead as he awaited further instruction. Perhaps it was his eerie calm or maybe the buzzing in her ear, but the woman began to shift her weight from one foot to another.

 

"We all understand? No names." Jameson said with stern command to he acknowledgement of all.

Brynnalia inhaled and took up her bow to test the string before looking back up to the others. "I'm goin' tae scout ahead."

"Take the guard out front with you." Jameson ordered.

"Will do." The woman turned on her heals pausing only to glance at Coatleque. "I'll keep in touch with the pearl."

 

The table at the side of the room was then brushed clear and a map thrown down. Coatleque wandered over from the desk to the table at the side of the room to stand by Jameson as they perused over the map, making notes of where the tunnels turned, intersected, and doubled back. Another map was laid down by the robed man with a slight nod of acknowledgement from the Lord and the two compared.

 

"Our chance to rid ourselves of this vermin once and for all. A risk worth taking, no?" Jameson pointed to a particular straight away in the map before glancing to her at his side. She returned a sly smile.

 

"In one fell swoop then? I did not expect him to be so brash." She would not admit that something felt off about all of this. She had spoke to Nero over the linkpearl. He made it clear there was no intention of coming for Roen. Why now would he change his mind?

 

"Let us also assume he has tricks up his sleeve." Jameson added.

"Of course. Even he could not make it far alone. Though I doubt a rabble of Limsan pirates would make it far past the bar."

 

The buzz of the linkpearl broke her train of thought as Brynnalia reported in. Coatleque held a hand to her ear listening. "Shall we follow? We have the advantage of knowing these tunnels." Another moment before her hand lowered with a pensive glance to the man beside her. "She counts four targets."

 

"Good." was all the man would say.

"Best get down here now. Quick." came a whispered hiss over the linkpearl.

 

Coatleque looked back up to Jameson as the group began to huddle closer to each other. There was a light in his eyes she had not seen for what seemed weeks now. A certain thrill at ending this once and for all that pushed all tiredness aside in the face of what had to be done. He glanced at her one last time before closing the visor of his helmet. "We go."

[Coatleque]

It did not take long for the group to rendezvous with Brynnalia ahead in the tunnels. Coatleque had taken up the lead with scimitar drawn at the first sight of bodies before. Jameson and his guard flanked each other as discussed while the robed man and Mister North brought up the rear. None of them had the grace or tact of a scout, and if the intruders had not been aware of their approach they certainly were now.

 

Most of the torches were either taken or extinguished. Brynnalia glanced over her shoulder at the Sworn's arrival and tilted her head towards the tunnel ahead. "I think this needs more light around here." Drawing her bow back she lit and released a single flaming arrow towards the darkness.

 

Time could have stood still as they watched the arrow fly through its long arc into the tunnel ahead. It seemed to bounce of a solid object and explode to the side in fiery sparks as a voice bellowed "Archers...!" Coatleque took another step forward, sword outstretched in a defensive position. "Lazarov!", she cried in response.

 

A sickening crunch and gurgling cry came from the front. Still too dim for either side to see what was happening, Brynnalia let fly more flaming arrows to light up the tunnel. Shadowy figures ducked behind the large shape in front with drawn sword flashing in the light. She cursed and looked towards Crofte who had taken another step forward. "Paladins!"

 

"Incoming charge!" Coatleque yelled as she suddenly side-stepped the shield barrelling down upon them. Her scimitar turned back as she swept it low to catch whoever it was by the shin and trip them as with a giant hook. The move was almost anticipated as the oncoming paladin stopped and dropped to one knee. The flash of a blade from the side caused her to jerk her blade upwards, hilt held high, to parry. Their blades now locked, she pressed towards her opponent to keep them as such.

 

The sounds of combat now rang through the hallway as figures before and behind moved through the dim light to press their chosen targets. Coatleque held fast, but could not make out Lazarov amidst the shadows that danced between flames. She pushed against the man before her. "Who are you that you are helping this murderer! He will face justice this night!"

 

There was a cry of pain behind her before the man's blade pressed back against hers in an attempt to regain control. The same deep voice that had warned of the archer before now growled accusingly at her. "You defend the man pulling the strings?! Despite everything he's cost us, cost you?!"

 

"HEAL ME! HEAL ME!"

 

The woman did not let up, but her eyes went wide under her mask as she recognized the voice. "You!" she hissed. "You side with this man for your vigilante justcie!?" A shape moved behind Warren but did not escape her sight. Now moved by anger as well she pushed against Warren's blade with all she could manage to force him backwards into the one attempting to pass.

 

A futile attempt on her part as he outweighed her considerably. The man planted a foot behind and stood his ground. "You back a puppetmaster! You serve one who serves himself! What was his bargain for your part, Crofte? Do you think he's a replacement for John?!"

 

Never before had he referred to her by last name alone in her presence. To add insult he dared mention that name from her past. That name nobody else but her should remember. The murder within her eyes was hidden only by the Blade's mask over her face. "You are not worthy to speak that name to me!", she nearly spat at him.

 

Twisting her blade free, she spun quickly to her left, rolling against his shield before stopping behind and lashing out with one leg against his to force him over. His knee met stone once more as his body twisted to keep the shield between her blade and himself. "Oh, so what is it then Florence?! Are you content to throw away what you've worked for to take the path of least resistance?! Are you a Sultansworn, or are you a puppet of the Syndicate?" There was a fire gleaming in his own eyes, an outrage gleaming in the light of burning arrows. "What ARE you in the dark, Florence? A pining housewife? Or a defender of the people?!"

 

It was then that Coatleque realized their positions were reversed on the field and Lazarov was within striking distance. Warren's words gave her only brief pause. "I am a servant who knows the difference between revenge..." She turned to the pirate to her left. "and JUSTICE!" There was a lunge towards the man as she noticed an immediate opening.

 

Warren saw his own opening, however, and immediately brought his blade down upon hers in full force. Whether by sheer luck, or fate, the blades met at the crossguard of her scimitar before she could bring it to bear. It fell clattering to the stone as she drew back cradling her wrist in her other hand. Her attention was no longer on the man before her, however, as she saw the armored figure further to her left collapse to a knee.

 

"NO!", she cried out. All at once she tucked her shoulder and threw herself to the left at the closest figure to her. Suddenly an unexpected obstacle tumbled in front of her and she tripped, toppling forward just as a sharp blow hit her square across her back.

 

She fell to the stone floor, coughing and gasping for air even through a pained groan. Her vision blurred as the battle raged around her. One arm reached forward and pushed as she tried to lift herself in vain. Instinct began to take control as her left hand reached to her boot and withdrew a long iron spatha. As the stonework came back into focus again her hand reached forward and dug the blade between the cracks in the ground as a lever to pull herself up with.

 

"MELKIRE! WHERE is LAZAROV!?"

 

She rose to one knee and jerked the blade from where it was wedged with her sword arm. Her vision cleared just in time to see Warren barrelling down upon her once again. "You defend he who would defile the Sultanate! What kind of 'Sworn are you!?" She could not defend but only scramble backwards, finally rising to her feet though clearly in pain.

 

She fell back against the wall, her eyes locked on Warren's just as a gunshot rang out through the tunnels.

 

*BLAM*

 

She felt nothing but pain as her back met the stone wall. The sword slipped from her hand and clattered to the stones.

 

*BLAM*

 

She slid against the far wall as her gaze fell upon Osric Melkire, and the smoke rising from his direction.

 

"...no.", she stammered.

[Melkire]

A flaming arrow shot through the air and down the tunnel towards them, only to ricochet off the highlander’s shield and go sailing further into the darkness.

 

The man in the red shirt and the black vest broke formation; he’d been right behind Castille, keeping pace, crabbing along in the Ala Mhigan’s wake, his eyes scanning the shadows for potential ambush. That alone was why he noticed the sellsword they’d just passed, in the brief moments of illumination before the flaming arrow fell and was doused in the water that covered most of the tunnel floor. He threw the knife in his right hand at the hired blade, mere distraction, as more flaming arrows flew overhead. Not all of them landed in the water - one, in fact, skidded off the swordsman’s gauntlet, along with the knife - and so the midlander had plenty of light to work with when he drew back his right fist with a sadistic grin and struck the other man in the gut.

 

“You bitch,” the sellsword grunted... and then the man in red and black drew the knife held reverse-grip in his left hand across the sellsword’s throat, before immediately dropping to his right, the mercenary’s last desperate swing barely missing him.

 

The midlander pushed himself back up and onto his feet as the corpse-to-be let out a death rattle and collapsed behind him with a splash. At a glance… there, Castille, rooted as firmly to the center of the passageway as an Arbiter to his Rock. To his right, another swordsman. More beyond… but there was room for clearance. A breach.

 

“HUNTRESS,” he bellowed, “LET’S GET GOING!”

 

Her ears were twitching this way and that; she and the other hadn’t advanced yet. He took the lead, staying low, their footsteps echoing faintly as the clash of steel rang out loud and clear amidst blood curling screams, punctuated every so often by the occasional twinge and whistle of an arrow being let loose. His heart hammered in his chest.

 

“Passing left!”

 

The swordsman facing Warren pressed against him, desperate to drive the large man back and block the breach… but the highlander hunkered down and braced himself, his mass and weight holding her at bay. The man in red and black was the first to slip behind and past him, his eyes scanning the assembled as he drew another knife from inside his vest.

 

Pointless. He grimaced. Archer, armor, armor, more behind. The armor on the left, gilded. Left and right both with battle axe in hand.

 

The thief cowered in fear.

The assassin knew better than to try.

The soldier assessed the odds and came up short.

 

Through the chaotic din came a hiss that shattered that instant like a sledgehammer to glass. “There. Lazarov.”

 

The monk chuckled as he dropped his knives, left his steel behind as the armored sentinels surged forward, the one on the left thrusting with precision, the one on the right with axe held high. He drew his right fist back as his stance shifted, his elbow drawn up past his shoulder…

 

Earth is the element within which it is steeped, and from it, one may attain its strength, resilience and endurance.

 

…and he struck down through the water and drove his fist into the stone. A sudden eruption of scalding water, hissing steam, and shards of rock greeted his assailants, and he slipped away to his right just as one axe head tore at his left sleeve and the other descended. Sparks flew as steel assaulted stone. A mere moment sooner and he’d have been pinned and crowned. No time for idle thought. He tapped at the linkpearl held in his ear, the one that belonged to Kiht, and whispered, “go.” He turned and his eyes widened as his exit from the spray brought him up alongside the swordsman from earlier… the swordsman with long flaming hair.

 

Crofte.

 

He turned again and found himself facing armor. Plain. Not gilded. He didn’t think; he didn’t have time for it. He drew the brass knuckledusters from the tassles riding on his belt and struck out once, twice, three times. The sentinel deftly caught one blow on the haft of the axe, but the second and third struck steel plate and drove the combatant back a step. The axe went high again…

 

"I am a servant who knows the difference between revenge… and JUSTICE!”

 

Crofte to his right and somewhat behind. The sentinel in front. So he smirked and broke left, trusting in the man he’d brought with him to have his back, to fulfill the purpose for which he’d been brought. He pushed off with his right foot, then planted his left and fell into a runner’s crouch… there. The man in the gilded plate.

 

A burst. It’s a burst. From everywhere, all at once.

 

He pushed off, low to the ground and impossibly fast as he crashed into the armored man’s legs. He rebounded, left shoulder sore as he rolled away, prepared for the suit to come crashing down on him, but the other man grunted and fell to one knee as part of his armor gave way. Their eyes met, emerald and amber. The amber blinked.

 

“Melkire…?!” The armored man snarled, and his next few words echoed throughout the tunnel. “This is NOT Lazarov!”

 

Splashing from his right. Osric spat at Jameson’s faceplate as he dropped his knuckles, fell back into a crouch, his hands falling to his boots and drawing the pair of misericordes he’d commissioned from Lon’qu Jin not a moon past. He turned to face the oncoming mass and rolled to his right, the blades clashing against the sentinel’s left greave. He winced as the impact sprained his left wrist and knocked him bodily aside as he tumbled, his grip on the blade’s hilt lost, scattering it from his hand. He moved to push himself upright, but someone or something tripped over him. He went sprawling, a dull ache tearing at his left side.

 

”Endure.”

 

He sucked in a breath and reached deep for that reservoir of light, the well of aetheric energy known to a few as the Sacral. Shot by shot, glass by glass, tumbler by tumbler, bucket by bucket, he fed that sweetness to his wounded side.

 

“MELKIRE! WHERE is LAZAROV?!”

 

He laughed. He couldn’t help it. He needed to laugh. Needed to live, even in these final moments. The ruse had clearly succeeded. He’d grown his hair out, like Nero’s. Dyed it, like Nero’s. Shaved his face clean, like Nero. Found himself a red shirt and black vest, along with some leather boots and gloves… like Nero’s.

 

Osric Melkire pushed himself wearily to his feet and drew his last two knives from their scabbards. In front of him stood the man in gilded plate, his own weapon held at the ready. Stout. Resolute. Fiercely determined to survive, just as the sergeant himself was. He smirked.

 

“That you, Jameson? Or are you the double?”

 

No response, other than another swing of the axe, the motion abrupt, as if fueled by anger. Instinct took over; Osric stepped in, as close as he could, his knives rising in a cross-guard to catch the haft of the axe. Their eyes met again, their faces close, the Royalist’s breath fogging the Monetarist's faceplate.

 

“You have been a thorn in my side for far too long,” whispered Taeros… and then he pressed down on the man with all of his not-inconsiderable weight.

