What You Are In The Dark【Complete】

[Roen]

Roen said nothing at first. The Flame sergeant came to stand on one side of her, Kiht on the other. He leaned against the railing with one arm, the other hanging a bit limp at his side. He sighed as he looked up at the sky that had darkened quickly with his arrival, raindrops beginning to spatter against his vest and tunic.

 

“I heard what happened, sergeant.” The paladin kept her gaze on the distant waterfall, not minding the rain. “In the tunnels.”

 

“...And?” Osric glanced her way, his voice lowered.

 

“Was that what you promised Nero?”

 

The sergeant did not answer right away. He turned back to the waterfall. “In exchange for everythin’ he could give me on Scythe? Yes, that was the bargain.”

 

This made her pause and look to him, surprised. “Did he give you what you needed?”

 

“He gave me everything. No one else needs t’die for their sqaubblin'.”

 

Roen sighed, her shoulders sagging with some relief. “At least he honored that promise.”

 

Osric snorted. “Think he took it as some sort o’ professional courtesy.”

 

“So what now, Sergeant? What will you do?”

 

The Flame turned his gaze back to the paladin once more, meeting her eyes. "That's not what y'truly want t'ask me, now is it?"

 

"I do not even know where to begin. I have been trying to sort this out in my head. The point of..." She paused. "What you did. What I have done. What Nero has done. I suppose you got what you needed from him. So your actions were justified? I am not here to judge you for what you did in the tunnels. I just...I just need to know what you intend to do now. Are you going to stop Scythe?"

 

"Should I? Suppose I should. Or perhaps I ought t'stick to m'word and just pull the innocent out o' the man's path o' destruction." He shook his head. "One thing y'learn when it comes to these things, Roen? When titans clash, the little folk suffer. And that ain't right. That ain't ever been right.”

 

"And what. Let the bloodshed happen?" The paladin scowled. "Bandits shooting at whoever in the streets just to make a point, it is not what I ever had in mind. Do you understand? For all the suffering Nero said he wanted to end, he promised me he would try to be a better man in doing it."

 

“Aye, and that's why I'm puttin' an end to it. We'll have Ernis and his bastards within a few suns." Osric narrowed his eyes for a moment longer upon her, before turning back to lean against the railing.

 

Roen still continued to stare at him, shame and guilt heating her cheeks despite the rain soaking her. "But he lied. He never intended to spare anyone. He thought it acceptable."

 

The Flame lowered his head, his next words nearly a whisper. “If he thought it acceptable, he wouldn't have given me Scythe. He would've sailed on to Othard, as he's plannin' on doin' if he weren't lyin' in his letter, and he would've let them all burn." He gave her a sidelong look. "I told you once he 'n' I were more alike than y'knew. You never asked me how.”

 

“Tell me.”

 

"We grew up without hope," he said simply. "I sent him a letter, askin' him t'help me save the little ones. The ones just the way he used t'be." He pushed off the railing and and reached beneath his vest with his left hand. "I have both letters here. Would you like t'read them?"

 

Roen could not say no. She had to read for herself Nero’s words, those that would save Pearl Lane, and stop the bloodshed that he himself had planned. When she nodded, Osric handed over sheets of parchment rolled up in leather, bound by a thin knot. The paladin undid them carefully, but when opened, she read them eagerly. The more she read, the tighter her grip had become on those letters.

 

"I don't think y'can deny it, Roen," the Flame said softly. "Was always odd, his hatred o' Blades. I think you 'n' I know perfectly well where 'n' how he grew up."

 

The paladin did not look up from those letters. "Does...does that justify the women and children he had killed?"

 

“No.”

 

"It still does not change the fact that he sold those guns. His plan was to bath the streets in blood.” Her voice was beginning to shake as she stared back at the sergeant. “Would he have given these to you if you had not done what you did in the tunnels? If not for the professional courtesy?!"

 

Osric met her gaze for a few moments, then curled a small smile. There was no mirth in it, only a profound sadness that reached his emerald eyes. "We struck a bargain. For some folks o' his ilk 'n' mine, such things are all we understand. All we can ever understand. Sometimes, here 'n' there, someone shines a Light, and we wake up." He slowly bowed his head. "I'm sorry that he never woke up, Roen."

 

She shoved the letters back into Osric’s hand and spun away from him, her hands shaking by her side. She quickly swiped at her cheeks that were moist with rain and emotion. It was after a long pause of silence that she spoke again. “I stood by him,” she rasped. “Even after what he did.”

 

“Acceptance ain’t a sin,” Osric’s words held an audible scowl.

 

“I swore an oath once.” Roen wrinkled her nose to forces the sadness away. “To protect the helpless, to raise my sword and shield to defend them against those who would harm them." She inhaled sharply. “And then I stood by, while he planned that very thing. Because why? Was it my hubris? Did I really think I could change him? Did I just imagine the goodness there?"

 

She shot the sergeant an indignant glare. “He warned me from the very start. What he was. What he wanted. It was me. I did not want to believe it.” She placed a hand against her chest. “I thought...if he wanted to damn himself to end the suffering...if I could see that he hated himself for what he wanted to do..." She shook her head, shameful. "I thought I could turn him from that."

 

"Tis not a sin to love or hope either,” Kiht finally broke her silence from behind the paladin. She sounded morose.

 

Roen turned from them both, staring back out to the waterfall. She blinked away the raindrops from her lashes. "That is my folly. That is my mistake. One I must atone for."

 

"You offered forgiveness 'n' mercy 'n' acceptance to a man who'd never known any." Osric turned towards her. "You have t'hit rock bottom 'fore y'can recognize those gifts for what they are, Roen. Take it from someone who knows."

 

“And what GOOD DID IT DO?!” The paladin whirled back toward the Flame. Her voice had risen and she was yelling; her anger, disappointment, regret and sorrow now spilling forth along with her tears.

 

Osric growled as he pushed himself off the railing, stepping towards her. His left hand seized her jerkin by the collar and shook her slightly. “You care that much?!”

 

Roen glared back at the sergeant, her lower lip quivering. “I swore an oath,” she said hoarsely.

 

“Then COME BACK TO IT!” He shouted back at her. “"Some of us are no good," he panted, sweat shimmering over his skin as if he'd run five malms. "Some of us ain't blessed with freedom, 'n' choice. The Order let you down, 'n' so you fled 'n' took up someone else's cause. Pick your own ground and stand on it, gods damn you." He finally released her and stepped back, one hand going to the wooden railing for support.

 

The paladin stood stalk still, her chest rising and falling with heavy breaths taken. Her eyes glazed over the man in front of her to the distant cherry blossom tree that was being pelted by the rain. Could I…?

 

A long pause of silence passed before she spoke again. “I...know what I must do.” She nodded faintly, as if to herself.

 

"And what's that?" The sergeant sounded tired, but curious still.

 

Roen’s eyes followed the course of a single petal spinning violently in the wind, tossed haphazardly by the rain. "I swore an oath,” she repeated her mantra once more as if in recitation. “I need to protect the little people from those who would bring them harm." She did not look back at the Flame.

 

"Gratitude, Sergeant,” the paladin murmured, although there was no warmth in her words. Only resignation. "I will let you know when I am successful." She bowed her gaze as it followed the tumbling petal as it descended into the depths below.

 

"Suppose you will. Suppose I'll have t'wait 'n see." Osric grunted with little satisfaction.

 

An extended palm with a blue pearl resting on it entered her view, drawing the paladin’s attention back to the Flame. "Yours, if y'want it." He smirked oddly. "Suppose you'd rather not. Folks find me despicable these suns."

 

Roen took a few deep breaths before she took up the pearl. She pocketed it without a word.

 

Osric blinked, genuine surprise in his eyes. There seemed to be a gleam of something -- a grim smile perhaps, tugging at the corner of his lips. "Welcome back, Ser."

 

Roen frowned at the title. But she said nothing as he turned to Kiht, motioning over the miqo’te who had remained silent all this time.

 

"Kiht, a word in private? Mayhap two."

 

The paladin watched the two walk off on their own. She turned back to the waterfall, letting the thunderous rapids drown out her doubts.

 

 

 

[align=center]~[/align]

 

 

Kiht returned after sharing private words with Osric before his departure from the Lavender Beds. There was a determined stride to her steps as she came to stand next to Roen, her arms crossed.

 

"When a rampaging beast does not become tame, he must be put down,” she said matter-of-factly. When Roen did not meet her gaze, she continued, the Seeker too looking to the violent fall of the water in the distance. "What do you need to do Roen. I am at your side."

 

“Are you still willing to help me?” the paladin asked, her voice muted but calm.

 

“Indeed.”

 

“Then let us prepare a trip to Noscea.” Roen let out a silent exhale. “We both know where he lives. If he truly plans to leave for Othard, we may still catch him preparing.”

 

“We give the beast one more chance to be tame. If he does not then you can never know when he might return.” She paused, her expression growing dark.

 

“Jackals always return.”

[Shas]

Shas made her way through Pearl Lane taking quick and random glances of the buildings and certain places of interest. She was already convinced of how things were going to play out and made it a point to memorize key areas. Recalling the earlier meeting with the Dauntlesss alongside Ser Crofte, she planned on taking no chances. She continued making her through Pearl Lane before deciding to head back towards the Sapphire Avenue exchange, keeping a watchful eye out for anything or anyone that would catch her attention. Before she finally departed Pearl Lane she did take note of some individuals whom she believed would more than likely be part of Scythe's gang. She headed towards the direction of her marks while maintaining her distance, only getting close to enough to make them out more clearly.

 

"Well, well, well...wha' exactly do we have here? Hmmm...I wonder if ye might be th' boys we've been looking for. Old Shas is definitely goin' tae remember this lot here..."

 

Not being one to leave anything to chance, she continued to observe from a distance. Taking in the features of those she was watching, memorizing their faces, attire and any other identifying marks that would make them easier to spot in the near future. While she was making her observations, she thought back to her younger days living in Ala Mhigo. Remembering the things taught to her by her mother, the plans that were made for her before she was even born. A small scowl formed across her face while she continued watching the group, starting to recite the words her mother spoke to her. 

 

"Remember that your defeat can only come by having your reason for attacking removed. But also know that holds true for those against you. Keep in mind, that the best asset you have at your disposal is your mind. Any other weapon you could possess will always pale in comparison. You must keep your heart strong, and your mind even stronger."

 

Shas took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, taking one final glance before deciding it was time to move on and report back on what she had seen. As much as she wished against it, her mind was still convinced on what would happen next. She knew exactly what she would have to do, what she needed to do. A bloodbath was expected and she had no intention of missing out on it, nor did she intend on coming unprepared.

 

"Thanks mom....even in death...you're still right. I know exactly wha' this is goin' tae cost...an' I can live with tha'......I CAN live with that."

 

Before making her way back to the Dauntless HQ, Shas decided to make a short stop at her Company room in the barracks. She took one step through the door and noticed how quiet it was compared to a few days prior. She removed an intricate red and gold bracelet from her left wrist and looked over it carefully before tossing it to the side. She remembered less than a moon prior giving a matching bracelet to her former lover and realized that she would never lay eyes on her again. She then started to remove a choker from her neck and stopped just short of unlatching it. She remembered a young teenage girl who some would see as being a shorter and younger version of herself. She also remembered the day she received the choker from the younger girl, the same day she came back into her life several cycles after the Calamity.

 

Shas would take one more look at the red and gold bracelet she set aside and began to fidget with the choker still placed around her neck. She was even more convinced at this point of what was needed to be done, of what more would be lost if she failed. She kept her gaze upon the bracelet and spoke to it as if she was speaking to the one she gave it to.

 

"I'm sorry...I failed you....but I will not fail her or anyone else. Whatever it takes, whomever needs to be dealt with, I will not fail them....no matter the cost. I can only hope and pray the others will forgive me....hmmmm. If not...oh well, it wont change anything regardless..."

 

Shas turned and made her towards the door she came through grabbing a longblade from a nearby weapons rack before she departed to make her report on the days activities. She had no doubt in her mind that those affected by this seemingly never ending blood fued would never truly be the same again. She knew that she could never go back to the way things were before, and started to feel some relief at that knowledge. A small smirk formed across her face as she made her way through the Goblet to her destination while silently speaking to herself.

 

"Welcome back, old Sharla....it's about damn time...."

[Mikh'a]

I can't do this.

 

“Lieutenant.”

 

His heart was hammering in his chest. Where were they again? The Goblet. It all spun back in to view as he lifted his head and locked eyes with Coatleque. She wasn't alone. What did they smell like? Sand. Cloth. Metal. Cleaning oils. Perfume. Heat. They smelled like the sun. The desert.

 

“Ser Crofte.”

 

Salute.

 

She did it first. Automatically his body shifted in response, giving a far less graceful salute to Coatlique in return. He sounded more calm than he felt, his face betraying little by way of his fear of the situation. His gaze shifted from Crofte to the unfamiliar Highlander and he inclined his head in less than subtle curiosity. “Your friend..?” She wouldn't have brought along someone that wasn't worth trusting, but precautions needed to be taken none the less. Mortar shifted behind him, smoothing out his shirt in an attempt to look more presentable in front of their fair featured company.

 

“This is Shas Terry. You needn't worry, she knows of the situation. I've brought her to help with the planning.”

 

Shas nodded in response. “Aye,” she agreed with a Flame salute that he responded in kind to. Again it lacked the grace and practice of someone that had been doing it for years.

 

“Perhaps we should go inside?” Crofte offered.

 

You idiot.

 

“R-right!” He could feel his heart rate pick up. He should have thought of that. Why hadn't he? His hand groped backward for the door – Mortar caught the gesture and casually reached up to open it instead. “...th-thanks Private.”

 

“What kind of doorman would I be if I didn't get it for a pretty lady?” The Lalafell gave his commanding officer a cheeky grin and Mikh'a's ears flexed back just a little bit as he led the two women through the front office, past the messy desk with scattered papers, the wall plastered with mission statements, hunt marks, and check ins. Down the hall, second door after his office, and in to Kanaria's office they went with little ceremony. Upon entrance he was conscious enough to lock the door, reminded as he did it that there were absent bodies from his company.

 

Where was Siha?

 

“Do you still have the papers?”

 

Mikh'a took in a deep breath through his nose and moved toward Shas and Crofte. Burning wood. Trees. Lingering perfume. Leather. Metals. “I've got them locked up here... I have the plans on me though, I've been trying to do some research on the dreadnought design, look for weakness.” He vanished briefly with a crouch behind the desk.

 

“Did you find anything?” Shas asked curiously and he stood again with the yellow envelope in hand, passing it and the plans to her.

 

“Nothing that doesn't come standard with the design.” Mikh'a admitted reluctantly. “Even the steel is standard. Weak at the knees, slow to power up, the potential for flimsy joints if the craftsmanship is shoddy and rushed but otherwise it's solid and we're better off disabling it before it reaches full potential.”

 

Shas grunted in response as she flipped through the papers and Mikh'a nervously looked to Crofte. She regarded him for less than a nonce, long enough to almost feel like an eternity but not long enough to let the creeping fear settle back in completely. The only tell contrary to the calm look on his face was the twitching tip of his tail until Crofte cleared her throat. His ears flexed back, surprised for no reason and he straightened up. A groping hand reached for the desk to steady the tremble before it could start and he made the fear look like a casual lean. “If that thing gets started we won't be able to stop it.”

 

“That's why we need to lure him away from the city, somewhere that we can fight him on our terms rather than his own.”

 

“I thought that was where the Dauntless came in?”

 

Where was Kanaria?

 

“It is.” Mikh'a felt his stomach twist in knots. His nostrils flared, another tell that he was internally going out of his mind. “But we have to get him there. We can set up traps and scour the perimeter, ready to take him down at a nonce's notice but getting him to that point is the hard part.”

 

“What was it, a drug was suggested.” Coatleque reminded him and his mind rolled back as he considered.

 

“Milkweed.” he remembered. “It was just a matter of getting in there to find the weakest link... we couldn't send you, they'd recognize your face.”

 

“I can do it.” Shas spoke up and handed the documents back to Mikh'a. “Not as well known as Ser Crofte, and I can use that tae my advantage. I could go in and root out someone willin' tae turn on their master, ain't hard tae find in a den o'thieves really. Someone's always lookin' tae get their back scratched.”

 

Mikh'a considered, rubbing his chin as he paced with the documents back around the desk. “But aren't you almost as well known as the captain?” he asked as he shut and locked the drawer. “Wouldn't they recognize you too?”

 

“Nae.” Shas had a grin that reminded Mikh'a of Osric on her face as he stood back upright, folding the plans back up to tuck them in to his chest. “I've got my ways.”

 

Mikh'a drummed his fingers on the wood of the desk and took in another deep breath, nodding as he considered the options. Burning wood. Steel. Leather. His tail twitched again and he tried to hold the breath to still his twisting stomach. Crofte spoke again, steering the conversation for him once more and the boy's fingers curled along the desk. “And what about Ernis? If you can't lure him away?”

 

Where was Osric?

 

“We'll have people both in and out of the city in preparation and open pearl contact. If we need to move from outside back in to the city it can be done swiftly.” Mikh'a straightened up again and looked between Shas and Crofte. “Our best bet is to take him off guard and on our terms, so that we can disable the device.”

 

“If we don't disable that device it's going to wreak havoc and destroy Pearl Lane.” Coatleque agreed and Mikh'a's ears went flat at the thought.

 

“Aya is supposed to be the ears to get people moving if needs be.”

 

“Aya Foxheart? From the Quicksand?” Crofte asked and Mikh'a nodded. “Good. The Dauntless will do their part from there, and the Sultansworn will be standing by with readied blades. I'm sorry we can't offer more aide.” The smile she gave him was apologetic and he could only straighten up with confidence in return.

 

“No need to be sorry, this is what the Dauntless is for.” he reminded her. “And I'm more than confident my people will be on point and capable of handling their part.”

 

“Good. They'll need to be.” The grim tone was not lost on him and Crofte looked toward Shas who nodded in return.

 

“Will you be alright?” Mikh'a had followed her gaze to the woman who only waved a hand and with equal confidence said, “Aye I'll be alright. They won't see me comen' and if anything were tae happen there's always open communication on my end as well.”

 

“Then I trust the next we meet we'll be on point.” Crofte looked toward the window behind Mikh'a and the setting sun. “The hour grows late, we should be on our way to take care of things in Ul'dah.”

 

There was an awkward pause, and a raised brow reminded the boy he'd locked the door. Grunting to hide his panic he moved swiftly to release Coatleque and Shas from their would-be office prison. “I'll be sending someone to see you soon,” Crofte added as he opened the door. “Jana Ridah. She's part of the Free Brigade but I believe she'll be helpful to you in the absence of the Sworn's assitance.”

 

“I'll keep an eye out for her.” Mikh'a smiled.

 

Salute.

 

He initiated it this time, ending the conversation with a far more graceful salute than he'd pulled off in the beginning, near flawless in its execution, and it was returned by the women with equal practiced grace.

 

“Be safe.” He could never remember which of Eorzea's gods were appropriate to call to people as they were traveling in to the night, and omitted them as often as he could both to save himself the humiliation of offending someone, and because of personal conflict in beliefs.

 

“You as well, Lieutenant.”

 

“Aye, watch yourself.” Shas gave Mikh'a a nod, the last from the room. Mikh'a shifted to watch them down the hall and out the front of the building, though he didn't follow. They parted right, as he went left to his lab while unfolding the Dreadnought plans once more.

 

Maybe I can do this..

[Nero]

The waiting was agony.

 

Charged emotions permeated the air like a fog. Fear, pride, anxiety, anger, and even excitement amalgamated together in Pearl Lane. Everyone who resided in that slum knew that something was coming, but only some knew exactly what that something was. The streets were too quiet--the prevalent bandit gangs had begun to clear off of the streets for the day, and naught but beggars, peddlers, and the occasional Brass Blade patrol wandering through made their presence known. The sun shone brilliantly as it passed its zenith, casting menacing shadows across the pavement as men and women alike began to filter inside the once-abandoned buildings.

 

The safe house, too, was devoid of conversation, but it was not empty, nor was it silent. Guns were loaded, swords sharpened, heads counted. There was a Highlander sitting on an intimidating rectangular structure inside the safe house, wordlessly cleaning a wicked, serrated falchion. He was dressed in naught but sack cloth trousers and boots, his bronze chest was thick and marked with scars. He'd shaven his ash-blonde beard, and his unkempt hair still sported the blood red highlights that marked who he was, and in his eyes a sharp clarity, tempered by withheld rage. This is the man who would change everything.

 

He raised his head. After a quick check, everyone would be sent back out to the streets again to maintain the illusion of normalcy. It was gratifying to see that many of the faces he saw he recognised as former enemies--gangsters, bandits, crooks of all sorts, coerced or persuaded into joining under his banner. Miqo'te, Ala Mhigans, the Hellsguard brothers who'd stood by him...he could see the looks on their faces: apprehension, terror, and disquiet, but also hope, eagerness, and determination. Some of them knew what their actions meant for this city. Some didn't care.

 

It would only be a few more suns. A few more suns, just enough time for the Blades to be distracted and the Sworn to be absent. Scythe didn't trust the pirate as far as he could throw him, but at this point, it didn't matter. The people of Ul'dah were given the tools, and they would make good use of them, and to rush a plan such as this was to invite certain destruction.

 

The Highlander raised his head. An affirmative, indistinct shout was heard, and gradually the bandits began to filter back into the streets. The safe house was again quiet save for the shnk of an oil stone running across the edge of a blade.

 

Just a few more suns.

[Aya]

[align=center][/align]

[align=center]Clearing the Lane[/align]

 

A thin wispy string of smoke rose lazily upward through the still and thick air of the afternoon.  Ul'dah's Spring had long ago grown hot and searing; the wet cool breeze of the winter season a fading memory.  The man whose teeth clenched the pipe's stem was old enough to remember the real winters of his youth.  In that distant land whose high, rolling hills would awake to a crisp dust of snow and frost.

 

He was wiry by Highland standards, a whirl of red hair rising with tufted chaos upon his head.  His eyes bore a lazy focus on the lane below the balcony.  Despite the shade, the heat was enough to render anyone lethargic unless needs fully demanded otherwise.  Still, it was his job to watch the lane below for any sign of trouble.  One of several lookouts keeping an eye upon their small stretch of the lane.

 

A pair of Brass Blades strolled along below casting glances toward the pedlars and indigent who idled along either side of the road.  It was just a short distance to the buzzing activity of the Sapphire Exchange Bazaar, where gil and goods readily exchanged hands.  But this was where those who weren't allowed under the bazaar canopies found themselves conducting business: Pearl Lane.

 

Ostensibly these folk were afforded the protection of Ul'dahs City Watch: the Brass Blades.  But the Blades reflected the character of the city itself, and indulged in the pursuit of gil.  Buyers able to afford their services were not to be found here, and unable to meet the market cost of Brass Blade protection, the denizens of the Lane found themselves bereft.

 

Instead what protection they had came at the hands of Bohanon and his brethren.  The scars upon his hands and forearms lent credence to his history as a knife fighter.  The missing finger upon his left hand was a reminder of the price of such combat.  The Brass Blades wandered along their path, offering nothing more than disdainful glances.  They understood cost benefit analysis as well as the old Guild hands: this wasn't the place to make idle trouble.

 

The young redhead let a cocky smile cross his lips.  The door to the balcony's apartment opened with a creaking groan.  "How's tha mornin' Bo?" asked the brogue of a familiar voice.