 

Osric’s knees buckled for moment. He dropped the left knife and caught the haft in his fist as that weight bore him down to one knee. Mistake. Same as with Armstrong. Dead. Don’t ever get in this close. Mistake. Dead. Dead. Those were the panicked thoughts that went scurrying across the surface of his mind… below that, however… below that….

 

Perfect.

 

His lips quivered. “Jameson, I’ve a question for you--“

 

The man reversed his axe and sent the haft straight down into Osric’s upright knee.

 

Blinding white agony. He cried out. He collapsed, his leg giving way. Down on both knees. Sharp. Sudden flame. Up his leg, side, and back. Aching. The knee. How had he known about the knee? He had….

 

Wrong knee.

 

Melkire’s vision came swimming back to him. Jameson, standing over him, axe rising for a follow-through. Standing entirely too close, no longer bearing down. Osric dropped his remaining knife, and his right hand climbed up over his back to his shoulder blades. He grasped, gripped, and pulled at something there… and his shirt tore open, all the way down his spine, as he snapped his wrist out and brought his arm down and around, a bright gleam of silver in his hand, a sword of light…

 

No.

 

A gunblade.

 

Jin’li’s gunblade.

 

With an inward twist of the wrist, he punched up and out and drove the weapon into the waist joint of Jameson’s armor. The blade caught there, pinned by pressure, unable to pierce through whatever quality plate Taeros was wearing… but that didn’t matter. What mattered was what came next, and what came next warmed Melkire’s murderous little heart. He smiled that shite-eating grin for which he was so well known.

 

“What do we do with a drunken sailor?”

 

The axe came down.

 

He pulled the trigger.

 

BLAM.

 

Red. White hot. Red again. He screamed. He cried. He couldn’t see. He could smell blood. Shoulder. Axe head in his right shoulder. The bastard was trying to take his arm.

 

As if I’ll let you.

 

Osric’s left fist clenched tighter, clenched down on the haft as he twisted his grip, pushed upward, pulled in, screamed again. He couldn’t. Hurt. It hurt. Dying. He was dying. He was going to die.

 

”Come home to me.”

 

A small rumble. A chuckle. Cackling. Full blown laughter. Absurd. This was absurd. Why not? All this effort, wasted, and why? Why was he still suffering, when it was so easy to end it all?

 

All I have t’do is pull a trigger, eh?

 

So he did.

 

BLAM.

 

Clattering and clinking of mail. The pressure on the haft was suddenly gone, and several moon’s worth of training under Worthy Jetsam took over as he bellowed and pushed and wrenched the blade from his shoulder. The axe fell to the floor and his left hand clutched at cobblestones as he dragged himself back, farther down the tunnel, away from… from….

 

He looked up, and through the tears and the blood he could see Taeros stumbling back, one hand held at his midsection, something blue trickling down his leg.

 

Jameson was staring at him in fear.

 

The words dripped from his lips, then danced together, one eerily melodic tune cutting through the sudden silence.

 

“Weigh, heigh, and up she rises~…”

 

“No…”

 

“Weigh, heigh, and up she rises~…”

 

“James!”

 

The pirate in him smiled. "Weigh, heigh, and up she rises, early in the mornin'~."

 

“Gideon--“ Taeros choked, blood… odd blood… seeping from his wounds.

 

Osric’s head was swimming. Odd. Why was everything so odd? He was wounded, yes, but… numb? Why was he…? No. Not now. He still had something… something left to… to say.

 

“This,” he hissed, “this snake… ruttin’ hells!”

 

He cried out. Shoulder. His shoulder. Ignore it. Endure. Drank. He drank from the reservoir.

 

“…deserves no gods-damned LOYALTY!”

 

Something else was leaking from the bullet holes hidden beneath Jameson’s fingers. Something blue, and glowing like the sea beneath the moon. The fop glanced down. “No.”

 

The sergeant squinted. Was that…? Ceruleum, had to be. Why…? Swimming again. Vision blurring. Why did Jameson sound…?

 

“Don’t… worry,” Osric forced out. “Grimsong’ll… send you… Lazarov soo--“

 

Acidic. The taste in his mouth…

 

Ah, shite, I’ve been poisoned.

 

The cobblestones rushed upward, Thal descended from on high, and someone draped the night sky over his eyes. There were no stars to greet him.

 

Oblivion.

[Knight Kat]

One objective.

 

Kiht Jakkya had only one objective: Rescue Roen Deneith.

 

None of it made sense to her. She had no real idea why these people were fighting. They were all of the same nation. Monetarist, Royalist, Sultansworn, Immortal Flame; what did it matter? Kiht could not understand.

 

The complicated, little, secret civil war had been going on for a long time. Kiht had no stake in it. No stake aside from her friends. She didn't want to choose a side. She didn't want to fight for any Ul'dahn cause. However, she was not so naive that she thought she could remain neutral. Osric was there to kill a man, and Kiht was prepared to fight any of his enemies who got in her way. She was on the side of a man who was certainly not a hero.

 

The notion never gave her pause though. Ironically, Osric and Kiht always seemed to end up on the same side. She could not understand why. She always had her own objective different from his, yet they had always ended up fighting the same foes in some way. Coincidence? Kiht wondered, but she had no answers.

 

 

"Incoming charge!" A strong female voice, Crofte's voice, shouted as the male Highlander Paladin ran in.

 

Kiht's attention was snapped back to the present. She had to focus. Even in the dark of the tunnel, her Keeper eyes clearly saw the cluster of foes blocking her way to Black Cell. The only way past them was through them – she readied her spear.

 

Already, someone was shooting fire arrows in at the group. Kiht kept having to wince and blink at the annoying light.

 

"HUNTRESS! LET'S GET GOING!" Osric shouted to her.

 

She was on Osric's heels in an instant; staying with him as he moved into the fray, but keeping her spear away from him in case the scrappy fighter had to maneuver back. Both of the armored soldiers closed on Osric, but his Highlander ally was occupied with Crofte. Leggerless was busy trying to not be shot by arrows, so there was no one to help Osric.

 

Kiht turned her spear on the armored soldier closest to her. She wasn't going to let them gang up on Osric. Just as she began to move in with her spear, water and rocks blasted up from the tunnel floor. It gave Kiht pause, but it had a worse effect on the soldiers. They gave Osric space for a split second...

 

“Go” Osric said over her linkpearl. It was her chance.

 

Suddenly, Kiht disengaged from her attack. She bolted between the two armored soldiers. She knew it would not be quite that easy. It was a tunnel, and there was little room to move. However, years of running through dense forest while in pursuit of prey, or while being pursued by horrifying beasts, had made her skilled with agility.

 

Something hard struck her legs – the bastard soldier in armor used his axe handle to trip her. However, she staggered then ducked into a swift roll; breaking her momentum and regaining her balance as she came to her feet. She continued to run. Her charge to Black Cell would be unrelenting.

 

Archer.

 

Kiht suddenly remembered the archer. “Shite!” She cursed. It was a mistake to run with her back to an archer. She knew that all too well. The tunnel gave her no cover, and hardly any room at her flanks. She began to hop and turn to her right and left. She moved in as much of a haphazard pattern as she could to try and avoid any possible shots from the archer.

 

Unfortunately, any archer worthy of the title would not miss much in that kind of situation. But Kiht had to get to Roen. Nothing else mattered. She had to keep running. Her “sister” was captive.

 

A stinging pain shot from her shoulder, and surged through her body. Kiht had been struck by the archer – an arrow piercing into her right shoulder blade. She staggered to a halt, and let out a loud, abrupt growl of protest.

 

However, the injury was a fortune hidden under a misfortune. She had to turn around. The archer could have been preparing another shot, so she swiftly twisted to look behind herself. That was when she saw him – a cloaked man with a single blade. He had pursued her without her noticing. It was quite the feat considering few people were capable of sneaking up on the Huntress.

 

She took her spear in her left hand, and held it center-haft. Her ears pinned back on her head as she let out a low growl at the man.

 

“.................................shit.” The cloaked man said quietly.

 

Kiht narrowed her eyes at him. She was not going to make the first move yet. He could be used as cover from the archer, and he seemed reluctant to face her directly.

 

“Ah---. Y--you'd b-best run... y-you're w-wounded...!” The man stammered out at her.

 

Kiht shook her head. “So you can stab me in the back?! I think not!” She said in a harsh tone, but continued to wait. She tightened her grasp on her spear.

 

The cloaked man suddenly looked resigned, but he started to move in confidently. He approached directly like a rookie fighter. Kiht was forced to use her spear with one hand. A skilled assassin would have taken better advantage of that.

 

He swiftly batted aside the tip of her spear with his blade, but Kiht hopped back; bringing her spear back into point towards the man's body. In one swift motion, before her body even finished landing from the hop, she thrust her spear forward into his torso. The unfortunate assassin was skewered straight through the midsection. The spear point poked out his back as blood poured from his wound.

 

Kiht stood still for a moment as her spear remained impaled in the man, and she wondered if he had truly been a threat... Oh well, he should not have moved towards her with a deadly weapon. She abruptly yanked the spear from his body.

 

"Hgghhkk..." He let out as he fell to the ground.

She quickly turned then began running down the tunnel. The man was left bleeding on the ground. "H---healer....?" Were his final words.

 

Kiht continued down the tunnel swiftly and quietly. She grit her teeth through the pain caused by the arrow in her shoulder. She scanned for any signs of cells. Roen was her only objective.

 

It wasn't long before she found a thick reinforced wooden door to her right. There was a small window in the upper half, and a torch light that flickered from within the thick door. She studied the thing, and sniffed the air, but all she could smell was the musk of the tunnel. She began to slowly push the door open. It was unlocked.

 

The heavy door creaked open, and within was a cell with thick granite stones on all sides. Another set of doors was ahead. It was ajar. She swiftly moved to it then used her left shoulder to push her way through the door. She quickly glanced about as she moved through the doorway.

 

Beyond the second set of doors was what looked to be a cell, a cot, manacles chained to the ground and a small table. But, no occupant was within it. Kiht surveyed the cell frantically. She sniffed the air to find any familiar scent. She then paused for a split second; the cell was full of the scent that Kiht knew far too well. Roen had been there for many suns.

 

She frantically began to study every object in a hurried investigation. She let out a quiet whimper as the pain in her shoulder flared to match the intensity of the pain in her heart. Roen was captive, but not there. Where was Roen then? Was Kiht in the wrong place? The thoughts flooded her mind.

 

Nothing. There were no clues. The trail was cold. Not even the best trackers would have found anything to go on. Roen was gone without a trace.

 

Kiht made her way to exit the cell; stepping just outside the door. She quivered in almost uncontrollable frustration. "Roooooeeen!" She called out into the tunnel. However, Kiht's desperate call echoed forlornly down the winding tunnels with no answer.

 

Kiht's ears lowered along with her head. Once again, she was not able to find Roen when she needed Kiht the most. An arrow stuck out from her shoulder, her mission failed, her honor crushed, her characteristic Moon-keeper notions of sentimentality left unsatisfied... She slowly raised her head as she grew an intense scowl. Tears began to well in her eyes.

 

UNACCEPTABLE.

 

Someone had to pay. The people who might know where Roen was were still fighting her allies in the tunnel. One of them might have had an answer. If not, someone had to die.

 

*BLAM!*

 

A loud sound from the tunnel she came from broke Kiht from her state. Her head jerked to gaze down the tunnel. “What the Hells was that?”

 

*BLAM!*

 

A firearm...

[Coatleque]

Pain is what she had remembered first. Not cutting or searing, but a throbbing from within her midsection that permeated her whole body. Had she not been armored, Warren's blow would have easily broken her back and cut short another life this night. Stumbling backwards, her body met the stone wall of the tunnel and her vision flashed white.

 

Then the gunshots. Two of them, to her left. The sound of a gunblade clattering to the stone below. There was the figure of Osric Melkire laughing, crying, singing, bleeding out on the floor. An armored figure stepping backwards from him. She realized then the trick that had been played on them all.

 

"Weigh, heigh, and up she rises~..."

 

"No..." Jameson staggered backwards, moving up the hallway. Blood seeped from the blackened holes in the middle of his armor. "Gideon---" he choked. Time slowed as she watched him stumble. The blade slipped from her hand as she lurched forward towards him.

 

"Weigh, heigh, and up she rises~..."

 

"James!", she cried futily. No aid came however. The sounds of combat continued behind her as Warren struggled with Jameson's guard. From within his armor something else began to pour out. A viscous blue and luminescent liquid that resembled the sea beneath the moon's light. He looked down and grimaced beneath the visor. "No."

 

"Weigh, heigh, and up she rises, early in the mornin'~"

 

She nearly tripped in trying to reach him. His voice stopped her in her tracks though as the helmet looked squarely at the Flame Sergeant back down the tunnel. "You FOOL, do you know what you--" Amidst the hate there was fear in his words, though only Coatleque could feel it. More of the blue liquid dripped from the wounds now, far more it than blood. A strange glow began to seep from the very cracks and joints of the armored plates he wore.

 

She saw the gleam of his eyes though the visor's slit one last time, felt the fear behind them. The the resignation to his fate. "Banurein," he whispered to her. There was a final look of warning before he implored her to "Run!" The armor began to shake.

 

"N-no...," she whispered even while taking her own staggered step backwards. Would that he could see the fear behind her own visor. There was nothing else she could have done, and the will to live overtook both fear and sadness. She knew he would have saved her even if he could not save himself. So she ran, turning about and flailing her arms at the forgotten paladin approaching her from behind.

 

"Run!" She cried, "RUN! Get back!" The man uttered his own curses, sheathing his blade and turning to hoist the downed Flame and carry him to safety. As they neared the next two figures, Coatleque reached out and forcefully pulled the one off of the other; She was not even sure who it was.

 

The armor itself shook, flashed, hissed...