 

"A fine morning, indeed.  Despite the blasted heat." He nodded, gesturing with the hand that held his small pipe.

 

"I still say it beats Little Ala Mhigo."

 

Bohanon nodded with broader smirk, "Real pipeweed for one.  And real liquor for the better."

 

His brother joined him in a laugh.  Jericho was taller and broader, but no fighter at heart.  He'd found work in Momodi's kitchen and did his due diligence to keep it.

 

As the laughter died down the pipe returned to Bohanon's teeth, which clenched with a worried firmness.  Things were not exactly well.  The name, "Scythe" was on the tongue of every rumor-monger this side of the Gold Court.  Except for the fanatics it was not a pleasant thought.  Trouble was on the horizon, and trouble with Scythe's name attached meant violence of the bloody sort.

 

His eyes returned to the watch, spotting a familiar figure approaching from the direction of the Steps of Nald.  Aya, the Ishgardian barmaid of the Quick Sand, and ever the sight.  He'd said it before: "When men say women are trouble, she is what they mean."  And a common sight she was in the Lane, familiar and friendly to many of the street folk and peddlers who frequent it.  Bohanon was concerned, though, he'd just spotted her several times in the company of a Flame Sergeant - and not just any Flame Sergeant, but one well known to the lot of them - and they knew Melkire meant even more trouble than the blonde. 

 

"'Ey Jericho." he said out of the corner of his mouth, his voice raised just below a shout.  "Yer princess is out 'ere."

 

Jericho appeared as summoned, a ragged towel wrapped around his shoulders as he patted down freshly washed cheeks while peering with sun-squinted eyes down into the lane.  "And so she is..." he assented all too agreeably for Bohanon's taste-a sentiment expressed with a scoffing groan.

 

"'Ey," he objected, "She's a right fine lass now, and friendly too.  I don't want to hear you say naught a word contrary o' her." He gestured toward the lane with a towel-wrapped hand.

 

Bohanon turned his agitated gaze toward his brother, "You're too trustin' o' women.  I'm tellin' you, somethin' that pretty means trouble, and I mean trouble."

 

Jericho rolled his eyes, letting out a groan that was interrupted by something catching his eye.  "'Ey, isn't that yer boss she's talkin' wi?" 

 

With a scrambling start, Bohanon leapt to his feet.  His hands slammed onto the banister of the balcony as he felt the hot blaze of the sun sear his suddenly exposed face.  "Gods damnit!" he exclaimed with a barely cut-off shout, leaving his hands fumbling to catch the pipe as it dropped from his lips.

 

 

 

 

Bohanon stood with his arms folded across his body, his glance side-ways, with obvious frustration on his sweat-covered brow. 

 

"What the hells are we doing?" he asked himself.  Behind him stood two others under his command.  Their block was dominated by Ala Mhigan refugees, and theirs was an Ala Mhigan gang.  They were among those fortunate enough to have gained entry to, and for some, employment in the city itself.  Their usual activities were those of low-level organized crime combined with the self-policing that came with the turf.  They had their roots in the community.  They protected it from outside trouble, kept the peace, and expected their share of the cut.  They were feared, if not respected, and when orders came down from the top to get something done, Bohanon was one of those who made sure they got done.

 

The eye-slot in the door slid open, revealing a pair of fair-hued Hyur eyes.  They way they suddenly grew wider at the sight before them, meant there was no doubt they took in who was at the door: the red-haired Bohanon was himself an easily recognizable adjunct.  The two behind him didn't need introduction: a hulking highlander man carrying a heavy steel pipe, and a bored-looking Miqo'te woman with a look of impatience, and a length of chain wrapped around her arm. 

 

"Afternoon ma'am", came the redhead's friendliest authoritative brogue.  "Don't you worry, we dun mean you no trouble."  He comforter her before a short pause, "'Long as ye do what we ask."

 

The fearful look in her eyes did not look the least bit comforted.  Bohanon didn't really mind, respect was one of the perks of his position.  "What do you want?" came the feminine voice from behind the door, struggling to sound firm and calm.

 

"Yer to clear out, gonna spend the night somewhere real nice and comfy while some trouble blows over.  All of ye, make sure ye leave together.  Ye can come back tomorrow sunrise.  Take whatever ye want, leave the rest and we'll keep an eye on it for ye."  His head moved with a confident little shake, a discomforting smirk upon his features.

 

"But.. leave? Why?" came the surprised, upset voice on the other side of the door.

 

"Its for yer own good, okay?  We're expecting trouble.  And because-" he tilted his head toward her, "we asked ye so nice.".

 

The peephole slid shut.  "We'll be back in an hour.  Better make sure you've cleared out." He hollered thudding his fist once more against the wood door, before turning to approach the next apartment in the building.  He knew the rumors of trouble had already spread like wildfire.  Word of Brass Blade raids, of Scythe, of wild revolutionaries let loose intent upon torching the city itself.  Rumors of the Flames preparing to impose martial law on the Lane, before it could get out of hand.  Some were already fleeing on the strength of the rumors alone.  The rest, well that's what Bohanon and his brethren would take care of.

 

He cast a look over each shoulder, glancing back to his soldiers one at a time, before looking squarely toward the next door.  He raised his hand and knocked loudly upon it.

 

"Afternoon sir", he greeted in the same friendly, but authoritative tone.  "Don't you worry, we dun mean you no trouble..."

 

 

 

 

Bohanon took the final step down the rattling stoop.  He tilted his head up toward the late afternoon sky, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun.  Beads of sweat poured down his cheeks, his neck, and his chest.  He took a hard swallow, finding it dry.  "What in the hells are we doing?" he asked himself again.  The steel-pipe-carrier let himself down with a thud, sitting upon the rough paving stones of the Lane as he let out a tired groan.  The Miqo'te lass yawned, but her nonchalance scarcely hid her own discomfort.

 

They'd cleared several buildings, though a few double-checks remained for stragglers.  There were two more left to go, though they knew by now most of the residents had already left of their own accord, word traveling faster than the groups themselves could.  It wasn't exactly a stream, but more of a trickle as this section of the Lane's poor denizens worked their way down the lane toward the Steps of Nald where they were being met by representatives of the Guiding Hand Trade Concern.  C'kayah Polaali, a newly sanctioned Trader, had gladly taken the opportunity purchase some good will.  His agents were in the process of collecting those being relocated for the night, and shuffling them off to various lodgings for the evening.

 

Meanwhile the entire gang had been called out, and more of their numbers now lined the block keeping a close eye on the buildings to discourage would-be-looters.  Bohanon swallowed hard again, turning his attention down the lane toward the Steps of Nald.  Several groups moved together, families supporting their elderly members.  Some of the young and able carried legal implements as makeshift weapons: hooks and hammers in their belts.  Fear and destitution were written on their features.  None knew what they would come back to, if they could come back.  Most had seen this all before, and the promise of charity from the GHTC wouldn't be worth an onze until the ordeal was over.

 

Just a block down the way, Bohanon spied the trouble he knew was responsible for it all:  that blasted barmaid, wrapped in a dark cloak and looking as cool as could be.  She knelt next to an older woman who sat before a threadbare blanket spread upon the ground, which was covered in various hats, shoes and broken musical instruments.  He could see the friendly cheerfulness upon the barmaid's smile from here, and watched as she spoke with the pedlar-woman, before helping her begin rolling up her blanket and returning the bulkier goods to another sack: each instrument wrapped one-by-one. 

 

As the young woman stood a few moments later, she swung the sack over her left shoulder, and offered her free right hand to the old woman to help her up.  Together they headed down the Lane toward a representative of the GHTC, ready with a small cart for those with difficulty walking on their own.

 

Bohanon took another hard, dry, swallow before rallying his group with the wave of a hand.  "Le's get started on the next." he said with a begrudged calmness.

[Melkire]

A man could easily lose himself in the press of bustling crowds that frequented the Sapphire Avenue Exchange, and this sun was little different. Peddlers pitched their wares, mothers scolded their children, fathers and brothers found themselves parting with precious coin for the sake of a moon’s amusement or two, and shadows grew longer as the bells marched ever onward. One such shadow in particular parted from the veritable sea of bodies as the midlander to whom it belonged stepped away from a stall to collapse onto a nearby bench. Moments later, he was joined by a rather large Hellsguard. The big man glanced around, huffed a breath, and sat down next to the Hyur.

 

“What is that?”

 

“The latest in fashion, Peak,” answered the midlander from beneath his vestment.

 

“…it’s a rug.”

 

“It’s not a rug, it’s a tapestry! Please appreciate the difference.”

 

The Roegadyn turned a raised eyebrow on him and leaned away for dramatic effect. “So you’re wearing a tapestry.”

 

“…look, cloaks ‘n’ robes ain’t easy t’pinch when you’ve only one workin’ arm, alright? Twelve Above, cut me some slack.”

 

Burning Peak snorted as he rested his arms on his thighs. “Only enough to hang yourself with, Melkire. How goes?”

 

“They’re nearly finished clearin’ them out by now.” The man beneath the tapestry shifted slightly. “Hope your men ‘n’ women are in place. I’d hate t’lose eyes on our ‘friends,’ and we might need more muscle if all the hells break loose.”

 

“We’re in place. As for Randolph, you told me you and yours would handle the… ah… situation.”

 

“And next you’ll be tellin’ me you keep all your apkallu eggs in one basket.”

 

“Make the call.”

 

There came a low chuckle and the brush of leather on cotton as the midlander shifted again. One arm rose as he reached for his ear, his left hand discernable through the bright red-and-green fabric.

 

“Dauntless, we’re in for a poor harvest, I repeat, we are in for a poor harvest.”

[Askier]

Zeig Hengner had always been getting into trouble. Trouble had followed him growing up. It Followed him into adult life.  But now, he was causing it. 

 

The black-haired hyur had joined Scythe awhile back, ready to help the massive Roe change it all by bringing the violence upon the system.

 

And now, with a gunblade in his hand, Zeig, and his five fellows, were going to raise the hells upon the alleys of Uldah.

 

Zeig grinned as he heard distant cries.  This, this was what he wanted.  It was addicting.  Many people bitched about things but never tried to change them. Zeig and his fellows were actually doing something to bring about change.  Words wouldn't change the world.  Violence would.  Just as it always had.

 

The hyur and his five fellows were carving their way up the seemingly deserted road, their steel weapons glinting as the rebels swung them as happily as they pleased.

 

What Zeig was not pleased with was the sudden appearance that occurred before him as a figure in a blue duster coat stepped out from a doorway and blocked their path.

 

The miqo'te's flesh was a deep tan and brown hair hung about a narrow face.  The eyes were hidden behind reflective glasses, and a brown tail was twitching behind his muscled torso.  Smoke from a lit cigarette burned in his lips, shrouding his face in smoke as a twin pair of double-barrel, flintlock pistols rested one in each hand.

 

Ki Grimsong studied Zeig and his entourage of revolutionaries with a smug look of disdain and he spoke slowly, making sure the idiots could understand him.

 

"I think we can skip the pleasantries."  Ki commented flatly as a gust of wind tugged at his hair; smoke wafting out of his mouth as he spoke as if he was Ifrit itself.  "You are all a bunch of brainless idealists; and I ain't here for any other reason but to put ya down on behalf of well payin' parties.  So, that said, there are three ways this can end."

 

Zeig tightened his grip on his gunblade as he glared at Ki, who continued to speak.

 

"One: you pay me more than what I'm being paid to kill you and I leave you to your fun." Ki paused and, when Zeig didn't take the option, the Miqo'te shrugged.

 

"Option two is you try to pay me more than what I'm getting paid to kill you, but you fail to exceed that sum, and I still kill you.  Or, option three, you shoot first, and I make that the last bad judgement call you ever get to make."

 

Ki blew a smoke ring and shifted the cigarette to the left side of his mouth.

 

"Gentlemen, what's it gonna be?"

 

Zeig rolled his eyes, raised his gunblade, and went to fire.

 

Ki saw the hyur and his fellows raising their firearms and sighed.

 

"Why is it always option three?"

 

Ki threw himself behind a stack of boxes to his left as the bullets from the rebels' weapons began slicing through the air.  Several shots ricocheted off the street's surface as Ki pulled his tail around into his lap to keep it safe. The tanned miqo'te set his twin pistols onto the ground and reached into his coat with both hands.

 

Ki spat out his smoldering smoke as he produced two things from his coat.

 

The first was a mask made of leather and metal.  The lower part of the mask was a metal breathing apparatus equipped with a filtration system that trapped toxins inside a small reservoir tank so the wearer could breath normally in harmful atmospheric conditions.  The top part of the mask was a set of goggles sewn into a full leather face covering.  Ki shook his head and his glasses flew off into the street. A bullet whizzed past and the glasses exploded as the projectile disintegrated them.

 

Ki growled and rolled his mismatched eyes, one gold, one black, as he slide the mask over his face.

 

"Those cost me one hundred gil ya tossers!"

 

Once the mask was snug on his face, Ki looked down through the mirror lenses of his gas mask as the canister in his left hand.  It was a small, metal cylinder with a red stripe painted on it and something written in a language clearly not Eorzean.  The miqo'te reached out and pulled a pin from the top of the cylinder and then released the primer handle.

 

Immediately a thick, noxious, green gas began spewing out the end.   Without a moment's hesitation, the mercenary lobbed the smoking cylinder over his shoulder at Zeig and his allies, who had stopped firing momentarily. 

 

Zeig watched as the can landed in the street and bounced up towards them.  The hyur growled and went for it as fast as he could, but managed to get a face full of the gas as it spun.

 

The moment the gas touched his face, the pain began.  Zeig felt his lungs contracting and all the build up in his nose turned to a river of snot that drizzled down his face and lips.  His eyes burned as if a thousand hot coals had been set upon them.  Tears rolled from his eyes and he was trying to scream but his throat was swollen.  All the hyur could do was wheeze as he staggered around blindly.

 

Zeig could hear the agonized screams of his fellow rebels and he was trying to find the edge of the cloud, but the gas was expanding; consuming more and more of the street.

 

There was a muzzle flash in the green fog, and a jet of blood sprayed Zeig on the face as a body slumped down in his path.  Zeig could barely recognize the cadaver before him as one of his allies through his watery eyes and the hyur rebel turned and fired blindly into the cloud around him.

 

There was another scream.  And then the sounds of a struggle.  Gun shots.  Crunching noises.  Zeig heard someone's bone's snapping like twigs and a horrible scream.

 

Zeig was panicking. He couldn't see and his fellows were dying all around him.  He began staggering as fast as he could.

 

Another scream.  More gun shots.

 

Zeig burst from the fog cloud and gasped.

 

Fresh Air!

 

Zeig staggered several paces from the cloud,  sobbing for breath. 

 

One of his men screamed behind him and there was a horrible crunching noise.  The scream went on and on before the report of a gun blast silenced it.

 

The hyur could hardly see a thing, his eyes stung so badly and tears would not stop welling up in his burning eyes.

 

He had to cant his head to one side to get any visibility.  The wall of green fog before him shifted and rolled.  Shapes and shadows moved but nothing solid to see. 

 

Then there there was a flash of blue at the cloud's edge. 

 

Zeig spat in pain and aimed as best he could as he fired his last two rounds.  Both bullets went wide.  A moment later, Ki Grimsong burst from the cloud bank like a nightmare straight from hell. 

 

The miqo'te's hands were empty of any weapon but blood was dripping from the left appendage like rain from a tempest, and it was clearly not his own.

 

Zeig tried to swing his weapon at his charging foe, but the burning gas had constricted and cramped his muscles and the attack went wide. The unaffected mercenary ducked under the clumsy blow with ease before slamming into Zeig with enough force to send both males tumbling to the ground.  They rolled and scuffled as Zeig dropped his gunblade and began biting and kicking like a mad man.

 

Ki stopped the roll by pinning Zeig beneath him.  Ki's left hand was wrapped around Zeig's throat and the hyur felt as if an anaconda had found its way to his wind pipe.  Zeig flailed wildly, punching and clawing at the arm and the horrible, masked face with the reflective lenses.  Zeig's eyes were starting to clear, and he could just make out his own swollen, purple face reflected in those horrible mirror lenses hovering over him, when the hidden blade from Ki's wrist shot out and into the hyur's throat, severing the artery and spinal column nerve endings.

 

Zeig shook uncontrollably as blood began filling his throat.  He gargled and foamed and the last thing the hyur ever saw was his own dying face reflected back at him in those merciless lenses.

 

Ki watched Zeig breath his last, though it came out as a bloody gargle.  The miqo'te grunted, his breaths sounding like the respirations of a blasphemous abomination through the gas mask.

 

The mercenary slowly rose to his feet as he slid his wrist blade free from the dead man's throat.  Ki pulled out a rag with his right hand and began to clean the blade as he looked back.

 

The gas cloud was dissipating and the remains of the other five rebels could be seen now, all lying in various poses of death, their blood polling around them as they lay still.

 

Ki flexed his blood drenched left hand and the glove that covered it cracked as the leather stretched.

 

"You know...." Ki said through his respirator piece as he admired his handy work.  "I -really- need to be charging more for this."

[Mikh'a]

“There's a rumor I heard once, in Garlemald.”

 

“You ain't never been to Garlemald, kitten.”

 

Tiny and easily missed on the rooftops, Mikh'a was sitting on the ledge of a sloping roof with a leg dangling over the side. Of all the things he could not be afraid of? It was heights. He was afraid of the dark. Of cramped spaces. Of close contact with women. Of drowning. Of yarzon. Of chocobos. You get the point? But heights were nothing to him, he could fly all day if he wanted to. There was a hempen rucksack sitting next to him and his tail twitched as someone ran past.

 

“You know natural Garleans can't use Aether, correct?” Mikh'a reached in to the rucksack and pulled out a box, opening it to reveal four different colored marble sized balls. “And that there's rumored to be all kinds of shady aether research going on. It might have just been a ghost story, who knows?” He looked toward the sour Lalafell man next to him. “But the rumor was there all the same, that the Garleans were trying to extract aether from their users in an attempt to give Magitek armor more versatility in skill use.”

 

“...what'd ya do, Korofi?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“...Korofi...”

 

Dauntless, we’re in for a poor harvest, I repeat, we are in for a poor harvest.

 

“Nothing!” Mikh'a stood up while grabbing the gray orb. “It's just a theory, I'd never use theories on important missions like this..! It's time for you to go though, Mortar. You know what to do.”

 

Mortar watched him incredulously for the longest of nonces. “...Twelve forefend.” he relented finally. “Just glad Askier died before he could ever meet ya, Ul'dah wouldn't stand a chance otherwise.” To that he turned to make a hasty retreat from the rooftop as shots rang out in the distance.

 

“If the Twelve were here you wouldn't need the Dauntless.”

 

“Your blasphemy is going to get you killed!” Mortar's last call was near lost in the rapid fire gunshots in the distance. If it existed he'd consider this a throw back to the gunfight at the O.K. Corral and Mikh'a climbed down more swiftly.

 

His left ear flicked. “Mind the refugees, Ki. Not everyone left.”

 

He knew what he'd hear none the less. He was waiting for the jeering, Not my problem kid, should have got out when they were warned. Paying him extra to not kill the refugees had been put on the table, but even as a pacifist Mikh'a knew there were casualties in war. It was why he did what he did, why he worked for who he worked for, and went where he went. The boy's ears flexed back, he could hear the call of a child to her mother in the ramshackle little hut. A stray bullet zinged overhead and broke an abandoned clay pot – an infant woke from his nap and wailed. Fools, all of them. Why couldn't they have listened?

 

“Time to go!” Mikh'a beat on the door as someone screamed in the distance. “Time to go right now!”

 

The door didn't give. Fools!

 

“Open u-- oh for the love of---” There was something foul on the air and it was wafting, dragged by the dry wind. Old and discarded papers dragged the dirt covered cobblestone behind him and he froze. He could hear them, their boots and sandals dragging along the ground, drawn to the flame like moths. His tiny frame shifted back in to the nook of the doorway, shadowed by the overhang. “...my name is Lieutenant Mikh'a Korofi of the Immortal Flames, and now would be the most opportune time to open up this door and let me in.” he urged in a breath. “There are thugs swarming the lane and if you don't leave right now you are going to lose more than your ho--- AH!” A dagger hit the wood just above his head and the little Miqo'te dove forward to avoid a second, glad the rat faced Midlander was a terrible aim. He smelled foul, like some kind of plant, maybe a mold, and like he hadn't bothered with a bath in several suns. It took the poor boy everything in his power not to retch at the potency, twisting just as a Miqo'te swung her axe out in to the door. Splintered wood went everywhere and a child screamed.

 

...hells.

 

“Oh no you don't!” the Midlander threw a third dagger and while it once again missed it was distraction enough for him to dive and grab Mikh'a by the tail as he tried to scramble to his feet and take off after the axe wielding Seeker. With a sharp cry of pain he hit the ground face first and reflexively shot his foot out to slam it in to the Midlander's face and break his nose on impact before scrambling to his feet as fast as he could. The marauder swung her axe again as she stalked in to the house and a little girl with braided hair went running for a swaddled bundle in a crate. “Not my brother, not my brother!” she screamed and Mikh'a, in a swell of panic, jumped and grabbed the Miqo'te woman by her ears with aether glowing hands.

 

“What--” she started, and then sank to the ground shortly after that, eyes rolling up in the back of her head as she drifted off in to a deep sleep.

 

“Where are your parents?!” Mikh'a snagged the little girl to the back of her shirt and yanked her toward the door after making sure she had a secure grip on the infant.

 

“In the back!” the child was near as tall as she was and just shy of inconsolable. “His leg is broke, he can't walk! We didn't answer the door when the man came because we thought it was the money people!”

 

The Midlander was at the door suddenly and the little girl screamed again. “Close your eyes!” Mikh'a reflexively covered her eyes with one hand before flinging the gray marble. The instant it impacted the man's chest Mikh'a swung the children back around and covered them as the marble exploded in a burst of aether and a little bit of ceruleum – the man wouldn't die, but he was burned and had slammed back in to a near empty stall across the way and had taken half the front of the hut with him.

 

It worked!

 

No time to be excited. He could smell death. Lots, and lots of death. His ears flexed back and he picked himself up off the sobbing children and helped them back to their feet. “What's happening!” She was dirty and there was a cut on her forehead. His hand lifted and he absently brushed his fingers over it to seal the wound before turning back around to pull her out. “My dad!” she wailed.

 

“I'll come back and get him!” he promised, dragging her down the road. There was something else in the air, a putrid gas, it made his throat hurt. The little girl coughed and he pulled her faster. “Don't stop running, cover his face!” he hissed and yanked her in to an alley. “Keep running this way.” There were other refugees that had lingered on the move now, the sound of gunfire, the explosions, the gas, it had finally got the lingering bodies to move. There weren't many, Aya had done her job, but some people were just too damned stubborn. “Go, stay with them, they'll take care of you!” he ordered the sobbing child as she was dragged up in to the arms of a much larger Highlander refugee who seemed to know her. To that he spun around and took off back in the direction of the sick father.

 

Too late.

 

He could smell death.

 

Who's death?