A bright flare.

Then silence.

 

She stopped and released the woman she had been half-dragging with her to look back just as the suit of armor toppled face first to the ground. "James?!" She called out. Not waiting for an answer she left the others where they were and raced back to the other end of the tunnel.

 

There as no movement. No sound or sign of life within. She collapsed immediately next to it and rolled the armor over to its backside. Surprisingly light for what she expected. And also empty. She stared in a mixture of horror, shock, and loss, as she examined and prodded the armor for any signs, any traces of what had happened.

 

There was heat. The smell of burnt hair and singed flesh, but no ash left behind. She began to mumble his name to herself repeatedly. "James, James, what did you do? Don't do this to me..." Even in this state, though, she could tell he was simply gone. Not dead yet not present. It was perhaps this realization that kept her from breaking down right there. Her head slowly turned to see others backing slowly up the tunnel towards her.

 

She turned back to the armor to examine it one last time. Within one of the gloves she found a locket, familiar yet now charred and slightly melted. The picture within burned to nothing. She gazed at it before scraping some of the blackness away with a nail, then quickly pocketed it. Rising slowly she joined Brynnalia at her side to meet the imposing figure now closing on them with drawn blade.

[Roen]

“Show me the body.”

 

Warren Castille. The Highlander that she had met so many moons ago at the Quicksand; the free paladin standing next to Crofte by that thick pillar. That man was now standing in front of them with his shield and sword blazing. His sword's tip still dripped freshly drawn blood; the man had decapitated Taeros’ personal guard moments earlier in the fight.

 

Melkire, that troublesome Flame sergeant had brought Castille, along with a spear wielding miqo’te and a knife throwing Midlander, into the tunnels below the ground to stage a rescue for Roen Deneith. Making himself look like Lazarov in appearance and clothing was clever, Brynn thought. And it had lured out Taeros like a bee to honey.

 

And now that the armored form of Taeros lay motionless on the ground, wisps of smoke rising from within the full suit of plate-mail armor he wore, the vultures were already beginning to gather to pick at the fallen lion.

 

“Ye don’ get tae demand shite, paladin,” Brynn retorted. She was already withdrawing another arrow from her quiver. She had seen the viciousness Castille was capable of in battle and was not going to let him get within five sword lengths of her. She held the bow steady and nocked the arrow, its point aimed at the man’s head.

 

“Show me the body before I rush you down.” Warren motioned towards her leg that had been cut. “I’ve already killed enough of you. Don’t make this hard.”

 

Brynnalia said nothing as she squinted one eye slightly, adjusting her aim for the dimness of the tunnels. She kept her gaze on the target even as she shifted her weight to that injured leg to test its strength. Gideon had been quick enough to come to her side when the Midlander had cut her; his healing touch in mid battle had been surprisingly efficient and skilled. There remained some soreness, but the bleeding had stopped and she could feel the muscle fibers supporting her weight just well enough. She was confident that she could maneuver to dodge the paladin should it come to that. Her fingers pulled on the bowstring just another ilm more, ready to release…

 

“....Please.”

 

If the paladin’s quiet plea didn’t make her pause, then it was the hand upon her shoulder. Crofte stood next to her, and when the bard met her gaze, the Sworn shook her head. Brynnalia scowled but lowered her bow and allowed Castille to walk past.

 

“Your ruse has won,” Crofte spat out towards the man, her words tinged with both fatigue and bitterness. The Sworn then called to Gideon, who was standing just a few yalms away, attending to another fallen figure--the cloaked thaumaturge who had chased after the lancer. He was not moving. “Mister North?" Crofte continued. "We should see to the sergeant, then be gone from this place.”

 

“WHAT?” Brynnalia turned to Crofte, incredulous. The valet too had a look of utter surprise. But while Gideon bowed with resignation at the order, Brynn continued to shake her head. “Did ye miss the part where they just tried tae kill yer lover?” She glanced at the unmoving armor, one that Castille was now impecting, finding the contents empty. “Gideon, ye don’t have tae do that,” Brynn called out after him.

 

“I know,” he said quietly, meeting her gaze only for a moment. “The combat is concluded, Mistress.” He turned and made his way down the tunnel to where Melkire was still sitting on the ground, propped up against the wall. Warren brushed past Brynnalia to follow quickly after the valet, clearly suspicious.

 

Brynn watched Gideon go, her jaw set. Her fingers twitched over feathers of the arrow still half-nocked. Her muscles coiled with anticipation, her eyes gaging the distance between herself and the sergeant and paladin, in case she needed shoot at either of them should they take any action against North.

 

“Where is she? Where is Roen?!” An angry call cut through the misty air of the tunnels. It was the lancer, trotting back up towards them from the deeper depths.

 

The bard growled under her breath, turning the aim of the bow toward the miqo’te instead. She could not keep her eyes on Gideon. “The girl ye lookin’ fer no longer here, kitty cat.” Her own answer was an annoyed sneer.

 

“I can see that!” The miqo’te hissed. “Now you can tell me where she is, and remove an enemy from your worries, or you can keep silent and expect to see me again!” The lancer lowered her head, glaring at her through those goggles. “I will not stop until I find her, you Highland whore.”

 

Brynn’s eyes narrowed. “She escaped, that troublesome thing. And as fugitives tend to do, she went into hiding. We have no idea where she went.” She held her bow steady, arrow still nocked.

 

The miqo’te lancer responded with a ready stance of her own, quickly turning the spear in her grasp into an over-arm hold. It was a stand still between them, with both bow and lance at ready. That was when Warren emerged again, with Melkire in tow. “We are leaving.”

 

Brynnalia heard Crofte’s footsteps behind her as she stepped to the side of the tunnel, the Sworn seemingly allowing them to pass. The bard too stepped to the side, although never lowering her bow. The paladin and the Flame passed. Then the lancer strode past them, but continued to keep her eyes upon Brynn. Finally it was the Midlander with the knives, one that had cut her earlier. Callae gave her a passing glare, but no words were exchanged between them.

 

It was only after their footsteps were no longer audible that Brynn finally lowered her bow. Gideon came to stand next to her, and she gave him a quick once-over to make certain no harm had come his way. He only gave her his usual placid expression and a nod in response.

 

Brynnalia turned to see that Crofte had once more come to stand next to the fallen armor. Her head hung low and her shoulders were weighed with weariness. When Brynn came to join her by her side, she too could see for herself that the armor was empty, save some scorch marks within. The bard sniffed the air. “I smell a burnt man, but see none.” She glanced to the Sworn. “Where in hells is the body?”

 

Crofte’s voice did not waver nor did she sound mournful when she answered. “I don’t know. But I aim to find out.”

 

“I will attend milord.” Gideon bowed then began to approach the armor on the watery ground.

 

Brynnalia slid the arrow back into the quiver, just staring at the mess of bodies, blood, and armor that littered the tunnels. She shook her head. “I’ll…get a cleanup crew down here,” she said to no one in particular as she reached for that pearl in her ear. She watched as Crofte strode by, steps now with heavy purpose.

 

“I will find him,” the Sworn said, her voice sharp like a steel blade. “And if not him, then her.”

 

Callae paused, her finger hovering by the pearl. “Her?”

 

Crofte’s green eyes flicked to the bard. There was no mercy in them now.

 

“Banurein.”

[Melkire]

The letters were everywhere. They seemingly went out to every residence, every box, every drop point to have ever been known as associated in some way with one Sebastian Redgrave. Each letter was accompanied by a small, blue marble of a linkpearl, and each letter was written by the same hand, in the same script, with the same ink, on the same vellum.

 

Each letter read as followed.

 

 

You asked for an audition. I delivered the requested performance. The man has been swept off the board. Whether you are still invested in the end-game or not, you owe me the chance to give the little ones, those who are now as you once were, a moment's shelter from the coming storm.

 

How often did you pray in those suns, only to be disappointed? How often did you curse the gods, if there were, in fact, any to be cursed? Do not lie to yourself, Nero.

 

Had there been a helping hand, would you have taken it?

 

Let me be that helping hand now, for them.

[Coatleque]

To One Who Swims, and Swims Well,

 

As much as you may hate and despise me now, there is

yet a city and its peoples to save. We must have words.

Our Sultana would demand no less.

 

Sincerely,

Melkire

---

Papers. Ledgers, contracts, bills of sale and lading for trades made. She had been pouring through everything in Jameson's office for the past two days since the incident in the tunnels. Searching for anything that would connect him to Banurien. Some sign of where he had gone - or where she would be keeping him rather.

 

Putting pen to paper once more off to the side she jotted a few additional notes. Names, places. A possible connection no matter how small. Two contacts in Gridania she had heard mention of before during her time at the manse. Turning back to the ledger in front of her she barely heard the door open as Mister North entered carrying a silver tray.

 

Crossing the room quietly he set the tray upon the desk in the same place he had always set it, pushing aside whatever documents previously occupied the space. There was tea, a mint, some dry looking biscuits, and additional ink. She looked up and offered a meager smile to the man. "Mister North. I am surprised to see you still here."

 

"Indeed, Miss?"

 

She was not, in truth, surprised at all to see him. His exquisite sense of propriety amazed her on an almost daily basis. While most of the rest of the estate was already emptying he had remained behind to see that she and any other guests were well attended to and for a brief moment she worried there may be more to it than the will to serve. She gestured to one stack of papers set aside from the rest. "It appears this manse is to be sold, and soon. Have you nowhere else to go?"

 

The man did look up then with a raised eyebrow. Probably the most emotion she had seen from him in the past few days. "My. Change is indeed in the wind, Miss. But there are places I can remain for the moment, as I decide on my next course of action. However, I shall remain here as long as I am yet needed." With a bow he began to move about the room to dust the furniture as if nothing had changed.

 

Shaking her head once, her gaze lowered back to the work in front of her. A few more notes were taken in silence as the butler continued his own business about the room. Glancing at the platter resting nearby she dared to speak up if only for her own conscience. "You have served Lord Taeros quit admirably. I daresay he may have trusted you as much as he did me."

 

"Miss is most gracious to say so."

 

The scratching of her quill on the parchment stopped as she considered her own words. She lifted the pen and tilted it to her other hand to play with the feather idly between her fingertips. "Did he... say anything to you? Anything I should know?" She did not dare look up.

 

"Regarding, Miss?"

 

"Oh, anything really. Where he was going, what he had planned? All I've found are financial records and names of dead business partners." Jameson was, if nothing else, very exact in his record keeping. Legitimate transactions were kept succinct, clean. And the illegitimate affairs (if they existed) had no trace to be found. She looked up from the documents in time to catch Gideon's gaze.

 

"He informed me of my dismissal shortly before the incident transpired, Miss. He also informed me he would be going somewhere a man of my talents would not be needed, to use his words."

 

Her gaze lowered once more as she read through lists of numbers and names again. "That does not make sense... from what I've gathered he was transferring funds to the north."

 

"He had mentioned Ishgard prior, but not with any conclusive decision. It seems he was examining his options. I do not know what he settled on, if anything."

 

"I see." The man glanced once to the map hanging behind her before retuning to his dusting. Coatleque pored vainly over the numbers in front of her again until they began to blur within her sight. "Stubborn bastard, where did you go?" She muttered to herself out loud.

 

"Miss?"

 

She glanced up to him with her own lost expression before realizing she was overheard. The unintended slight was waved away with a hand and a sigh. "He mentioned a name in the tunnels..." she continued. "Did you happen to overhear amidst the chaos?"

 

"Indeed so, Miss. Being withdrawn from the fray, I observed as much as possible. However... I am afraid it was unfamiliar to me, Miss."

 

She replied with only a defeated nod before returning the quill to the inkwell. "I had hoped I could find some connection, but... nothing."

 

"Banurein, Miss?"

She nodded. "I have heard this name before."

"I... believe I have as well, somehow, but..."

She tilted her head. "Miss Deneith knows this name as well. Though I doubt I shall... ever see her again."

 

There was a moment of wistful silence shared between the two before he spoke up again, still carrying out his duties from the side of the room. "This figure is a common thread between the three of you, Miss?"

 

"It was not until now."

 

She watched him for a moment longer and as she did a lingering feeling of regret began to surface. Since the first night she had spent with Jameson back in Limsa and nearly every night since, Mister North had attended to her in some way or another. He had served her lord faithfully over these past moons when even she herself had not been entirely transparent with her loyalties. Now, due in some part to her failings, he would be without while she still had the Order to return to.

 

A lump rose in her throat. "Might I confide in thee something I have kept secret these past moons?"

"As you please, Miss." He turned and bowed to her waiting patiently. His expression placid.

 

"Our... affair as it were, was never born out of any desire or romantic interest on my part. Ashamed as I am to admit it, my original intent was nothing more than deception. I wished to spy on Lord Taeros as closely as I could. I would not hold it against you to look at me in any lesser light because of my actions, however I ask you to believe when I say I did come to love him, truly, before the end."

 

She paused expectantly, awaiting his reaction. His consternation, anger, some sort of emotion befitting her admission. None came. He merely bowed once more. "I see, Miss."

 

Her guilt subsided a bit, but it was not quite enough. And so she continued. "Still, the intent was born out of desire to seek this woman, Banurein. While I had only wished to help my friend... I now have vested interest in finding her. I musts..." There was another pause as her hand rose to her cheek for composure. "I must know if he yet lives. And she can lead me to him."

 

"You believe Taeros's final words were outlining this express purpose, Miss?"

 

"What I know is the fear I saw in his eyes. And that whatever happened to him... his remains were not present in those tunnels." She sighed and lowered her head then, closing her eyes to collect her thoughts. Gideon paused only momentarily in thought before returning to his dusting once again. There was another long silence between them before she could speak again.