 

An arrow flew past his head and slammed in to the back of an old man pulling his wife along. Mikh'a swung around as he hit the ground and someone screamed. They were trapped, cornered, a good ten people including him and not a damned thing he could do about it either. There were at least three – no four? He couldn't see so well and cursed his stubborn pride as another arrow flew past and thankfully flew wide in to a barrel. Why hadn't they left when they were told?! Why hadn't they listened?! Things were replaceable, lives weren't, there was nothing worth this! A third arrow flew and without giving it a second thought both hands came up in front of him and the air rippled outward. It was blue, and then it was white, and then it was blue again, hexagon shapes solidifying and fading within seconds of each appearance. The aether seemed to stitch itself together, and as soon as the arrowhead hit it rippled in to view, then faded again while bouncing harmlessly. Several more flew from the rooftops, each bouncing the same as before as the aether bubbled itself around the straggling refugees. Mikh'a breathed out more calmly than he felt and locked eyes with the man in front of him.

 

“...don't kill them.”

 

“Shut up kid, I know what I'm doing.”

 

“Stop calling me kid.”

 

“Your'e a kid, Korofi.”

 

A yell rang out over the rooftops, and then a second, a third. The man in front of him lifted his head and knocked another arrow in rage though before he could even fire a shot something dropped behind him and jammed daggers in to his side.

 

“It ain't vital!” Mortar defended as soon as the man hit the ground. “You can save their lives and put them on trial and hug it all out later, you got work to do! I'll get these people out, go!”

 

Mikh'a grunted as something exploded in the distance. “..that's not mine.” he said and took off the way he'd come, ducking around a corner. His left ear flicked and he said, “Osric I have to-- ...oh.” He nearly lost his balance sliding in the dirt and grabbed a box to catch his weight.

[Coatleque]

The sun had begun its decent and the afternoon breeze had subsided. Flies began to buzz lower towards the hands and the air had lost the hot and stinging dryness on the back of the throat. It would be rain tonight for sure, though there was not a cloud to be seen yet.

 

Two figures, hooded and cloaked, stood upon the upper balcony of a neighboring residence. One leaned casually against the supporting beam of the overhang while the other rested arms along the railing and peered over the edge. They were both focused on the adjacent row of buildings, and particularly the sentry in the alley below.

 

He paced back and forth outside the rear entrance of the building which had been concealed by the clever stacking of crates facing the main road. A Limsan style musket was wedged between his shirt and a length of hempen rope which served as his belt. Luckily for the two above, the shadows cast by the city had left them shade to remain undetected. Even more lucky was that Shas's scouting beforehand had found them this lightly guarded portal.

 

The man below stopped and looked around for no apparent reason. Neither of them had made a sound to betray their positions. Coatleque leaned ever so slightly further towards the edge to spy the man as he tried to disappear further into the alley behind another stack of crates. He hefted his tunic, gave a grunt, and relieved himself on the wall. The paladin pushed herself back from the railing and looked at Shas with disgust. "Men. Think they can just piss on anything." she whispered. This was met with a knowing smirk from under the others hood.

 

A crack was heard in the distance, resounding off the sides of buildings and sending a few ravens alight from the rooftops. The two cloaked figures both started. Pushing off the wood railings they glanced at each other. Two more pops followed by the screams of a woman and angry yelling. The sentry below drew his pistol and stared warily towards the road. He shifted between feet as if unsure what to do before finally uttering a curse and abandoning his post to join whatever fray was developing around the front of the building.

 

"So much for subtlety." Coatleque hissed under her breath before turning and motioning to her companion. The two of them quickly descended the stairs from the balcony to the alley and huddled near the door. Shas turned to watch their backs while Coatleque procured a lock-pick from her belt. "Never expected tae need this again." she uttered before starting on the lock. Memories of crude manacle designs flashed through her thoughts as each pin was set. The large iron locks on the doors of the poor were not much improvement over a slaver's collar, and if she had wanted to announce their entry she could have simply smashed it.

 

The lock finally gave and the door swung inward. She waited just a moment to be sure nobody was waiting just inside for them before tapping Shas on the shoulder and proceeding inside. They were met with a dimly lit hallway stretching to either side. Surveying it up and down they confirmed their presence was yet unknown. The firefight out front had hopefully distracted any additional sentries within.

 

"I'll make my way to the front." Coatleque whispered. "To be sure the door is clear for our friends. We should split up and make sure there are no unexpected surprises." With that they separated in both directions.

 

The building itself was rather simply laid out. At one time it was probably a row of individual dwellings. Since then it had been re-purposed - walls having been removed at key places to join sections. Coatleque was almost impressed at the amount of construction (or destruction in some sections) that had been carried out under the noses of the Blades. "Or the housing authority." she mused to herself. Stopping at the first 'T' intersection of hallways she slid her back to the wall and rolled her head to glimpse around the corner.

 

Another hallway leading across the building to the front. Yet this one was nearly entirely open on the right side into what was probably a mess area. Long, crude wooden tables lined the space and the smell of stale ale wafted through the air. Two men were standing mid-way by one of the tables talking. More Limsan arms, she noted. One of them held a musket across his chest while he leaned against the central wooden column of the room, the other faced him with a drawn scimitar resting back over his right shoulder.

 

Straightening against the wall she cursed herself for being confined to leathers tonight of all nights. She drew her blade, a standard issue steel sword, and closed her eyes to focus. Drawing from the aether around her as she had been trained, she brought forth a minor barrier of protection around her body. She listened carefully to the conversation in the room and waited until one of the men burst out laughing. "Now!"

 

Turning the corner she rushed the pair in silence to take advantage of her surprise. They both jumped and the musket was raised barely in time to get a shot off which thankfully missed. Her shoulder collided with the gunman sending him prone and the gun skittering down the hall. Her sword flashed upwards in time to parry the incoming scimitar which she followed with a left hook to the man's face. Grabbing him by the back of the head she threw him forward into the pillar and watched him crumble.

 

His companion was backing away down the hall now on his elbows and pleading for his life. Coatleque quickly stepped over the first man and grabbed him by his collar, hoisting him to his feet. She pressed the man against the wall and pulled down her hood. Emerald eyes glared at him beneath her bangs. "Where is Randolph? Speak!"

 

"R-randolph? Ain't nobody h-here by that name!" he stammered.

"Scythe!" she retorted.

"H-h-he's in the main hall!"

 

"Show me." she hissed back before spinning the man roughly toward the front of the building and almost ushering him forward. Around another corner and they were along the front corridor of the structure. They came to a small foyer which was strangely absent of further guards. The man pointed to double-doors at the rear of the room.

 

"T-there!" he stammered.

 

"Her Grace thanks you for your honesty." Coatleque whispered over the man's shoulder with some practiced measure of sincerity. With that she clocked him over the head with the butt of her sword and sent him sprawling to the floor. Sheathing the weapon she turned to the front of the building and the door there. With no further hindrances the door swung open. She stepped to the side and leaned against the jam to regard the faces of the Dauntless who had finished dispatching the majority of Scythe's men out front.

 

She pointed back behind her towards the room. "Gentlemen...", she greeted them. "Our man lies within."

[Nero]

Their leader's response was swift, measured, and calm, a clear contrast to the image of the raging berserker that he tried to propagate. "Start putting gunners in the upper floors and break open those windows. We're starting early. The gunners will shoot anyone they see; the rest of us don't move until the streets are cleared." Lights were lit and shouts began to resonate from within the building. The tense air that had been occupying the hall for the past week now had exploded into a frenzy. Several bandits armed with muskets retreated into the upper floors.

 

Scythe jerked a thumb to a slender female Miqo'te, cocking his head at the tunnel that had been dug into the floor of the house. "I'jhimei, your group will cause a distraction in the Sapphire Exchange to draw them off. Aim for the merchants, burn or destroy any goods you can get your hands on. As soon as Blades arrive, get back here and demolish the tunnel." The Miqo'te in question nodded quickly and silently gestured with her hand, the group descending down the pit that lead to the tunnels.

 

The Highlander turned his attention to a rather timid looking Midlander sitting on the hull of the dreadnought. "Start the dreadnought!" The Midlander shot him a gaze of surprise. "Are you sure? He said it'd only run for a few hours...and if we start it now, we won't be able to turn it off!" Scythe's response was a guttural snarl. The Midlander quickly went to work without protest and gestured to his colleague, and the two of them dove into the hatch of the dreadnought, closing it with a loud clunk.

 

It was all falling apart. The pirate must have betrayed them; it was the only possibility. The Brass Blades didn't care enough to sweep bandits out of the lane and the Sultansworn lacked the resources or justification to do it. Their benefactor was the only one who knew the details of what they would accomplish here. It was an organized attack, and it seemed the attackers knew exactly where in the Lane they were. Scythe knew it was always a distinct possibility; Limsans were all the same.

 

It didn't matter, anyway. If he were to be honest with himself, Scythe was glad that this happened. That agonized waiting would come to an end. The revolution would start now, and nobody in Ul'dah had the firepower to stop the dreadnought.

 

The bandits were now scrambling for their arms and armor as the rest of them that hadn't left for the windows or the Sapphire Avenue Exchange began to assemble in the main hall, their breathing haggard with terror or excitement, faces universally painted with anxiety. Some of the more experienced veterans from Ala Mhigo were silent, grim expressions crossing their faces. They checked loaded muskets, pistols, grabbed swords and shields, spears and axes, donning haphazardly constructed leather cuirasses and chainmail. "Get ready! They've probably got archers. We're going to use the dreadnought for cover!" Scythe snapped a glare at the machine as he brandished his wicked falchion. "Start the damn thing!"

 

The dreadnought in question was an ugly thing; a blocky, angular mass of segmented steel plates, roughly twenty-five fulms in length and rectangular in shape, and had no wheels or visible propulsion system to speak of. A magitek cannon had been mounted to the top with a front plate to shield the gunner as they stood on the hull of the vehicle. Its front gave way to sloping armor with a viewport slit, and the plates were evenly spaced and layered in such a way as to afford the most overall protection from all angles of attack. The rear of the dreadnought contained a row of jutting, horizontal plates, which was the dreadnought's radiator.

 

"We're proceeding with the plan as normal," Scythe bellowed as the dreadnought roared to life, its hull beginning to hover about a fulm in the air, the radiator of the machine beginning to glow a calm cerulean blue. Even with the din, the telltale lightning-like cracks of musketfire began to permeate the air above them, and the Highlander had to shout to make himself be heard. "Javelin and Tusk will take the dreadnought to Hustings strip to remove the Sultana. The timetable's been moved up, so we've no idea if the other members of the Syndicate will be present."

 

"What about Raubahn?" One of the Hellsguard rumbled. Scythe waved an idle hand. "If he gets in your way, kill him, but otherwise don't bother. Once the streets are clear, the dreadnought will break down the wall and make its way there. The rest of us are going to break through into the Ruby Road Exchange. The people we have near the gates will shut it. Search and destroy! We will remove the corrupt rulers who are content to ignore us, and--"

 

The hatch of the dreadnought clunked open, and the Midlander emerged. His face was covered in soot and a blue fog began to emerge from within the hatch. He was coughing and struggled to breathe. "Boss!" He hacked out. "The dreadnought, it--"

 

At the same time, the engine of the dreadnought ceased its smooth, loud humming, and gave way to a sickening series of clang! clang! clang!, like a house's weight in pots and pans had been caught in a tornado. Scythe's expression morphed from determination to one of surprise...and fear. "Get it under control! What's happening!?" The light of the radiator began to flicker and flash and the steel plates of the machine began to buckle and leak a sickening azure light. Scythe and his compatriots could only cover their ears and stare in bewilderment at the sudden reaction of the machine as the clang! clang! clang! of its engines surrendered into a horrifyingly loud grinding. The sound of steel being stretched taut to its breaking point pierced the ears of all nearby, and the metal screamed a shrill whine as the grinding of the engine gradually slowed and stopped.

 

And then the world exploded.

 

--

 

What was once an unassuming row of idle houses, boarded up and abandoned in Pearl Lane, became something very different. A brilliant sky-blue light briefly shone from the windows that the musketeers were peeking out of, and eventually give way to a massive, explosive gust of smoke and hot air that propelled the unfortunate gunners out of the windows and onto the ground below with a sickening crack. A brilliant gout of cerulean fire blasted apart the boards over the aperture and sent the door, frame and all, flying out into the streets, and the boom that resulted was audible through the entire city. The impact shook the houses down to its foundations as the shingled ceiling collapsed, the poorly maintained wooden walls igniting rapidly in flames and following the ceiling's descent. The adjacent houses managed to avoid a similar fate, though their ceilings too collapsed from the shockwave and the floors of the second story groaned in protest, threatening to crush those unfortunate enough to be beneath them. The rubble and debris buried the tunnels, masking the cries of terror of those trapped within.

 

Flaming, ashen cadavers emerged from the door screaming agonized cries, their forms engulfed in blue liquid that ate through their skin and bones even as it blazed relentlessly, before falling over and being overcome by the silence of death. Even more still managed to stumble out, covered in soot and burns, before succumbing mercifully quickly to the wounds.

 

And then, as the flames settled, the wooden frame of the houses creaking as they were consumed by the swiftly cooling inferno, there was naught but silence.

[Melkire]

Nine, ten, eleven… twelve feet. Six pairs. One, two, three, four, five bandits filed out of the mouth of the tunnel that let out in an alley off Sapphire, near Thal’s Gate. Not one of them spared a backwards glance for the stone archway, so intent were they on their destination, and that was why not a one of them noticed the ragged bundle of wool, roughly the size of a man, tucked away into one shaded corner.

 

Thank the Twelve for Bellveil and these rags o’ his. Man has Althyk’s own blasted luck. Right time, right pl-

 

The last padded footfalls were softer, quieter. His eyes widened as he doffed the woolen robe and turned the corner in a single fluid motion in time to strike out with his left fist, the knuckles of his first two fingers extended just enough to catch the surprised Miqo’te in the throat. She choked as she staggered back, her free hand instinctively reaching for her throat.

 

Mistake.

 

He twisted his hip and kneed her in the gut, winding her, then seized her throat, locked one foot behind hers and tripped her, drove her back into the darkness and slammed her down onto the cobblestones. Her blade flew from her grasp at the impact and went clattering across the stones. Melkire winced, listening as he held the female pinned beneath him.

 

A cacophony of scuffling and yelling and clashing greeted him, above which sounded out a single tenor voice. He listened closer and grinned savagely as he recognized what he was hearing: a corporal directing his troops, the clash of shield up against shield as they opened up just long enough for an enterprising private to strike out, the desperate cries and bellows of bandits denied organization. He chuckled.

 

I’m long gone and they’re still drillin’ the hogwash I sold ‘em on.

 

He turned his attention back to the woman as she settled. Her eyes were wide open, staring blankly up towards the heavens. Her ears didn’t twitch. Her tail didn’t shift. He sighed. In his zeal, he’d likely crushed her windpipe.

 

“Shite. Mikh'a’s goin’ to be pissed. Gregson!”

 

He stood and walked back out the archway, readjusting his turban as he went, in time to spot a burly Roegadyn woman dressed in Immortal Flame blues bash her shield against the side of a highlander’s skull. Down he went, the last of the bandits, and Melkire snorted.

 

“Gregson,” he called out again, eyes roving over the assembled for his fellow midlander. “Get on the pearl, tell Peak we caught this one cold. Still another half dozen or so places they might come up again.”

 

The bastards had already gotten through twice, though the Immortal Flames that Burning Peak had strewn through the crowds, dressed discreetly as they were, had managed to put them down before the casualties had risen above a few merchants’ stalls, their goods, and a handful of privates. Civilians, thankfully, had been kept out of harm’s way. Osric took another spare moment to glance up at the rooftops that divided Sapphire from Pearl.

 

Smoke. One large column of smoke. That had started less than a bell ago, following a roll of thunderous roars more akin to a Dravanian Horde than to… whatever it had been.

 

Best still be breathin’, Korofi. And you’d best keep him that way, Grimsong.

[Shas]

Shas nodded to Coatleque before she went down the hallway and lingered only a moment longer to ensure no one would suddenly come out of nowhere and ambush her. At this point, Shas was not willing to take any chances or unnecessary risks. She started making her way down the opposite end of the hallway keeping a hand on the short blade hidden beneath her cloak.

 

Making her way through the building she took note on the amount of effort it must have taken to turn the row of dwellings into one large building without anyone being suspicious of how or why. She continued to make her way through remaining as silent as possible and keeping her focus on the task at hand. Coming across several closed and open rooms, she checked each one quickly and thoroughly to ensure they were completely empty. Even with all the commotion going on outside, she expected to run into some resistance on the inside.

 

"Leave it to the Sworn to be the ones sneaking into a building." She silently silently said to herself as she continued her search and stopped short of an open room with dim lighting coming out of it. Quickly pressing her back against the wall, Shas continued to make her way towards it until she could hear several voices coming from it. As she got closer she could make out the voices more clearly and at first thought that there were at least two men in the room until she heard the obvious slurred speech of a third, probably one who had too much to drink that evening.

 

Taking advantage of the lighting coming out of the room, she glanced at two shadows coming out of it and noted their position. Most likely they were the two that she heard speaking at first, with the third probably too drunk to stand. She decided to move in closer to peer inside the room before making her move, to determine what she would be up against and the they were armed with.

 

As she took a quick peek inside the room she saw one was armed with a short sword and a crude wooden shield with another armed with a long spear. She had also noticed the third man in the room who decided to relieve himself in the far off corner. She figured the third one to be the drunkard she heard earlier. She brought her head back and rolled her eyes as she drew her blade preparing to make her move. "And people question my preferences." She thought to herself as she heard the sound of a body collapsing in the room.

 

"You boys are making this too easy...." She mused silently and grinned as she heard the noise and took that moment to charge into the room. For a woman her size she managed to rush in quickly and silently coming up behind the closest of the two and bringing the butt of her blade to the back of the mans head quickly dispatching him before moving on to the second man in the room.

 

The second man in the room, the spear user, barely had time to react as he was laughing over the collapsed body of his drunken comrade when heard the impact of Shas' blade over the other mans head and his body dropping to the floor. He hastily readied his spear and struck at her in desperation, leaving himself open as Shas sidestepped the strike and and moved in to swiftly bring her knee into the mans stomach. She had only used enough force to knock the wind out of him and bring him to his knees as she brought her blade up to his throat.

 

She calmly looked over second man she had subdued and kept her blade firmly at his neck as a brief hint of red flashed from her eyes as she spoke to him. "How many of you are left in this building and where? Speak quickly and silently....you only get one chance."

 

The man looked up at Shas and seemed to be in complete fear as he struggled to answer her. "J-just c-couple more. B-b-bout two or four more maybe."

"Where....?" She responded as she narrowed her eyes applying a bit more force to the mans neck with her blade.

"Down the hallway, in the m-mess hall probably." The man continued on as he pointed in the direction Shas had came from.

 

"Thank you....pray that you are speaking the truth...." Shas slightly grinned as she brought her blade back and struck at the bridge of the mans nose with the butt of it and grabbing him by his hair to slam his face down into a near by table for good measure. Once she was sure that all three men in the room were incapacitated she took a quick glance around and noticed several crates stacked about. An eyebrow was raised as she attempted to pry open one of the crates with her blade. Upon opening it, a frown formed on her face and she narrowed her eyes as she discovered the contents. "Limsan firearms...almost look like Maelstrom issue, pretty damn close....hells, worry about this later."

 

 She proceeded to exit the room as quickly as she entered and looked further down the hall, realizing it lead to a dead end. "Alright....back the way I came then...."

 

She made her back to where Coatleque and herself had entered earlier and continued on in the direction the younger woman had went, hoping to catch up with her in case she had ran into trouble. Going further down, she came across a dimly light room with the smell of stale ale and noticed an unconscious figure lying face down in the hallway. Upon further inspection of she suspected was the mess hall, she noted the second man lying motionless on the ground and flashed a quick smirk before moving on to continue her search.

 

Seeming satisfied that she had not come across any further resistance, Shas started to make her way towards the front of the building and could hear the sounds of the ensuing chaos outside as she got closer. She noticed Coatleque beginning to open the front door and made her way over as the younger Sworn was letting the member of Dauntless to come through. "We're all clear so far. Found three in the direction I went, one is passed out drunk, and the other two were taken care of."

 

At that moment she felt a strong trembling and heard the beginning of a loud explosion as she quickly glanced around looking for the source. "What in the bloody hells was that?" She yelled out, completely unaware of what was to come next.

[Mikh'a]

What in the bloody hells was that?

 

Heat. Smoke. Ringing ears. Blackened vision.

 

Can't breathe.

 

His hands had gone up reflexively as soon as he hit the ground but people were still going to die.

 

No.

 

The lattice had spread swiftly but debris had still fallen through. A man was crushed, reaching, calling for anyone and anything. Sanctuary. Mother. Rhalgr. Anyone. He couldn't even think of a quip about the Twelve, barely remembered Mortar's usual reminder that his blasphemy was getting him killed. It smelled like singed flesh, the shield couldn't save them from all the heat. The roof was on top of it, held aloft by the sheer pressure of aether alone and Mikh'a grunted in concentration. Shas and Crofte had hit the ground, some of Scythe's men had been spared the painful death but it was a double edged sword. They couldn't get around the shield and it was just a sickening reminder of something A'laric had said to him a long time ago.

 

“Move!”

 

Shas lifted her head first. They hadn't been spared injury, just a roof.

 

“MOVE IT!”

 

She looked confused and Mikh'a started to shift and try to get to his feet, kicking at a stray piece of beam that had fallen, splintered, and half landed on his leg. He was lucky it wasn't broken. The shield wavered the instant he got to his feet. Someone slammed in to the shield and he bit back the urge to cry out. “The Dreadnaught must have been rigged, it was a trap!” Eorzea's gods be damned, Nero had set them up. The thug's face was half burned off by ceruleum and it was eating through flesh and bone. He clawed at the shield and Mikh'a had to force himself to look away. Crofte was finally getting up, coughing and groaning and Shas hooked her arm under the redheaded woman's armpits to drag her away as the shield flickered and seconds later the debris it held aloft near crashed down on their heads. It was all the concentration he had to pick it strengthen it as Shas and Coatleque reflexively ducked in preparation for the coming blow.

 

One of their hands shot out and snagged him by the scruff. “You can't save everyone.” someone said and yanked him back as the aether shield buckled. The instant his concentration was lost and he was pulled backwards Mikh'a's shield was gone and the front of the building, no longer held aloft, crashed down on bodies that had been trying to get to safety within. They weren't far enough out of the red zone not to get the backlash of debris as it hit the ground and Mikh'a rolled on to his side after being tossed rather unceremoniously to the side by Crofte to avoid more damage. The dust was only starting to thin and he coughed as he sat up. “What happened..?” he heard.

 

“It looks like--” he coughed. “Like the Dreadnaught exploded. It-- it had to have been rigged that way. T-to explode.” More coughing and he pulled his tattered shirt sleeve over his mouth and nose. “Ceruleum. Toxic. Breathe as little as possible. Get moving, get out of here. We'll heal later, we have to keep moving.” The adrenaline would keep them moving.

 

Someone grabbed his arm, Crofte again. She was dragging him to his feet and pulling him backwards, half dragging him, half guiding him to his feet. Shas was leading the way, past destroyed homes and flaming debris as the three of them staggered toward safe air and freedom. There were still people trapped inside but they were already dead. You can't save everyone.

[Nero]

Contrary to the popular beliefs of some, moving around to evade detection was just about the worst way to evade detection. Every motion is noticed by someone, and even the most carefully hidden shadow will sooner or later fail to go unnoticed. Every road that's walked on and every word that's spoken signifies the existence of one more person who's seen or heard you pass by. 