 

"The bill of sale is legal, Mister North. This estate must be vacated by the end of the next week."

 

If the man was affected at all by this news, he did not show it. "Very good, Miss."

 

"If you have need of further employment..." she offered, "I know of a young lady from La Noscea. Perhaps she may be in need of a valet."

 

"Thank you, Miss, but my further engagement is of comparatively low priority to Miss's other affairs." His words came gently yet reassuringly. "I advise focusing only on that which requires your attention, lest Miss tire and stress herself even more than the circumstances already demand."

 

She looked back up to him with an understanding smile. "As ever, you are too kind Mister North. I would be remiss to think of you wandering the city looking for a place to spend the night. I, at the least, have the barracks to return to."

 

He chuckled slightly but did not turn from his task. "I have never lived what could be called a frivolous lifestyle, Miss, and room and board were provided gratis. I will be able to subsist on my savings from employment at the manse for quite some time."

 

Coatleque nodded slowly. "Then I need not worry. If you have need of anything, simply ask. It is all I could do for faithful service to my... my beloved." She rose then from the desk and gathered the papers she had been taking notes upon, rolling them up and placing them into her gil purse. She adjusted her beret as she turned to face him.

 

"Does Miss require anything further today?"

 

She stepped forward around the side of the desk and deposited her silver key which Jameson had given her. She had been hesitant to use it up until now, preferring not to steal what she needed from the man she loved. With him gone she no longer held back. There was no further use for it save a memory she was not intent on keeping. She had other things she would much rather remember him by rather than misplaced trust. "Nothing further, Mister North. I have collected what little I had here into a trunk. I will send someone for it within three days."

 

"Miss is leaving immediately?" He sounded mildly surprised at that.

"There is nothing else for me here. I am sure you understand."

 

He paused, just long enough to be noticeable. A very uncharacteristic display of emotion on his part.

"Very good, Miss. I shall prepare the manse for its future occupants' inspection."

"As you will. I wish you luck wherever the Spinner places you."

"To you as well, Miss."

 

Gideon cleared his throat, clearly finding this parting to be awkward.

"Then, Until we meet again, I suppose."

 

She tilted her head with as caring and genuine a smile she could muster before quietly letting herself out of the office.

[Coatleque]

From the Goblet she made her way to the Grindstone. It had been almost two days since she had even dared leave the estate - pressed for time as she was to find any evidence she could before it was whisked away out from under her. Confrontation would be inevitable and she would not be the one to shy away from it. Not now. She knew who would be present tonight, as he always was, and she intended to prove her own resolve was equal to his.

 

What she did not know was that Osric Melkire was also there. And he was not alone. Quietly and angrily she stood off to the side of the tourney with crossed arms as the Sergeant spoke loudly and purposefully enough for her to hear. Drinks at the Coffer & Coffin. She had played this game long enough to know his intent and while the woman had no interest in drinking with the man who shot her most recent lover, she could not ignore the need emphasized in his letter.

 

Hesitantly she stepped into the bar. One step, two steps. Her eyes scanned the room slowly until spying the man off to the side. He was sitting at a table in the corner being attended to by a silver haired woman with purple eyes. Neither of them noticed her entrance just yet. The woman smiled at her ward and laughed lightly. "I hope it's more than me being your maid service."

 

Coatleque moved past them and straight to the bar. Her strides where long and pronounced by her heels upon the wooden floor. Smiling politely for the owner she requested a full bottle of his finest rum from the top shelf before sliding an appropriate sum across the counter from her purse. Her head turned to the side as she awaited the barkeep's return.

 

She had noticed the man's gaze followed her from the door to the bar. His attention pulled away just then only to address the woman next to him with a shake of his head. "It's you always bein' here for me." The other woman reached over and began to rub between his shoulders, her own eyes flicking to the bar momentarily. The Paladin then recognized the hues of her eyes and turned back to the bar. "You can stay..." the man continued. "Ain't like I won't be repeatin' this t'you later anyroad." His voice had purposefully raised just enough to reach the bar.

 

Having received her bottle the paladin turned and walked to the corner table to join the others in time to break into their conversation. "Either way... if it's going to make her..." The woman's eyes lifted to Coatleque as she approached. "As I was saying, if you don't feel comfortable speaking with me around, I can head outside for a few..."

 

Osric exhaled slowly before raising his mug to his lips. He sipped. "That's up t'her." Coatleque did not wait for greetings or permission. She simply sat herself at the table and set the bottle before her.

 

"Thirsty, Sergeant?" She asked before sliding the rum across the table towards him. "Consider it a gift." She had nothing more to say to the man at that point. Her stern expression did not hide the fact she did not care for this meeting, but even she knew that a truce was necessary for the greater good. What better a peace offering for a soldier than booze? He glanced at the bottle, his mug held firm in his left hand while his right arm hung limply at his side.

 

It was soon apparent that he also had no desire for pleasantries. "You have questions, I have answers. Ask. Then we'll do this the other way 'round, if y'care to." She peered at him for a moment unsure of how to proceed tactfully. Many thoughts raced through her mind, including the question of what he wanted engraved on his headstone. Her fingers laced together upon her lap and her posture became rigid. One eyebrow quirked, but not other display of emotion was evident.

 

"Alright..." she began, "What in the Twelve's names were you thinking?!"

 

Osric snorted and took enough time to sip from his mug again before choosing to answer. "What needed doin'."

 

"Marching a small army through a secret Monetarist prison to carry out your vigilante justice without writ or warrant?! I hardly call that something that 'needed doing.'" She protested with her own condescending tone, distaste clearly present on her tongue. The other woman remained silent, composed. Her lavender eyes darted from one to the other as they spoke.

 

Osric slammed his mug back down to the table then, rattling the very wood and jostling the bottle that was set before him. "AND WHAT OF HIS FEUD WITH LAZAROV?", he bellowed. "WHAT OF EVERY GODS DAMNED SOUL THAT'S SUFFERED, PERISHED, OR OTHERWISE IN A PERSONAL DISPUTE BACKED BY THE SULTANSWORN WARMIN' HIS RUTTIN' BED?!" Her eyes narrowed and a small curl came to her lips at the slight, but she did not flinch at the loud slamming of the mug. Nor did she recoil from the man's voice that screamed at her across the table, merely 2 fulms from her face. The other woman jumped, however. He breathed slowly, in and out, before giving a "Tch" and looking away in his own disgust.

 

Speaking up in her own defense, her voice remained calm even as it was forced through her teeth. "What do you THINK I have been DOING this whole time? I have been USING Jameson's resources to track the man down." She said rather pointedly.

 

Osric barked a laugh. The differences between their methods could not have been more night and day than this moment. "Let's get this straight, shall we?" He muttered, his voice lowering enough to only carry to those seated around him.

 

"Please."

 

"I cut a deal with the pirate. Jameson for what Nero knows o' the mess in Pearl, what with him traffickin' weapons in. And while I was at it, I set Delial's fangs pointed Nero's way. Meanwhile, y'sat in the lap o' luxury and bided your time and... what? Where's Roen? Where's Nero? Do YOU know anythin' o' Pearl?" His icy glare would have cut through were he not genuinely interested in her answer. Of finding out anything he could on what Nero was planning for the city, the gangs.

 

She listened intently though only her eyes would tell. Slowly turning from anger to sorrow her head shook slowly. "You are all so quick to shed blood for blood." She began. "You sicken me. Yes, I know about the bandits, the guns. A man named Scythe is leading them. Nero was supposed to call them off but has gone quite mad it seems." She sighed. This was a repeating pattern she was so weary of addressing. "When does it stop, Sergeant? Who's blood is too precious to spill?" Her emerald eyes shot to the woman beside him, but she wisely held her tongue rather than suggest what she thought.

 

There was a long pause. Osric leaned back with a sigh and pulled his mug from the table to sip its contents. The paladin's head shook slowly once more, her expression even more worrisome. "Your silence speaks volumes." She said at length. "Do you think I enjoyed bringing Roen in?" The other woman now peered over the rim of her own cup to Coatleque.

 

"... far as I'm concerned," Osric started, "the bloodshed ought t'end with Taeros. And my 'silence' is a collection o' thoughts longer than you'd ever care t'know." He was right in that. "Shite, Crofte, did you?"

 

"I can never make right how I've wronged her, but it was necessary." She stood by her own actions. "She was abetting a murderer."

 

It was funny how such a crime was damning to some but barely a hand-wave for others. "Remind me who goaded and sicced Natalie this way n' that, eh?" Osric leaned closer to her as if to emphasize the conviction. "Od'hilkas was there, Crofte. And it goes back farther. You weren't around for Epinoch."

 

"Mcbeef was a weak-willed fool. You know that as well as I." A lie. Or at least a fallacy. Natalie Mcbeef was one of the most strong willed Sultansworn that Coatleque ever knew. But she placed swift action over calculated planning.

 

"One weak-willed fool in a line o' many, and you're the latest, if you've no mind t'pull head from arse and think for a gods-damned moment. Where's Roen's pearl t'Nero? I know she had one."

 

Her head turned away from the man to look down at the empty table before her. Unclear if he was genuinely concerned for her own well-being, or simply convinced that she was nothing more than a tool at this point. "You speak of past events and names as if I do not know the evils that have been manifest by Jameson's hands." She exhaled slowly. "But what you fail to differentiate is the greater threat. Nero divided our attention, and thus gained more time than he needed. The pearl is destroyed. I used it. Nero returned my call to him, then destroyed his." Her voice wavered. "And whether you kill him or not, Sergeant... you may have delivered the man into an even greater evil."

 

A sigh was heaved from across the table. Osric stared darkly into his own mug as his own thoughts swirled. The mug reached the table without the anger it bore before and he rose, stepping over to her. His left arm crossed to his right. "What did he tell you? And what happened? The tunnel didn't collapse. I saw the armor, but..."

 

"Nero told me... that he no longer cared if the city lived or died. He has no intents on stopping the coming slaughter. And James... only said one last word to me. 'Banurein'. I do not know this woman save for mention by Roen, but I knew the fear in his eyes before..." her voice trailed off.

 

"Raelisanne." he hissed quietly. The woman across the table blinked and looked up. "You mean the one... sh-she supposed looks like me." Her own voice trembled slightly as if she did not want to believe it.

 

"If it weren't for this pissin' feud 'tween Taeros 'n Lazarov, I might've found her already." The Sergeant turned to Coatleque. "I was on her trail when this shite started."

 

"Well... now we both have reason to find her." she said rather clipped. "Scythe," she continued, "is the larger threat, Sergeant." She eyed the man now standing beside her. There was no immediate answer except that he turned and raised both wrists to her, the right laying over-top the left. She blinked at his submissive gesture and even considered taking him in. "Once I asked," he said, "This time, I'm offerin'. But you know better." A smirk crossed his face. The same shite-eating grin she had seen him wear whenever he was sure the odds were in his favor. "As y'say, Scythe is still out there."

 

Coatleque stared at his hands. The woman across the table looked worried herself as her lower lip pulled in and under her teeth. The paladin took a long, slow breath before standing. "For the Sultana." She turned to leave. She could not stay any longer in his presence. The man blinked and winced slightly before turning and taking his seat again.

 

She stopped after a step and looked back. "There is one other thing, though."

"Crofte, I've a whole load o' shite t'sit down and walk y'through. One more thing won't make much of a difference."

"This may."

 

Osric swallowed as his right arm fell limp at his side and he wiped his eyes with his left sleeve. "You mentioned Delial," she said in warning. "I would not expect to see her again. Enjoy the rum."

 

The Flame squinted and watched her as she walked away. "Aye, loads t'discuss and you're off? Figures. Go. do your gods-damned job this time."

 

She stopped just at the door but did not look back. Her hands clenched tightly at her sides.

"That was too far.", she replied coldly.

"You know nothin'."

[Nero]

The letters were everywhere. They seemingly went out to every residence, every box, every drop point to have ever been known as associated in some way with one Sebastian Redgrave. Each letter was accompanied by a small, blue marble of a linkpearl, and each letter was written by the same hand, in the same script, with the same ink, on the same vellum.

 

Each letter read as followed.

 

 

You asked for an audition. I delivered the requested performance. The man has been swept off the board. Whether you are still invested in the end-game or not, you owe me the chance to give the little ones, those who are now as you once were, a moment's shelter from the coming storm.

 

How often did you pray in those suns, only to be disappointed? How often did you curse the gods, if there were, in fact, any to be cursed? Do not lie to yourself, Nero.

 

Had there been a helping hand, would you have taken it?

 

Let me be that helping hand now, for them.

 

Several days later, a small parcel arrives. The parcel is unmarked save for the insignia of the Immortal Flames and Osric Melkire's name written directly on the surface. Inside contains a small, thick sheet of Garlean steel, and several envelopes. Inside one envelope is a map of Ul'dah, criss-crossed with circles, lines, and notes. The blue linkpearl had also been placed inside it. A second envelope is considerably thicker, containing several sheafs of paper. The words are written in a carefully constructed cursive script.

 

I had originally planned on simply bailing on our deal, but considering all that's happened--and your surprising utility as an assassin--that would simply be unprofessional. I suppose, then, that I owe at least one person a full explanation. Most people would assume that that person should be Roen, but I've decided it to be you.

 

Do not be flattered by the notion. You are simply less emotional than that woman, and may perhaps appreciate my intentions over my actions. I will admit, though, I was rather surprised to have mail waiting for me--or rather, waiting for Redgrave--when I had dropped out of business a few moons ago.

 

The basic formula was thus: economic pressure and violent anarchy would give way to political upheaval, with a failsafe of sorts. I believe you already know of the several months in which I had hired corsairs to choke out Ul'dahn trade ships leaving via the Rhotano Sea and the Strait of Merlthor. I will leave out the details; you are, after all, interested in the violent anarchy and my original planned failsafe.