 

Such were the thoughts crossing the pirate's mind when he awoke, surrounded by crates and darkness, the cold stone of the floor making its unwelcome presence known to his rattled bones. The interior of the Aleport warehouse was as mundane as a warehouse could get, and calling Nero's accommodations shoddy would be calling a Sahagin a fairly decent swimmer. The warehouse was completely devoid of light, save for two windows above the large rectangular doorway that allowed for the occasional intrusion of sunlight. Nero pawed his left hand around him in the darkness until he felt the rough steel of the oil lantern he'd managed to preserve. A squeaky swing of the hinges and some concentration lead to a small spark emerging from the his fingertips. That tiny flame was the best he could do--the silver scepter that had served as his focus had been lost in the raid. 

 

It was with no small measure of amusement that Nero noted the practicality of Vail's advice even as he struggled to sit up, wincing from his recent injuries. Several moons of successfully hiding from his worst enemies by cowering in his estate was, in the end, punctuated by an attack by brigands on the caravan he was travelling with during a rainy night on his way to Aleport. There was safety in numbers, generally speaking, but numbers--and a wagon full of goods--also attracted the kind of attention that was belligerent, greedy, and rhymed with "andit".

 

Of course, whether or not they were truly simple outlaws was a question that would remain forever unanswered. They wore no insignia and dressed in black clothing and were far more organised than the standard grounded raider that typically made up caravan attacks in La Noscea. Calling them assassins might be paranoid, but calling them anything else was probably quite naive. In either case, Nero found that it was an appropriately contrived ending. He had little idea as to the full extent of his enemies, yet it seems at least one was merely waiting for him to emerge into the public eye.

 

He raised his right hand to rub his face, only to wince as pain shot through his shoulder. Nero's tattered linen robe still had holes from the bullets, and to the pirate's dismay he found that he still could not raise his right arm above his chest too much without the joint and collarbone screaming in protest. The crude stitches he'd managed to apply across the gash on the side of his abdomen were only barely holding together and were oozing sticky blood and pus. A brief inspection of his forehead with his left hand found that the ugly swelling above his eye hadn't ceased, though thankfully he still had some measure of clear vision. The ratty cloth canvas that served as a blanket was peppered with dry bloodstains, and an audible groan escaped from Nero's lips as he sat up against the large box. Despite his rather horrid condition, the thought of seeking aid didn't cross his mind even once; Aleport lacked conjurers and he dare not risk another attack from his black-clothed friends showing his face again before his ship arrived. 

 

The orange glow of the lantern did little to alleviate the gloomy atmosphere, the struggle of the flame inside the vessel only accentuated the grim situation he'd found himself in. Nero had been squatting in this warehouse for more than two days now. The first day, when he'd managed to somehow stagger into Aleport without succumbing to his injuries, he'd spent every waking minute cursing the delay. A ship was to arrive here, bound for Sharlayan and then to Othard, only to be stalled by a sudden tempest. By the second day of inhabiting the unused warehouse, his curses had surrendered to cold silence, and today naught was there to comfort him but resigned acceptance.

 

The malaise that had set upon him the previous day was still present. Something was likely infected, but at this point Nero lacked the means or the funds to seek medicine, and every second he spent in public was another chance for his old friends in black to finish what they started. He felt his life's fluids leaking out of the various wounds on his body, and the longer he stayed awake, the dizzier he felt, just like yesterday.

 

"What a way to go, eh laddie?" A voice called to him in the darkness. Nero glared at it with his good eye. Emerging from the oppressive gloom was a Hyur, a Midlander. The newcomer's face still held some youthful vitality, yet it was also aged, the skin creasing against the lines of his jaws, his cheeks somewhat gaunt. The eyes were guarded by long locks of fiery orange hair the shade of hot coals, each pupil gleaming sharply with intellect and wit yet holding a a bitter and steely edge. A sharply trimmed beard adorned an equally sharp jawline, the same warm hue as his hair. The Hyur's jewelry, his amulets and earrings, jingled with amusement at each motion he made, and those accessories matched the man's clothing in gaudiness; a pure white shirt with red trim, embroidered with elaborate golden patterns, silken black trousers, and boots of fine velvet.

 

The Midlander--grinning suavely to show off an array of sharp, almost carnivorous teeth--pulled up a box and plopped himself down on it, his various ornaments chiming in a cacophony of acknowledgement. The newcomer crossed one leg over the other, resting his hands on his knees. It was an incredible contrast that was struck between the two men: one confident and flashy, dressed in noble finery and infinitely arrogant, the other clad in little more than rags, despondent and resentful. 

 

The Midlander gave Nero a cursory inspection before clicking his tongue and shaking his head sadly. "You know, I could have sworn I raised you to be a bit better than this." He rummaged around in his pockets until he pulled out an elaborate smoking pipe made of ebon wood and gleaming nacre, spinning it around in his meaty fingers.

 

Nero's response was a disdainful snort. He groaned as he adjusted his position, leaning his back against a large box. "Back again, huh? You know, they say that children are living proof of their parents' limitations. I wonder if that's more of an insult to me or to you."

 

Vail gave a puff of the pipe in his hands, though no flame was lit. "Do they really say that? Though, you're not really my brat, so I suppose that at it's only a half insult to me at most." He spun the pipe in his hands again, flashing that crooked smirk that had once been so familiar.

 

Nero's chest rose and fell with rhythmic breathing as he slumped against the crate, eyeing the man sitting on the crate. "I should probably tell you that your advice is garbage, by the way. I've heard more helpful adages from rocks and talking oranges."

 

The man on the crate gave a slight not of agreement, creasing his face in amusement. "Could be. Or you just didn't follow it well enough. And you're talking to oranges now? Ye gods, I always called you a friendless bastard, but I didn't think you were that friendless."

 

"Stuff it, old man."

 

Vail raised the pipe to indicate towards Nero's head, an eyebrow rising with interest. "So uh, your hair? You do that yourself? Missed dear old pops so much that you needed to keep a constant reminder?"

 

"Contrast is more effective at drawing attention when you're making deals. I needed to be someone less boring than you, which admittedly wasn't difficult."

 

The pipe stopped spinning in his fingers as Vail feigned a wounded expression. "Boring!? I was many things, but boring was definitely not it." There was another pause and another whiff of the empty vessel. "You didn't answer my question."

 

Nero sighed. "No, I didn't do it myself. There was some Elezen, an Aesthetician in Limsa Lominsa who was more than happy to charge me my weight in gil for it." Vail said nothing in response, merely grinning in amusement. 

 

The conversation died quickly for a time.

 

"So, you look pretty beat up," Vail casually observed.

 

"I'm so glad that your nine-odd years of being dead haven't robbed you of your ability to observe the obvious," Nero responded dryly. As quickly as it was broken, the silence returned, enveloping the warehouse like a blanket.

 

"You afraid of death?" the man on the crate asked.

 

"No," Nero murmured, shooting his adoptive father an annoyed glance. "After all, you came back from it enough to mess with my head for a few days. It can't be that bad. Or effective."

 

"True," Vail conceded. "Yet something tells me that you're afraid of something, lad. You afraid of dying? If not death itself."

 

"No," Nero echoed.

 

The older gentleman spread his arms. "Then educate me. What is it that you're fearing in these last few moments of your life?"

 

"That's awfully fatalistic of you to say, isn't it? 'Never say die'." the pirate muttered to himself. Nero tried to inhale deeply, only to exhale sharply as a jabbing pain made its presence known in his lungs. It seemed the bullet was still lodged somewhere uncomfortable. A frustrated grunt forced itself through his lips. "If you must know, it's impossible to fear dying when your entire life has been naught but one slow death."

 

A pair of warm hazel eyes threatened to roll themselves right out of their sockets. "Must you be so dramatic, boy?"

 

"Probably not, but I've no idea if I'm going to die tomorrow or eighty years from now. That's the exciting part of life, isn't it? That uncertainty." Nero's response garnered no reaction.

 

A much larger, bulkier frame emerged from the darkness to stand behind Vail. Ashen blonde hair, skin tinted a minty green, and a stern demeanor came with it.

 

"So, lad, ye been shot an' abused mightily thus far," Daegsatz whistled as the Roegadyn gazed throughout the dark confines of the warehouse. "This'n all be worth it?"

 

Nero snorted, wincing as he did. "What kind of question is that?"

 

"Th' question ye be askin' yerself all this time, lad," the Roegadyn said.

 

"The question we're asking you now," Vail affirmed, the crooked smirk flashing across his face again.

 

Nero sighed and rubbed his head. The amount of visitors was increasing lately and he wasn't sure that he liked it all that much. "I don't know, I think my injuries are worth a couple thousand gil at the very least. The amount of people who would pay to see me half-dead like this is astronomical. You could send them all to Ishgard and they'd win their war with the dragons through sheer numbers alone." He met Vail's smirk with his own weak trademark.

 

"But was it worth it, in the end?" The voices blended together, making it unclear who was asking. Not that it mattered.

 

"Nothing ever ends," Nero grunted. "As for your stupid question, 'worth' is relative. If you mean to ask me 'was it worth it' in the sense of 'did I achieve my goal', then no, none of this was worth it. I didn't even come close to accomplishing what I set out to do. And so, in conclusion, my life of twenty-nine some odd cycles or so is--was--pretty much worthless."

 

"And yet," once again the pipe was set on its adventure of rotation on Vail's fingers, "knowing this from the start, knowing that your chances of succeeding were close to zero, you set out to accomplish it anyway. You killed many people for it. Women. Children. Abandoned by your crew and your ship. You even got my first mate killed, somehow, which is something I'd been trying to do for years." He tapped a finger affectionately against the Roegadyn's arm.

 

The pair of them received a baleful scowl.

 

"So, was it worth it?"

 

Nero sighed again, his exhalation giving way to coughing. "We all need a little self-delusion. A lot of self delusion. It's how all of us get by in life. We tell ourselves 'yes I am making a difference' and 'yes I did the right thing', blissfully ignoring how insignificant our lives are and how resistant to meaningful change this world is. That said, I probably deluded myself into thinking it was worth it. Changing Ul'dah, making things better." Though he couldn't see it--the orange flame barely extended past his wrist--Nero lifted his left hand and stared at where his palm would be in the darkness. "They say that that intelligence eventually leads to desire, and desire leads to the two most tragic things that can ever happen in a mortal life. The first tragic thing is not being able to obtain what you want. The second tragic thing is obtaining what you want."

 

"So then laddie, which o' them tragedies be yers?"

 

Another snort blasted itself from Nero's nose. "Well, let me answer that by saying this: the good guys have won a triumphant victory, and everyone in Ul'dah still managed to lose. And the funniest part about that is that it'll happen again. It'll keep happening."

 

The pirate sighed, lolling his head to the side, careful to keep away the sizable bump on his forehead away from the crate he was leaning against. His vision had begun to dim, though perhaps it was a trick of the lack of light. "So in conclusion, no. It wasn't worth it. Nothing is worth it. Nothing is worth anything. When I came at the crossroads, I should have stopped and simply turned the other way."

 

Vail uncrossed and recrossed his legs, an index finger tapping his beard thoughtfully. "The boy I knew would have never been content with that life of apathy."

 

"Of course not, but that life would have at least given me ample time to think of a theatrical suicide. Blaze of glory or something, instead of rotting in a warehouse having to entertain you two figments of my imagination, waiting for that idiotic paladin to swagger in here and be unable to kill me because of her stupid morals. Again."

 

"Ye ev'r consid'r that she might be right, lad? That there be another way o' doin' all this without..." Two thick arms the size of tree trunks raised themselves to indicate the warehouse. "Without doin' all o' this?"

 

Nero raised his left hand in a mocking proclamation. "Then let her and her goody-goody friends take care of it. If there really was another way, they wouldn't need people like me to show them that there was no other way." He left his hand fall to his side as he muttered to himself. "Twats."

 

His venomous statement gave way to stillness as his inquisitive companions slunk away and faded into the blackness. There was no way to tell the time save by approximating the position of the sunlight that filtered through the dull windows of the warehouse, but the pirate was barely registering the sunlight at all, much less using it to track time. His eyes were half closed and he barely registered his erstwhile guardians re-materializing into existence.