 

Refer to the map of Ul'dah that is attached to this parcel.

 

A row of buildings is circled in red ink in Pearl Lane. Several arrows point from within Pearl Lane to other parts of Ul'dah, namely the Sapphire Avenue exchange, the Gold Court, and Onyx Lane.

 

The primary instigator of said violence is an Ala Mhigan Highlander by the name of Ernis Randolph, though you may know him better as Scythe. The referred-to location in Pearl Lane is where he and his gang are holed up. For several moons now, they have been covertly battling the other gangs for territory and influence, using Lominsan firearms that I supplied to them as a threat. That incident with the Hammerbeaks was the first instance of them actually using said firearms. As far as I could tell, the threat was enough to cow most of the bandits in the Lane to submission. Note that the firearms were not intended to be used against the Ul'dah--the purpose of the firearms was expressly to allow Scythe to unite the various factions of Pearl Lane with force, which brings me to the next part of the plan.

 

Scythe was to wreak havoc primarily in the Sapphire Avenue exchange, specifically targeting those merchants not directly associated with the Monetarist faction. The bandits will make a show of violently extorting non-Monetarist merchants. I had also taken pains to arrange things such that the majority of Brass Blades in the Sapphire Avenue at that juncture would turn the other way or merely be absent. It was my intention to instigate the idea that only Monetarist merchants would be safe, which would spur widespread and open resentment to their practises. In addition, it is common knowledge that the bandits in the city are permitted to stay so long as they can bribe those who would remove them--that is, the Syndicate, and the Brass Blades. If it appears that the Monetarists have lost control of those bandits, then the Syndicate's control of the city will be questioned, especially if innocents are killed in the conflict. 

 

Following the first attack, Scythe and his group will retreat to Pearl Lane, where there will inevitably be a swift response by the Brass Blades to re-establish order, and hide themselves among the refugee populace. With enough chaos, the Blades will not distinguish between proper bandits and simple refugees, and a slaughter at their hands will take place. This will further add to Ul'dah's instability, and such a blatant display by the Monetarist's private army will force the hands of Raubahn and the common folk. Simply put, with their open support, we would gain the momentum that is needed to overthrow the Syndicate, or at least expel them from Ul'dah.

 

At this point in the plan, I expected that the Flames, the Sworn, and perhaps even free companies may be roused to finally clean out bandit influence in Ul'dah. Scythe and his gang will be killed, as I had intended, for they had served their purpose. I have also had evidence planted in Pearl Lane that suggested that Scythe's gang was hired by the Monetarists to drain non-Monetarist merchants of gil, in order to supplant the losses they would be suffering from my corsair attacks at sea. This would, theoretically, be the straw to break the chocobo's back, and civil war would take place within Ul'dah.

 

The message, though complex in execution, is simple in its intent: if Ul'dah is to have any measure of lasting peace, then the Syndicate cannot rule there.

 

I would have of course supported Raubahn and the Sultana, though in my own way. I had gathered a small group of Lominsan entrepreneurs to collaborate with to supply the Raubahn's side of the conflict. When the smoke clears, if everything has gone according to plan, then the only remaining members of the Syndicate will be Raubahn and Manderville. The latter cares not for political whimsies, but the former will throw everything he has in support to Nanamo ul Namo. Thus, the Sultana will be in full control of Ul'dah, and from there, true measures of reform can take place.

 

A despicable way to spur change, perhaps, but it is only after destruction that new creation can take place.

 

As for the failsafe, see the enclosed blueprint.

 

A third envelope contains a large piece of parchment, folded several times to fit it into the envelope. When unfolded, the blueprint details the outline for a large, Garlean-style dreadnought. Design notes on the back of the parchment and written in the margins note that the vessel would not fly in the manner of an airship, but would hover such that it would not be hindered by most terrain. The dreadnought is armed with all manner of armaments, and would be a massive project in scope and scale, utilising revolutionary ideas as to the flow of aether and experimental ceruleum reactor designs.

 

The sheet of steel is a sample from this project, though you should know that this project has been cancelled for obvious reasons. The dreadnought was to be my safety net: if Garlemald took advantage of Ul'dah's unrest to invade again, then the dreadnought would be a strategic asset with which to repel invasion. After all, the Immortal Flames makes up the most sizeable portion of the Alliance's military strength. Until conflict with the Garlemald ceased, the dreadnought would take their place in combat.

 

In addition, if things in Ul'dah came at a stalemate, then this dreadnought would be my ace in the hole. The Monetarists would surrender or be destroyed. A cliche ultimatum, and to be honest I've no idea if such an ultimatum would have worked, but that was the intention behind it. Note that I do recognise the political implications: if it appeared that Raubahn was taking over Ul'dah with backing from the Garleans, then all of my plans would have backfired and the Monetarists would be painted as the heroes. To be honest, I hadn't planned that far if such a thing had happened.

 

In any case, Flame Sergeant Osric Melkire, you have now heard the full extent of my plans and what I had originally intended to do.

 

I suspect that this explanation will not satisfy you, as you wish to know what it is I intend to do now.

 

The dreadnought project has been scrapped, but the spare materials have been repurposed by my arcanist associate into something similar of a smaller scale. I've given this device to Scythe, whose mission is largely the same, with one alteration: the dreadnought, in a much smaller form, will attack Hustings Strip and attempt to capture or kill the Sultana.

 

A different, blue arrow on the map of Ul'dah highlights the most direct route from Pearl Lane to Hustings Strip.

 

It paints a pretty picture, doesn't it? The Monetarists finally attempt a violent coup, using their bandits and Garlean technology to try to seize complete control of Ul'dah. And the Eorzean Alliance is too dependent on the Flames and Ul'dah's economic benefits to question who rules the city. This, too, will force Raubahn into action.

 

Scythe himself doesn't care who he attacks. He is a man with much built-up rage--not unlike yours truly--and he will inflict it on anyone he perceives as wealthy or privileged. Ernis Randolph is a man who believes that successful people only gained their success by trampling on the less fortunate, and he has much anger to inflict.

 

And because I am such a nice person, refer to the second map.

 

Another identical map of Ul'dah is folded behind the first. This map has several areas circled. These areas notably overlap with the areas marked as targets by the first map.

 

I've already taken the liberty of assessing which districts of Ul'dah would be in the most danger, and thus you can evacuate that civilian populace. Or try to, anyway. I am not sure who will believe your ridiculous claims of "A Limsan pirate is planning a coup with a Garlean device and bandits, you need to leave the city". But it's worth a try, right?

 

In any case, I have fulfilled my end of the deal. There are no more tricks, no more lies or deceptions. This is my plan in its entirety. I know not when you will receive this package, nor do I care. For all I know, it's already too late and Ul'dah is a pile of ashes, or is entering a golden age of reformation. And do feel free to share this message with whomever you'd like. The things I've put in motion have come too far to be stopped.

 

Oh, and you can have your linkpearl back, too.  This will be my last correspondence. Regardless of whether or not my plan succeeds or fails, I am leaving Eorzea for Othard very soon.

 

So now that things are coming to an end, we've reached the part where you make a choice.

 

You can choose to pursue me. You can hunt me down before I leave Eorzean borders, and thus condemn the civilians you claim to care about to a violent, merciless uprising. People will die, yes, but the villain in all of this--that is, me--will finally be subjugated and forced to face justice for all of the crimes I have committed

 

Or, you can stop Scythe. Save the people, the women and children. Bring Ul'dah back to some measure of order, if not peace. But in the mean time, I will escape with no difficulty, and face no punishment for the wrongs I've committed.

 

I am curious as to what matters more to you: justice or mercy? I am vaguely aware of the bloody knives and cloaked bodies that lay in your past, Melkire. Not the details, of course, but enough to know that what you are in the dark is something very different from what you present in the light, and that the choices you make when no one is looking paint you as a man not too dissimilar to I.

 

Do your best, Flame Sergeant.

 

N.L.

 

P.S. If at all possible, do present the dilemma I have offered to Lady Crofte. Though I will never learn of it, I imagine her reaction will be priceless.

[C'kayah Polaali]

At first C'kayah thought the package had been misdirected, until he remembered the name that Nero had gone by in the past. Sebastian Redgrave. He turned the envelope over in his hands as he walked back into the squat, blocky house. His fingers massaged it, feeling the lump inside. A lump the size and shape of a linkpearl.

 

Oh, this is simply too good to be true, he thought to himself. He padded down the stairs, his soft-soled boots silent on the steps, and set a kettle on the stove. It was mid-day and the headquarters for Tylwyth Narah were cool and quiet, most people either resting or out. He set the envelope on the bar while he ground coffee, then prepared a pot and set it aside to brew. He picked up the envelope again, holding it gingerly by his fingertips, and held it over the spout of the kettle. He slowly moved it back and forth through the column of steam rising from the spout until he saw the telltale wrinkling, the glistening shine that told him the wax holding the envelope closed was soft. He set it back on the bar, carefully teasing it open with the sharp point of his knife.

 

Inside was a letter and a linkpearl. He poured himself a cup of coffee, then unfolded the vellum and began to read. He picked up the coffee, blew on it and sipped, then set it back down while a smile slowly crept across his face.

 

The man has been swept off the board.

 

Whatever else might have happened, Melkire had come through on that, while Roen Deneith had managed to escape Taeros' pit at some point before Melkire's attack had taken place.

 

C'kayah picked up the coffee again and sipped. This was simply too good to let sit. Ul'dah today was a different animal than it was a year ago: merchants without strong Syndicate affiliations had begun to disappear. He still possessed a charter, but he knew it was only a matter of time before either the Syndicate or Crofte - or both - revoked that. No matter, he thought to himself. The charter had let him grow fat and wealthy on the coin of Ul'dah, but Tylwyth Narah would survive that loss so long as he was able to take advantage of opportunities when they arose. And the loss of Taeros was a powerful opportunity, indeed.

 

The man had had creditors, he knew. Taeros' estate was likely bankrupt without him, while the mansion itself had already been sold. The Miqo'te made a mental note to check on the status of Taeros' butler. He had heard nothing but good things about the loyalty and resourcefulness of the man. He chuckled to himself then blew on the coffee again, imagining Kenthy with a butler.

 

He refolded the letter, tucking it and the pearl into his vest. Pouring a second cup of coffee, he carried both cups upstairs to the suites where he and Kenthy sometimes slept. There was a new power vacuum in Ul'dah, it was time to plan how best to exploit it.

[Melkire]

Hustings Strip was an oddity in some ways. The same red carpets that spoke of prestige and nobility also muffled his footsteps as he walked right up to Ser Coatleque Crofte, his right arm still hanging limp at his side, an envelope held precariously in his left hand. ‘twas the very same envelope he’d torn open not a bell ago. Perused its contents, even.

 

The woman just looked at him at first. Very nearly a glare, her regard. As he’d counted on, though, rather than sneer at him in public forum, she merely nodded. Poise, deportment, Twelve knew what else, she hadn’t left any of it behind her. Improved upon, rather. Perhaps.

 

“Good evening, Sergeant.”

 

Osric Melkire opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. Eyed her back. Considered. Weighed his options.

 

“Ser. Pardon if I don’t salute.” He glanced over at his right shoulder, his head canting just enough to accentuate his point. He held out the envelope and shook it slightly. “Lazarov delivered. There somewhere private we can talk?”

 

She peered at the envelope with narrowed eyes. “In Ul’dah? Never. Unless you consider my office private enough.”

 

The Sultansworn gestured for him to follow, then rounded the corner behind her and strolled a meager ways to a door down the adjacent hall. He followed, then waited a mere moment or two for her to open the door and formally invite him inside. The sound of that portal falling shut behind him set him on edge, but he beat down those insticts. They’d been honed a lifetime ago, and had no place her. Not right now, anyroad.

 

Crofte rounded her desk and took a letter off the top before sitting across from him. Her sword, she unbuckled and leaned back against the wall behind her. She gestured for him to sit. “Understand if I am still not keen on trading words just yet.”

 

Ain’t goin’ t’bother with pleasantries.

 

He marched on up to the desk and dropped the envelope there with a flick of his wrist. “No need for words. Just some trust in common duty. I haven’t made copies.”

 

He caught sight of her eyes as they lowered to the envelope for a moment.

 

“Very well. You should be quite pleased with this also.”

 

She took the letter and, as she did, she offered him the one she held. He took it with a wary glance. Some fumbling with the fingers of his left hand soon had it open. He barely moved as he mouthed out the contents.

 

Crofte,

 

Kinslayer yet lives. Barely, but Wolfsong interfered at the last minute.

 

I should have known better than to expect him to come to his senses even after knowing what she had done.

 

Be wary. I know the snake will look to strike back.

 

~ Shaelen Stormchild

 

“…so that’s where he was. Bastard never…”

 

Wolfsong had never responded to his last missive. Had that missive never reached its intended recipient? Blasted buggerin’ post could be unreliable even on the best of suns. He glanced up in time to spot Crofte’s brow furrowing as her expression turned from disgust to outright anger. He could see the tension in her jaw as she ground her teeth and collected the various contents back together into the envelope and slid it back across the desk.

 

“So that’s it, then,” she finally said. “The man eludes justice, but his plans are foiled. Until he returns with another guise, alias, and renewed thirst for blood.”

 

He smirked. “You look no happier than m’self when y’told me Jameson might still be out there.” He sobered. “Here and now. Mercy.”

 

Her eye twitched, but she took a slow, deep breath. “Sergeant. Osric, if I am not too bold. We can speak of Jameson another sun when our tempers have cooled enough to do so.”

 

The Immortal Flame stared down at her for a long, frigid while. “Fine. To business. How t’approach our Ernis Randolph problem. I’d say we ought t’bring the Blades in on this, but I’m not sure mobilizin’ anyone is a good idea, given the original outline.”

 

The paladin leaned back in her chair and bit her lip while glancing around the office walls. “Given the current situation in Ul’dah, mobilizing anyone could draw the wrong attention. Public opinion is already on a knife’s edge. And the Sultansworn are all but paralyzed.”

 

Melkire planted his palm on the desk, fingers splayed, and leaned forward. “Let me make this clear. I brought this t’you because regardless o’ personal differences ‘tween you and I, we owe this sultanate and her peoples our service. We took… nah, we swore oaths. I brought this t’you instead o’ Jenlyns because…” He took a deep breath, then swallowed something foul. “…because y’ain’t green anymore. You act. You know how, even if I disagree with the ‘why’ and ‘what for’. So. Suggestions. I’d like yours.”

 

She finally managed to look him in the face, and her expression softened somewhat. “You know I was nto trying to shirk such duty, of course.” She peered down at her desk in thought. “Blades are too hamfisted. You have more connections within the Flames, perhaps a smaller elite group could infiltrate these key points in turn.” She gestured to the envelope and the maps contained therein. “Of course you need to decide what the goal is first, before action may be taken. Are we rounding up these men for the gaols? And as always, I will not sit and watch from the sidelines. The Order may be paralyzed as a whole, but I may still act undercover.”

 

He reached up and slipped his turban off to meet her gaze. “We don’t give Lazarov what he wants. Not at this cost. Not ever.” He sighed. “Gaols seem impractical, but we can’t be the ones spillin’ blood. What we really need is Ernis apprehended, and his weapons and that… and that abomination of a machine seized.”

 

Coatleque nodded in agreement. “I would suggest, foolish as it seems, a direct assault. We know where he is. Do not gamble with the city’s lives. You know I am always hesitant to spill blood. But the picture I have been painted by that letter is of ruthless men.”

 

“We know where he’ll be, o’ course, but if we wait too long, we risk too much. Havin’ his name makes things easier… I have an idea, but you won’t like it.”

 

“Speak then.”

 

“We have Randolph’s name. I have milkweed seized from… certain warehouses.” He canted his head to one side again, curious to see her reaction to this suggestion. “Bribes work well in Ul’dah… especially with addicts.”

 

She blinked and quirked an eyebrow. “I am confused as to your intent. You want to merely pay him to abandon his plans and dismantle these weapons?”

 

“Course not. Meanin’ t’wet a few appetites for information. Where he’s holed up, if he’s still where Lazarov said he was, his movements, and so on.”

 

She pursed her lips, then chewed the inside of her mouth in thought. “As much asI loathe the idea of handing out contraband, I cannot disagree with your logic. I would present one additional option as well. Namely, Roen Deneith.”

 

The sergeant’s face went hard. “Oh?”

 

“…do not think worse of me for what I’ve done to her. I chastise myself enough as it were. From what I’ve gathered, she was trying to stop this ‘Scythe’ fellow as well. Nero was supposed to do it himself, but when he changed his mind, she came back. I do not know where she is now. I would imagine she has not gone far.”

 

“Were I her, I wouldn’t want to be found… and the Keeper went lookin’. You’re suggestin’ we risk losin’ time findin’ her? To do what?”

 

Crofte shrugged. “I am suggesting no such thing. If your Keeper is already on her trail, that should suffice. I imagine the woman would rest easier knowing the truth.”

 

He squinted. “What truth?”

 

The woman sighed and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “That her former lover has gone insane and escaped justice. That no more blood will be shed on his account, for now at least. Sergeant, you know I am not good at gathering information. If you think these bribes will get us what we need…”

 

“There’s the other option you suggested. A smaller, elite group.”

 

She nodded once. “That may be our only viable recourse at this time. I cannot act openly without drawing unwanted attention to the palace. But if you tell me where you need me, I will be there.”

 

He nodded back. “I’ve no pull with the Red Wings these suns, but m’self and the other castoffs, we might serve. Shite, Swift did throw us in the same unit. Why the hells not?” He pushed himself upright and ran his left hand back up through his hair. “That and the contraband. Two tasks. Find Ernis, evacuate the civilians.”

 

A slight smirk creeped across Crofte’s face. “For what time but this have the Twelve seen fit to bring your people together, then?”

 

Osric snorted. “Ser, you don’t want t’know. Movin’ on... how d’you want this done? You know more o’ security on the streets than I do. We Flames are more o’ less glorified thugs, after all.”

 

Not entirely truthful, that… but concessions were key in soothing one’s marks.

 

“Knowing is one thing. Pulling rank is another. I had a small advantage with… with Taeros’ influence of the Blades. Alas, that is gone now. The more quiet we can keep this, the better. Judging by the confession, some of those guards have already been paid not to be present either way. That could work to our advantage.”

 

He took a slow breath. “It could. Listen. You said the ‘sworn are paralyzed. You ain’t. The Flames ain’t. I ain’t worth tuco’s piss leadin’ a street cleanup right now.” He smiled for the first time since entering her office. “Would y’like t’meet the Dauntless?”

 

She returned the smile. “If I am going to be working with them, it is only prudent.”

 

He nodded and reached up to tap at the linkpearl in his left ear, his turban still in hand. He turned and strolled to the far end of her office, speaking in hushed tones and whispers. Simple matter to contact the lieutenant and the others; their pearls were never far. Company policy kept things that way. He grinned at the voices in his ear, as if someone had just told him he’d won at life, then he turned back for a moment.

 

“Chamber of Rule? Meet them at the lift?”

 

She looked up at him rather incredulously. It was clear she hadn’t been expecting guests this soon. “As you wish.”

 

He glanced at the door expectantly. “They’re here t’meet you, not me.”

 

She all but jumped in her seat, then stood and rounded the desk again, taking up her sword as she went. He pulled his turban back on and adjusted the mask as she pulled the door open for him.

 

 

 

 

Kanaria Galanodel met them not a dozen paces past the door to Crofte’s office. He wasn’t surprised. She was always near when needed. The three of them made their way over to the lift, only for the sergeant to frown as he spotted two Miqo’te dressed in casual attire.

 

“Not even in…”

 

Gods, not even in uniform.

 

“I was in the middle of working on the rings,” retorted the redhair as he shrugged at his sergeant. “You’re lucky I didn’t show up in my lab coat… though I thought about it.”

 

Osric cleared his throat as he stepped to one side. “Ser Coatleque Crofte, might I introduce Lieutenant Korofi, Lady Siha Xinkei, and Lieutenant Galanodel.”

 

The Sultansworn looked to each in turn and offered a slight bow in greeting, which was, thank the Twelve, promptly returned. Siha smiled in apology as she cleared her throat. “A pleasure, Ser Crofte.”

 

“Osric said you wanted to meet us for a mission,” the redhair asked as he inclined his head curiously.

 

Coatleque smiled. “Yes, though I can hardly be the one to lead it. It seems you have quite the assembly, Sergeant.”

 

He grumbled under his breath. Something about lack of uniforms and improper address and rutting salutes being forgotten and gods knew what else.

 

“Truthfully,” continued the paladin, “I do not know much about your unit besides what Sergeant Melkire has told me.”

 

“What has he told you,” asked Korofi as he shot the sergeant a curious look.

 

“Small,” Osric grunted in answer. “Elite. Professional,” he growled in a biting tone.

 

“Ah… not very professional today. I’ll admit I didn’t take the time to change.” The redhair coughed awkwardly and looked down at himself.

 

“Don’t need professional, rightly speakin’. Need competence.”

 

Siha lifted a brow briefly at Osric, then glanced back to Crofte with another smile as she took a step forward. “Sometimes we don’t have the time. We keep as busy as we can.”

 

“We’re definitely competent,” said the male.

 

“In this case, I must agree.” Crofte nodded. “Can you also be discreet?”

 

“We can.”

 

“We’re not hiring Ki again,” the sergeant all but barked, adamant and steadfast as he stood his ground. “As long as we’re not hiring Ki again.”

 

Korofi looked over at Osric and smiled thinly. “Ki has other things to worry about.”

 

“Quite a few things to worry about,” murmured Galanodel.

 

Melkire sighed with relief as the redhair grinned.

 

“No, if it’s discretion that’s needed I know who to assign.”

 

“Back to the office, then?” The sergeant shifted his feet. “This is… sensitive.”

 

They all nodded, Crofte in particular. “Yes, especially given the circumstances.”

 

“Step lively, then.”

 

 

 

 

Crofte closed the door behind them and rounded her desk again, as Xinkei tucked herself into a corner at a comfortable distance from Korofi and glanced curiously at the paladin. Melkire strolled up to the desk, Galanodel right behind him, and lifted the torn envelope from the desk before handing it over to the lieutenant. Korofi took the envelope, his ears flexing back as he pulled out the contents to read.

 

Crofte leaned back in her chair again and crossed her arms as Osric strolled over to the other corner to stand in front of Kanaria. “Of course, none of this information is to leave this room… for the time being. If this plot gets out, there will be mass hysteria on the streets.”

 

The redhair stopped reading and glanced over at the sergeant. This time, his ears flattened with purpose as the tiny Miqo’te studied the midlander before looking back to the documents in his hands. Behidn him, Siha’s brows drew together as she frowned, but she remained quiet.

 

“I’m listening,” the lieutenant responded, stopping long enough to pull a small gold pearl from his ear.

 

“Sworn can’t handle this right now,” Osric explained. “You know why. Blades we can’t trust with it. Flames in numbers will result in mayhem.”

 

“Our mission is clear, at least,” interjected Coatleque. “We must find this man and stop him before anyone else suffers, or worse. And the Sergeant is correct.”

 

“The man and his weapons. He’s not theonly fanatic t’consider. There are his men.”

 

Korofi slowly passed back the first page of the letter to Siha and muttered, “pass it to Kanaria when you’re done.”

 

Crofte shifted in her chair. “You cannot look to the Sultansworn for aid, unfortunately, since the balance has tipped in this city. But I will aid as much as I can under cover.”

 

The small calico bristled as he read through the second page. “…I understand. The current situation puts all of us in a bind, but it will be easier for us to move swiftly and efficiently, especially with our civilian attachments. We have the luxury of being faces in a crowd.”

 

He passed another page to Siha.

 

“Sergeant Melkire had an idea on how to flush this man out of hiding, or at least find a lead back to him.”

 

Siha passed off the first page to Kanaria as the hyuran woman stepped over to her. The pale Keeper’s frown deepened as she perused the second page, her eyes widening in shock.

 

“Private Od’hilkas and I seized some contraband back when he was still a lieutenant and we were still with the Red Wings. Milkweed,” Melkire explained. “Pearl Lane has its fair share of addicts lookin’ for a fix, and Ernis Randolph ain’t that common a name.”

 

Korofi stopped reading long enough to pull out the steel. He shook the blueprints free as he tucked the remaining pages of the letter under his arm so that he could look each one over in earnest. He sighed heavily through his nose, eyes scanning the blueprints before folding them back up and swapping them with the letters. He passed the third page off to Siha and moved on to the next.

 

“I need not say more to emphasize the gravity of this situation,” said the paladin.

 

“Shite, you ain’t kiddin,” retorted the sergeant. “Brought this t’you first thing. Couldn’t sit on it.”

 

“And for that you have my thanks. This man has been a thorn in Ul’dah’s side far too long.”

 

“You’ve read all of this? Both of you?” Korofi pulled out the second map and started glancing between it and the fourth page of the letter. Siha shook her head behind him and passed another page to Kanaria as she read the next, muttering under her breath.

 

“Aye, though I might o’ skimmed over some details.”

 

“We can keep these?” The calico passed the fourth page back to the Keeper.

 

“Better with us than here in the palace, I think, no?”

 

Crofte smirked. “The Dauntless should keep them, yes. You will be the primary agents that stop this man. Scythe. Ernis.”

 

“Good,” said Lieutenant Korofi. “I want to have a better look at some of it back in my lab.” He handed off the last page to Siha before tucking the maps and blueprints and steel joint back into the envelope. “And what about Nero?”

 

“Gone,” answered t Melkire. “This takes priority.”

 

“It is as the Sergeant says. We cannot afford to go after him while so many lives are at risk.”

 

Siha shuffled another page over to Kanaria. She nodded in agreement, as did Korofi. They all looked grim.

 

“Agreed,” said the redhair. “Ul’dah is our priority.” He glanced at the sergeant. “You’re right, though. Grimsong can’t come this time… and neither can Khalo.” His shoulders sagged, ears flexing and flattening again as he looked back at Crofte. “But if anyone can take care of this, I’m confident that it’s us.”

 

“Mm, I would have to agree,” Kanaria said as her eyes rose to meet Osric’s. The man grinned.

 

Coatleque nodded once. “Would that I could lend you more than just my blade. I have every confidence in you, though.”

 

Osric turned to Korofi. “Can we use Samuel for this?”

 

 

The lieutenant shook his head. “He’s indisposed. If we have to, we can use A’laric.” The Miqo’te’s gaze shifted back to Crofte. “You’re in too tight of a position right now to take care of this. That’s understood. Don’t fret over it.”

 

“…havin’ an Ala Mhigan might help, though…”

 

“Jin is Ala Mhigan. I’ll message him, Osric. If he’s back from his sabbatical.”

 

“Oh, I was thinkin’ we’d have Crofte here be our plant.”

 

“Hn. But being a ‘sworn….”

 

“Plant?” Crofte blinked and sat upright as she interjected.

 

“Are bearings and voices so easily concealed?” Siha passed the last pages off to Kanaria and gave Crofte a small smile.”

 

“…and a face I know is well-known,” the lieutenant continued. “Even I’ve seen it, and I don’t know anyone.”

 

“Exactly,” the highlander woman said.

 

“Unless you intend to use some method of concealment.”

 

Osric shook his head. “We need t’find Ernis, and we need a voice t’start folks movin’ if we need to evacuate. Dyes and haircuts are cheap, I should know. Throw in some dirt….”

 

“If we need a voice,” asked Korofi, “what about your contact from the Quicksand?”

 

“My whaaa?”

 

“Aya?” Kanaria glanced between the two men.

 

“Yeah, her.”

 

“…that might do. Hold on.” The sergeant turned and fiddled with the linkpearl in his ear for a bit as Kanaria returned to pouring over the last few pages.

 

“No offense, Ser Crofte,” Korofi said. “I’d rather not endanger anything on this mission. You included. And a Miqo’te would pick you out by your scent if they knew you.” He tapped his nose.

 

“None taken, of course,” answered the paladin. “I am known by many throughout this city by now. The further away from Thanalan, the better my chances.”

 

Korofi nodded. “It’s understandable. Besides, it would look suspicious for you to disappear abruptly…. The only way we could work it is if we found you a double for quiet appearances while we found a way to alter your scent. Which is not beyond the realm of possibilities.”

 

Crofte shook her head. “Overly complicated for the scope of the mission. Someone else will have to suffice. I can certainly stay nearby and disguised, in case a blade is needed.”

 

Lady Xinkei looked thoughtful. “I’m not sure how much time we truly have, but… Nero did say that the other bandits were subjugated by force and fear, did he not? If we are careful and thorough, maybe we can find someone willing to turn on them? It is… not the best solution, but if we had no other choice, there is that. Fear is never the best way to hold someone’s allegiance.”

 

“We would have to know who is susceptible, first,” countered the ‘sworn.

 

“It would be wise to have you near, on retainer. I’ll admit… if things do get to the point of the Blades turning blindly on the refugees…” Korofi bristled. “Public opinion may be poor, but they don’t deserve to die for a fear monger.”

 

“Agreed.”

 

Osric dropped his hand from his ear at last and turned back to the assembly. “Aya’s in. Rousin’ folks and getting’ them movin’ out o’ harm’s way’ll be her job.”

 

“Good,” the lieutenant said. “Siha has a point, though. If we can find the weak link in the chain of command… we need to assemble a team and a plan.”

 

“I agree,” said Crofte, but she shook her head again. “But not here, of course. The walls have ears, and even eyes at times. If you have somewhere better suited, we can meet there. With everyone at once.”

 

“Headquarters?” asked the sergeant. “Next sun?”

 

“Our headquarters, yes. By then it will be sufficiently warded, too.” Korofi glanced towards Siha and Kanaria as if to confirm this.

 

“Goblet,” provided Melkire. “Ward Four subdivision, southwestern district.”

 

Crofte jotted that down on a random paper on her desk. “I shall be there. Out of uniform, of course.” She folded the paper and quickly hid it away. “If there were no further questions for the night, Sergeant…? I believe we all have much to think on while we still have time to think.”

 

“No, not unless y’hard any for us.”

 

“Not as of yet. I will review the letters in detail overnight.”

 

“Not much time at all,” mumbled Korofi as he moved to gather the pages from Kanaria. The midlander woman pulled them away slowly, hugging them to her chest while she blinked at her fellow lieutenant.

 

“You can have the blueprints and the steel,” Osric told Korofi. “Let her hold onto the letter.”

 

“I want to to read it again. Rather, I need to. So I’d like to have a look at it soon.”

 

“…Crofte, if you’ve more ink, I’d suggest copying down what you need now.”

 

Kanaria nodded quickly. “I, uh… um… when you are done, then, could I have them back so I can lock them away?”

 

“Yes,” Korofi answered. “But we need to be able to peruse them for now.”

 

“I will write down what I need, and send a runner within the bell,” Crofte said. “Re-sealed, of course.”

 

“Would you take it amiss,” inquired Melkire, “if I said I don’t feel right, leavin’ those pages alone here with you?”

 

“…Sergeant, at this time, I do not feel right leaving myself here alone, either.”

 

Good answer.

 

Kanaria handed the letter over to the lieutenant. “You’ll have them back,” he promised her, before moving to the desk and passing them to Crofte.

 

“Don’t send a runner,” Osric said. “Come yourself. Private by name o’ Mortar guards our door. Y’can leave them with him.”

 

“Elsewise, there’s Plumb as well,” supplied Korofi.

 

“We’re trustin’ Plumb with this? Gods above.”

 

“Plumb’s loyalty to Ul’dah is unquestionable. He’d never let these fall into the wrong hands.”

 

“I shall deliver it personally within the next bell,” the paladin interjected. “Just be sure you have the right man waiting.”

 

Melkire turned and saluted Crofte as best he could with his left arm. “Dunesfolk both. They’ll be in uniform. We’d best be off.”

 

“Ser Crofte.” Korofi saluted. The gesture lacked the finesse of a seasoned soldier, but it was a marked improvement from before.

 

“Yes, I shall see you next sun if not before. And remember…”

 

Ser Coatleque Crofte rose and walked round her desk to let them out.

 

“…watch for the snake’s return.”

[Banquo Viaquo]

The distinction between loyalty and faith is a fine one indeed.

 

As North reflected on this, he also realized--rather too late--that Final Prayer made a poor refuge for one dedicated entirely to the former, with none of the latter. And yet he had somehow been led here, walking aimlessly through Eastern Thanalan, passing Drybone with nary a shudder or a glance. The last time he traveled that road resulted in the inexplicable attempt on his life--an incident that, even after all that had happened, went unanswered and unclear. No culprit, no motive, no trace.

 

He had known from the very beginning that Taeros was little more than a momentary convenience; a shark onto which the remora latches. The man's crimes, both moral and literal, were as numerous as his adversary's. North had even been actively working against him--that had been his sole purpose in entering his employment in the first place. He had clearly been marked as a target from the start, and thus--Gideon set the wine bottle onto the dusty ground--he was not to be mourned.

 

But he had been a master, hadn't he?

 

He had ensured North knew his place. Above all, they both played their roles as best they could, and that, the butler had expected. But, over time--and yes, especially there at the end--it seemed as though he had truly valued not only North's life, not merely his well-being, but his happiness. He had apparently endeavored to keep North from those who sought to take him from Taeros's service, with all the suspicion due of one of his station. He had not treated North as more than a servant, but... that, he had given a strange dignity. A nobility. An understanding, North finally settled upon, that was almost painful in its long-missed familiarity.

 

When Master Taeros had, at the end, called out Gideon's name, bleeding blue and black, the valet had hesitated out of shock. The healing aether never came, and Taeros had fallen. But had the valet been obeying his instincts... or fighting them?

Whatever the motivation, he had not acted quickly enough, and now another master was gone.

 

He stared blankly into the etched stone before him, absently fumbling the golden maple pin out from within his jacket and rolling it between his fingers. Perhaps this was simply the natural way of things. One may only serve until they fail, and thus lose that right to serve. Two masters served, and two masters gone.

 

No. Something resounded in his head. One master served. And one master betrayed. His fist closed over the badge, and his head swam with sudden, overwhelming dizziness--thoughts churning with violent emotion and cold, detached appraisal. Preserving one loyalty does not pardon the betrayal of another. His face remained implacable as always, but a sudden bile rose up within him at the thought. Almost hastily, he took a long gulp from the bottle at his side, pushed more by impulse than true desire, and sagged as he returned it to its place on the ground. He sat silently among the gently humming fireflies, the open bottle at his side and his eyes on the ground. His eyes flickered to his silver grimoire, carelessly set on the dusty ground alongside him, then returned to the etched stone before him--staring blankly into it, hoping for some flicker of clarity, or even merely some relief. However (that same, cold part of him reminded), that was a luxury intended only for men of faith.

 

His shoulders rose and sank in a brief sigh, and he pocketed the badge. Lingering too long on such questions would be provably unhelpful, and--more to the point--beyond his station. He closed his eyes, listening to the hum of the fireflies... then paused, paying closer attention to the sound as they drifted somewhat further away. "...?"

 

The Miqo'te nearby took a few more steps, gradually more audible the closer he came. The ground was dry enough not to betray his footsteps, but he still walked with some measure of caution. Approaching, the young stranger spoke, noticing the valet's curiosity--his eyes obscured by a practical leather facemask. "Mister North...."

 

"Ah." Of course; a place for reflection like this would no doubt serve others, who would also value their solitude. He instinctively began gathering his things up, politely nodding behind him. "A thousand pardons, sir..."

 

"Please, no need for such apologies..." The rebuttal was pleasant, almost apologetic itself. Gideon watched the man dip into an apparent bow... then break almost seamlessly into a predatory lunge, vicious clawed gauntlets gleaming in the light of the fireflies.

 

The valet scrambled back in shock, the bottle spilling from his arms and staining the ground wine-red as he raised the book as a makeshift shield, desperately trying to block the sudden strike. "Wh-What--" The clawed stranger's strike hooked against the side of the book, and he immediately twisted his arm back, deftly trying to rip the tome from North's hands.

 

Something flashed in North's eyes, and he tilted the book just the slightest, letting the attacker simply rip open the front cover. One half of the book was all but shredded by the vicious claw, but the pages swiftly fell open to a random angular diagram. Concentrating his aether, he hissed darkly, letting the instant reaction of Bio course through his arms, into the book, and towards his assailant. "...Assassin."

 

The accusation, predictably, had no effect on the Miqo'te--however, he clearly recognized the sudden flow of aetheric energy. He quickly dropped to the ground, both hands stopping himself directly before impact. Twirling nimbly on the ground, his foot blurred through the air, arcing towards Gideon's jaw. Twisting desperately, the valet attempted to deflect the blow, but North was no martial artist--the strike connected, sending him sprawling flat on his back in the dirt, coughing in pain and breathless rage. "Ghnnh... is it you...?" His face bore a strange, wide-eyed smile as his head snapped up to face the assassin.

 

The momentum of the kick let the acrobatic Miqo'te twirl back up onto his feet--with not a word at North's senseless question; only replying with another lunge forward, claws out and angled towards the Hyur's neck. With barely any time to react, North twisted to the side, gasping--the razor claws tearing through his jacket and shoulder instead. Blood stained the pristine black of his formal jacket, and he breathed in soundless pain; fumbling with his free hand for the fallen bottle and swinging it towards the assassin's face in retaliation. With his free hand, the assassin lashed out to strike the wine bottle mid-swing, shattering the glass, sending shards and wine splaying across both North and the dry soil. "Ghh!" He recoiled, the shards of glass and wine provoking a brief, reflexive cringe. "Three YEARS, and--!" Seeing the Miqo'te bringing the claw down once more, he threw his head to the right, in a desperate attempt to protect himself--the claws raked across the left side of his face, slicing easily through his eye and cheek. He roared, in pain and anguish.

 

The assassin hissed quietly, clearly somewhat irritated at the valet's persistent survival. He paused for just a brief moment, then twisted the claw embedded in the Hyur's shoulder, ripping the flesh--more blood, soaking the black. Almost instantly, he brought the other claw back down, shearing through the air to the man's chest, but North wrenched himself to the side in a desperate spasm, further twisting the claws in his shoulder. The man's other claws pierced him, but grazed off his ribcage, avoiding fatal damage once more. He arched on the ground, a ragged whimper of pain escaping him--incongruously feeble for the depth of the wound.

 

"HALT!" Through the haze of pain and adrenaline, North heard the voice of Roen, of all people, cut through the fray. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a redhead figure in the uniform of the Blades charge towards the chaos, and the masked man's gaze rose to her for just a moment... before ripping both claws from North's body with a sickening sound of severance. He darted up from the crumpled valet, dashing towards the Blade as if in attack... then, at the last moment, he leapt and flipped over the Blade in an adroit flip, landing on his feet just behind her. Without another moment's hesitation, he bolted down the hill, out towards the plains. Roen seemed to hesitate, her gaze darting from the fleeing assassin to the valet, bleeding out on the ground.

 

"Gyaaghk--" North arched again, panting in pain, and fumbled for the remains of his book. A mangled roar of fury rose within him as his fingers closed in a claw over the page, crumpling the paper--his other hand blindly firing out Ruinous bolts, green tinges of Bio, sickly green Virus--anything requiring no more than a second's thought. Roen ducked the aetheric onslaught, hastily rushing to the side, but not a single spell connected--the masked man sprinted away, not looking back. "YOU FINISH... YOUR JOB!" North roared out, choking on more than just his words. "DON'T YOU... RUN... N-Nnghh..." As the assassin vanished from view, the bloodied servant devolved into wordless howling and gasping.

 

Roen's eyes followed the last crackling Ruin as it blurred down the path alongside her... but she rushed toward the fallen man instead, the assassin no longer in sight. She fell to her knees next to him. "Mister North!" Pulling off her turban to survey his wounds, she tried desperately to number the injuries. A gash in his shoulder... jaw badly bruised... both cloth and flesh shredded... one side of his face all but sheared through... "Gideon!" The valet did not respond, hands remaining where they were--clawing at paper and casting out in furious aetheric stabs at the air, though the spells no longer came.

 

She grabbed onto one wrist, as if to bring him to the present from wherever his mind was at. "Gideon!" She leaned forward, wide eyes going from his face to the growing crimson stain upon his shoulder. Then inevitably, it returned back to his... wounded eye and face. She grimaced.

 

Gideon writhed feebly, hand twisting in her grip. "M-Master, they're... here. Run, please... please..."

 

Seeing his distress, she pressed him down a bit more forcefully, her tone firm despite the alarm upon her expression. "Gideon. Stop. Let me heal you... You are..." She swallowed. "You are injured badly..."

 

North twisted his head from side to side, the frantic tears mingling with the fresh blood. "Master, you cannot stay!"

 

Hurriedly, she fumbled her gauntlet off, to lay her hand upon his... shoulder? Face? Eye? There was so much blood. She swallowed to steady herself. "Gideon. Please. Calm. I am going to stop the bleeding first..." She put a steady pressure upon his shoulder, glancing warily over her shoulder to where the assailant had disappeared. Facing Gideon, she frowned. "He ran. I am not letting you bleed to death."

 

"Master, they could return... at any moment! Think of... your parents! I promised them I would... I would look after..." North hissed out in pain, staring blindly up at the sky, the tears not stopping.  After a moment, fully registering his words, Roen exhaled. She did not budge, holding him still as best she could as she summoned the aether onto his shoulder wound. Throughout, she remained silent, closing her eyes as the aether flooded his injuries. "Stop... stop, please..." Though he shook, jolting one way and then another, his movements gradually slowed--his hand falling to the ground, and the paper tearing with a slow rip as his other hand closed into a fist.

 

Seeing the flesh closing, Roen breathed out in relief. "Gideon... you did everything you could..." she murmured.

 

"I knew he would come back, Master... but he knew I'd be looking for poison this time, so he... he chose another means..." North muttered indistinctly, still panting with effort and pain.

 

Roen's expression saddened as she met Gideon's unseeing eye. "Do not blame yourself..." she said softly, moving to treat the wounds on his chest. The severity of the damage made her falter for one brief moment before the aether rose within her once more.

 

"They always come, master... wherever I go... they're always there, you can't escape them. No servants, only masters. Never servants, only masters." North whispered in horror, staring blindly skyward. "Him, her, her, him, her, him, her..." He shuddered, shaking uncontrollably. "I have to, I have..."

 

Her shoulders slumped, the treatment having drained her somewhat. She laid a hand upon the man's jawline, turning his face towards her. "Gideon," she said softly. "Please. Come back." The valet swallowed, hard, and went completely still. Her gaze darted from his jaw to the long gash ripped across his eye, face twisting in worry.

 

"...Miss Deneith." North opened his eyes, speaking with sudden, unshakable calm and composure, despite his wounds and the situation.

 

Roen Deneith finally released a long sigh, her shoulders slumping and relief washing over her face. "....Mister North." She curled a faint smile, although it was still tinged with worry. "Please hold still, let me at least... close these wounds. Your jaw and... your eye..."

 

"Very good, Miss. Please do as you see fit." The valet stared politely forward, his injured eye slightly rolling.

 

Surveying the damage, Roen winced. His jaw appeared to have suffered the least of the damage, but his eye... "We should get you to the infirmary."

 

North appeared unconcerned, speaking while gazing blankly ahead. "Pardon me, Miss, but would you possess any insight into the identity and purpose of that man?"

 

Roen Deneith glanced past him to where the assailant had disappeared. "He wore a mask. I did not recognize him."

 

He watched the fireflies, seemingly entranced. "Of course. Of course that would be the case. Thank you, Miss."

 

"We should get you to the infirmary, Mister North. You have been injured badly." Roen swallowed. "I mended what I could but..."

 

"The infirmary? My goodness, I AM in Drybone again, aren't I? You'd think I would have learned!" North burst out laughing, his good eye somewhat wider than usual.

 

Roen blinked, a bit incredulous. "Ah. But you have survived. Yet again."

 

"Yes, Miss, indeed! It is just my luck!" He laughed merrily, closing his eye with a broad smile... then grunted in quiet pain, hauling himself to his own feet.

 

She blinked again, looking to her hand, then back to Gideon. "I take it you did not recognize the attacker."

 

"No indeed, Miss. I'm afraid not. A bit of a waste, isn't it?"

 

She watched him cautiously, then picked up her gauntlets, redonning them as she rose as well. She gave him an odd look at the words. "What do you mean..?"

 

"I yet live, and I have not the means to find my assailant, nor keep it from happening again! I daresay nobody has gotten what they wished for tonight!" He shrugged good-naturedly, chuckling with uncharacteristic mirth.

 

Roen frowned instantly. "You are wrong. You live. At least that was my wish when I came upon the scene." Pausing, she stepped forward, lowering her voice. "This was the second time you were attacked. Perhaps we can find a pattern. A rhyme or reason..."

 

"I suppose if one wishes for constants to remain the same, Miss, then one can be thusly satisfied. But this... why, nothing really changed, did it? Nothing changes." North stared at the fireflies for a moment. At his words, Roen blinked again, her movements slower. Her gaze quietly fell to the ground. A moment of silence passed... before North turned to her, smiling politely. "...Miss, I believe it would be unwise to remain here for much longer."

 

Roen pressed her lips into a thin line, then nodded in agreement. "Aye. Let us at least get you to a more skilled healer than I."

 

"If it is needed, Miss. I daresay I feel... fine." He chuckled faintly, striding forward.

 

She regarded him again, her eyes narrowing. "I would feel better if you were checked. And your eye, Mister North..."

 

"Please, Miss. What do I have to worry about with one eye less? Certainly, if tonight is any evidence, I should have been making better use of them in the first place!" He laughed heartily again, making his way down the path without looking back at her. She watched him oddly, following silently behind him.

 

---

 

North sat on the bed, smiling blankly as he stared forward. They had even placed him in the same room as the last incident. Perhaps they were coming to recognize him.

 

Roen glanced around, standing by the bedside--clearly remembering similar circumstances. Seeing the healers bustling to and fro, she sighed, relaxing somewhat. She took an uncertain step forward, towards the wounded valet. "Please, let them help you in however way they can, Mister North."

 

"Of course! Familiar comforts indeed, Miss, familiar enough." North nodded vaguely.

 

She parted her lips as if to say something, then stopped. Instead, she lightly placed her hand upon his shoulder, her voice softening. "I am glad you are alright." She studied his face. "And even if nothing changes, does not mean we should stop trying," she murmured.

 

"Miss need not worry. I know precisely what I must do." He nodded, smiling--still staring into the middle distance.

 

"Nothing foolish... I hope?" Roen stared at him, unsure.

 

"Do I seem a fool, Miss Deneith?" North stared back at her. For a brief moment, his eyelid twitched.

 

She slowly shook her head. "Nay. Anything but." Her voice lowered.

 

"Then I shall leave you in peace." North smiled, the expression apparently fixed in place. "Now. I believe it is time I rested!"

 

She shook her head again, just slightly. "Do get your rest, Mister North."

 

"I shall endeavor to."

 

At last, she stepped back, but paused once more. "I will check on you soon." She smiled almost meekly at him, as if in reassurance.

 

North stared, smiling, at the wooden screen. "Thank you, Miss. Goodbye."

 

Roen paused at the doorway, giving the man another strange look, then made her way out of the infirmary, steps slow on the worn stone.

 

For a long while after, while the chirurgeons and healers attended to him, North remained staring blankly forward. He could not fail them--fail those who had stood alongside him--as he had failed his Masters. Though faith remained beyond his reach, now moreso than ever before, he would always have loyalty.

[Roen]

Roen stood at the edge of the wooden walkway looking out over the waterfall. Its constant roar bothered her not, and an occasional twirl of cherry blossom petals that danced through the air tamed the majestic view of the rapid’s long descent.

 

It seemed to her that Lavender Beds nurtured peace and tranquility in every nook of its grounds, and it was here that Roen had found herself recuperating after her escape from the Black Cells. She barely remembered leaving Taeros’ manse, her thoughts spinning and her body leaden with fatigue. She found herself on the doorsteps of Cliffperch, looking up at Brynhilde Wulf’s surprised expression. The Highlander took her in without question and gave her respite for a few suns, allowing her to sleep and eat within their protected walls.

 

Roen was thankful for Miss Wulf’s discretion. The Highlander did not ask for details and she offered quiet words of wisdom if only to give the paladin some reprieve from her disquieting thoughts. It was also because she was afforded a few more suns in Thanalan that she was able to find Gideon in time to stop the attack on him. But despite the valet’s reassurances of his own health and capabilities, Roen could not help but worry for the man, and wondered how much of his troubles stemmed from her. But in truth, she herself was in no shape to protect him, and she feared that being near him would only put him in more danger.

 

So as soon as she was able, Roen left Thanalan, traveling to Gridania in search of her friend, Kiht. Gideon had told her of what happened in the tunnels, how she had been present, along with Osric and a few others. They had gone beneath the city to try and rescue her, and to lure Taeros out into the open. How she must have worried, the paladin had thought. It was not the first time her dear friend had gone out of her way to try and help her when she was in trouble. So when she felt strong enough, Roen sought her out in Lavender Beds.

 

A cool breeze tossed her long forelocks past her eyes as Roen leaned against the wooden railing. She recalled their warm reunion, surprise and relief clear in the miqo’te’s dark gaze. But soon their tidings had turned somber, as Kiht began to ask about her affairs. The words the paladin had exchanged with her friend still rang in her mind, as loud as the pounding echo of the waterfall.

 

"I know that you believed in him. I do not know what to say other than he failed you. The only mistakes you made were mistakes of faith."

 

Kiht’s words had not lent her any comfort. Guilt still weighed heavily on Roen, and yet she was hesitant to set the course to lift it. But a part of her knew what awaited her. What she must do.

 

"Do I find him now? Make him answer for the wrongs he has done? If all he had done amounted to nothing, then…should I not at least try and bring him to some kind of justice?"

 

It was as if Kiht could sense the paladin’s unease. "Is he still a threat to anyone? Mayhaps you should not ask me because I would say that you have done enough. Let others find him. I know plenty wish to."

 

“He has killed before. He...likely will again. For reasons he has justified to himself. I tried to justify it, forgive, it, and tried to help him atone for it when I thought he wanted such things. I stood by him through this. Should I not atone for my own mistakes in that?"

 

Her friend had looked upon her, her gaze hardened. "You once told me that if you met your father, you could not hate him. Or was it that you could not kill him? Either way, could you truly kill Nero now? Because that is what will be done to him, one way or another. Arrest him and he will be killed. What if he fights you? That is why I say you must only pursue him if you can accept doing the deed yourself. As Osric did, with Taeros."

 

"I...I thought I could kill Taeros," Roen had confessed, shame constricting her breath even then. "When I escaped. I went to go find the noble when I realized there was a hidden tunnel into his manse. I thought that was something I could do, after all this. But…I could not."

 

"You found Taeros...but you did not kill him?"

 

"I was somewhat delirious. I thought it would right some wrongs...but to just kill him, that would not be right. To sneak into a man's home with the sole intent to end his life, he did not deserve that."

 

"You could not kill that bastard, so I am now even more convinced that you could not do so to Nero. You are a Protector, Roen. Not a hunter."

 

"He and Nero should be brought to trial. Judged by the law. It should not be delivered at the end of a vigilante's sword. Taeros was defenseless. Without weapons, without soldiers...could you cut down a defenseless man?"

 

Roen could recall Kiht’s expression then. It had grown cold. Her eyes held the look of a predator.

 

"If it is someone like Taeros...yes. I could.”

 

Those words spoken by her friend still shocked her now. But Roen had to remind herself of what mattered: the virtues she upheld and the ideals that made her who she was.

 

"I am a free Paladin. I swore the Oath of a Sultansworn once. Nero put the people I promised to protect in danger. He planned for riots in Pearl Lane and arranged for deaths of women and children. I need to make certain he will not do that again."

 

Kiht’s voice softened in response to the paladin’s steel. "Then what can you do? You made mistakes. Mayhaps you should share what you know with Gharen or Osric. They can do the deed. You still have other things to worry about, do you not?"

 

"And let others take the burdens that should be mine?" Her own response had been quick, almost a knee-jerk indignation.

 

Her friend had looked forlorn, there was only pity in her eyes. "I only see two choices before you. Leave him, or chase him.” She took a deep breath in before she continued. “...If you chase him, you need to be willing to kill him."

 

Kiht’s voice was suddenly drowned away in the constant din of the waterfall, and another spoke in her ear. A face rose from her memory, one of ice-blue gaze behind soot black locks with their fiery orange highlights, and his eyes bore into her. She found herself standing at the edge of the pier at Crescent Cove with a blade between them that he had stuck between the wooden planks.

 

"Blood and war will fill the streets. And if you want to prevent all of that from happening…if you want to save Ul'dah, take that blade and eliminate me now. I am a threat. I will tear down everything you hold dear about that wretched hive of a city.” The cold fire in his eyes had not wavered then, nor his conviction. Had he known then, what would happen?

 

“It's within your power to stop all of this now.” Nero did not relent. “Because I will not turn away from my path. Not ever.” She remembered his smile then, it was without regret, without a sense of forlornness. “If you care about Ul'dah as you claim, then prevent these ravages from happening. Do not do what is lawful, not what is justice, but what is right."

 

Roen found herself shaking, her hands gripping the edge of the wooden railing so tight in her silent objection. She could not fathom it then, so many moons ago, killing the man who only wanted to see all the suffering come to an end. But now…now all she could see were the bodies that were left behind in his wake, and visions of more bodies that would litter the streets if he was not stopped.

 

Could I…? Her head shook inadvertently as if already answering herself. And yet, she knew inaction was not a choice she could accept. What is the right thing to do?

 

“Roen?”

 

A familiar voice broke the paladin from her thoughts as footsteps creaked upon the wooden bridge. A sidelong glance revealed two figures approaching her: Kiht, with Osric Melkire in tow.