 

"So then, lad, what are you afraid of? You know me, always spouting off proverbs and the like. Judge a man by what he fears." Vail wagged the mouthpiece of the pipe towards the slumping pirate. "Judgement time."

 

Nero glared at the wagging smoking pipe. He attempted to inhale deeply, only to fall short of breath once again. "I'm pretty damn scared of being expected to live, I'll tell you that much."

 

"Oho? That bad, eh?"

 

"Oh, I'm absolutely aware of how I sound. I'm just some whinging adolescent thinking his entire future is over because he isn't allowed to go pork the vacant-eyed bimbo with the big rack who lives across the street."

 

"Hah!" The man on the crate leaned back as he barked out a guffaw. "Ain't no woman in the world worth dying for, much less living for, laddie."

 

"What shall the warrior do when all of his foes are dead? What shall the doctor do when all illness has sped away from this world? What shall the merchant do when wealth loses all value? Silly premises, perhaps, but the answer is the same. A life without meaning is a very special kind of death, reserved for punishing the most heinous of crimes." Another sigh. "So, yes, I suppose you can say I'm pretty afraid of death. I'm afraid of dying. Just not in the traditional sense."

 

"But my dear child, are you not condemning yourself to such an existence this very second?" A third silhouette emerged to accompany the warm voice, a Highlander woman. Hastily applied makeup did its best to mask bruises and scars and once voluptuous figure had shrunk due to hunger and been wrapped in a scantily-designed dress meant for "easy access". She wore no other clothing besides the tattered dress, not even shoes. Nero dare not look at her face, but he could see the blood leaking from her forehead.

 

Nero exhaled. "Well, you're not wrong. Believe it or not, I'm not completely fatalistic. As long as one lives and breathes--okay, bad example with me, given the..." he was tempted to tap himself in the chest to make a point but thought better of it. "But still--one can one day find his purpose and rekindle his desire to live again."

 

"And yet, even knowin' this, ye be 'appy ta condemn yerself ta death. Th' traditional kind." The Roegadyn rumbled.

 

"Yeah, because I know better by now. I said that life is an opportunity to find a purpose. I never said my life held that same kind of opportunity. I'm not exactly keen on pushing the boulder up the hill just to see it roll all the way back down the other side. Trust me, I've done that a few times. That boulder can go plough itself." Nero spat.

 

"The purpose of life is to have the freedom to seek its own purpose, laddie. You deny such a purpose. What's the measure of your life then, boy? What were you put here to do? What is your reason?" The Midlander murmured.

 

"Was," Nero corrected himself. "I'm fairly certain that I'll be dead soon." He grunted again as he adjusted his position against the boxes. "To get back to your question, who knows? Maybe my purpose was to be arrogant, believe I knew better, and proceed to make a complete ass of myself in front of everyone who claimed to care about Ul'dah. Maybe my purpose was to be the hack of a villain of some terrible story and make all of the good guys look good in comparison. Really, at this point, I couldn't care less."

 

"But what about atonement?" The Highlander hummed.

 

"What about atonement?"

 

"P'raps th' purpose o' all o' this'n be ta see yer own misguided cynicism fail, an' ta be giv'n th' chance ta redeem yerself."

 

"Brilliant," Nero scoffed. "Turns out the only reason I was born was so I can posture myself in front of some self-righteous group of bastards and whores and spend the rest of my life trying to convince myself that living in destitute misery is actually a very enviable existence."

 

"And now you're contradicting yourself. I could have sworn you weren't this stupid when you were crying on my ship. You demand justice for yourself and those souls you claim to sympathise with, and yet when the same demand of justice is made to you, you balk and refuse. Remind me never to strike a deal with you. You'd just run away from it." Vail raised an eyebrow sharply. "It's not as if you hate the idea of atonement. Not completely, anyway. If you did, you wouldn't have sabotaged Randolph's machine, and you wouldn't have told the paladin where to find you." 

 

"That's called 'cutting my losses', old man. Something you failed to understand, which ended up getting you killed," the pirate responded disdainfully. "My plan would have never succeeded at that point. Merlwyb demolished the plans for the Rhotano League, so my collaborators are out of funding and are at each other's throats, and my support in Ul'dah is non-existent. The least I could do is wipe that stain of my past off the map." Now it was Nero's turn to sigh, pointedly ignoring the point that had been brought up about the paladin. "Even so, it seems nobody around here has ever been truly understanding the point I've been trying to make," Nero muttered bitterly. "Every bleeding heart shitelord and their mother going around screaming at me, 'the women and children, the women and children!'. The only thing that is worse than being forced to die is being forced to live."

 

"And so you were believe you were doing them a favour?" The woman's voice asked kindly, lacking any edge of judgment. 

 

"I was saving them from a slow death. A life of misery, to be dominated by nothing but thoughts of how to survive the next day, the next hour...like I said, that is a very special kind of death. The kind of death that all of those arrogant fools are all too happy to subject them to."

 

"Yet ye be speak'n as if ye yerself not be engagin' in th' exact same imposition o' perspective that they are. Ye believe that they be forcin' a life o' misery. Yerself be forcin' an unwillin' death. Neither side be askin' those people who are bein' forced."

 

"Seeking morality in a situation like this is pointless. You either win, and you're right, or you lose, and you're wrong. Trying to gain the moral high ground is like trying to climb up a tree with all of your limbs cut off," the pirate breathed. "There is no justice, no righteousness, no good or evil in this. There are results, or the lack thereof, and nothing more."

 

"Boy, did you not start this crusade because of your morality? Because you believed your way to be right?"

 

"I believe my way to be preferable."

 

"But if someone had come along while you struggled on the streets, and told you they were doing you a favour by making you die for their cause, would you have accepted it?" The woman breathed the gentle, understanding sigh of a parent.

 

Nero paused, hesitating as his eye caught a rivulet of blood running down the woman's silhouette. "Regardless of what they told me their cause was, I wouldn't have accepted it. I would think they were lying or stupid or both." His voice trembled somewhat. "But if I did end up dying, I wouldn't have begrudged them."

 

"Ye would 'ave struggled ta live til yer own life be taken. That not be a contradiction o' what ye be sayin' 'fore, ye reckon?"

 

"I didn't struggle because I want to. I struggled to live because it was instinct. Self-preservation. That cruel gift that allows mortal lives to endure the very worst of the world beyond all hope and doubt."

 

The pause in the air was palpable.

 

"So, really," Vail, ever eager to overthrow a lull in the dialogue, examined his pipe as he ceased its spinning, the elaborate frame frozen around his thumb and index finger. "None of this was worth it then, eh, boy? Wasn't worth the killing, wasn't worth Satz, wasn't worth the Forte, wasn't worth them nasty injuries, and at the end of it all, one way or another you'll be dead. Literally dead, or living a life without meaning and thus better off dead." 

 

Nero froze.

 

"The reason you did all of this, the reason why you were so willing to kill is because you reject a life ruled by instinct, a life that lacks all meaning except survival, and you call that a fate crueler than death. And yet, even as you rejected it, you hated yourself for accepting it as well, for without it you would never have had the option of rejecting it in the first place. Thus armed with this hypocrisy, you set about your plan with the intention of forcing everyone to reject that self-preservation whether they wanted to or not." Slowly, disdainfully, the pipe resumed its twirl. The crew of the Second Forte emerged led by Garalt, his square jaw narrowly set in reluctant determination.

 

"Ye be denyin' 'em their right as mortals ta struggle ta preserve themselves in a world that be cruel an' unusual. An' in doin' so, ye be managin' ta convince yerself that 'cause o' yer own experiences, such a thing be permissible, even if'n ye be considerin' it a necessary evil. Ye projected yerself an' yer choices onto them, an' called it a favour." Daegsatz folded his arms, his face wrinkled with sadness, his body soon glowing with the flames that threatened to engulf him. Another group stepped forward; Dunesfolk Lalafell with sword wounds, some with spears skewered right through them, Brass Blades with scorched armor and sailors bloated from the sea.

 

"Adair..." Fiora's silhouette stepped forward and crouched down to his level. He still couldn't force himself to look at her, for he knew what he would saw; a shattered skull, the blood seeping against the pavement. The Highlander woman reached out her arms to touch his houlders, her skin taut, her muscles weak and spindly. "In many cases, life is much worse than death. Death is itself a mercy, an instantaneous moment of pain soon to be flooded by the unending peace of oblivion. Life is often several moments of prolonged agony, stretched to a hundred years. And yet, that anguish, that torturous existence, that conflict and struggle is what assigns meaning to life. It is what differentiates living a life and dying a death. Without that struggle, without that bout of misery and torment...by taking that away, you remove life's meaning, and thus condemn all to the very death that you yourself fear."

 

Nero's breath shortened. His hands were shaking. He felt dizzy. He could see the blood, the blood from her skull, the blood that splashed on the walls and the pavement drip down and seep between his fingers. 

 

"Not all is lost. You can still be saved."

 

The scantily clad Highlander woman, for an instant, vanished, and was replaced by a similarly slender form clad in armor, grey eyes scrutinizing him with a soft naivete.

 

And just like that, it broke.

 

What snapped inside of him was cold but soundless, like a glacial sheet snapping in the void. With a cry that was as ferocious as it was despairing, Nero swung his right arm. In an instant, the warm voice, the spindly arms, and the oozing blood vanished. He ignored the screaming of nerves in his shoulder at the motion, and he struggled to stand. He could not even stand up straight; it was all Nero could do to lean against the boxes in a facsimile of defiance.

 

"Ah," Nero said disdainfully, the volume of his voice raising. "So deep down, you're one of those people. An idealist. Let me tell you something. Love doesn't feed an empty stomach. Honor doesn't keep you warm at night. Courage doesn't heal your scars or soothe your bruises. A life of agony is a life of meaning? Don't make me laugh. That is a delusion, a weak justification made by those who've never had to worry about going hungry or freezing on the wooden planks that serve as your bed. You insist on 'salvation' and 'the right way' without understanding that every single second of your inaction is a complete and utter failure of that ideal. The only people who ever had the grounds to condemn me are people who have lived exactly like me. The people who continue to live exactly as I did. People who spend every waking minute of their consciousness facing starvation and fear and hopeless expanses of an empty future."

 

The Highlander woman appeared again, a few feet away from him. Nero found his gaze panicking, attempting desperately to avert themselves, but his willpower won over. With a shaking of his head and his body trembling, he forced himself to look straight at her. At the exposed bits of brain and bone that had been smashed against the wall, the eye that had popped out of its socket, the jaw hanging loose and unhinged like a snake's. She still had a sad expression on the half of her face that was still intact, and every second he forced himself to stare was another second he felt his consciousness evaporating.

 

"So you think you're righteous, do you? You said it yourself. A torturous existence is the only existence that has meaning. You can vilify me for robbing those lives of their worth and their purpose, but don't think for a second that you are any better than me for damning those same lives into unending squalor. Do you want me to tell you why you think that way? It's because you think you're better. You had money, you had power. You never went to bed wondering if you would wake up with another dead sibling, or a dead parent. You never waded through garbage wondering if you could find something to eat today. You ran away. You took your money and your wealth, and after building yourself a golden platform, set about calling yourself righteous, insisting that there was meaning in struggle." At this point, it wasn't clear if he was speaking to his illusionary audience or to himself.

 

The flames crawled up Daegsatz' broad form, lapping at his chest and soon enough, covering his shoulders and head, the latter of which casually lolled off of its body as it disintegrated wordlessly into ash. The Lalafell slowly began to fall over, one by one, and sink into the ground.

 

"'Women and children, women and children', they said! How could you kill women and children? Because it was necessary. I've killed men, women, children a plenty. Sometimes by my own hand, sometimes with a pen or a shout of a command, and I'd kill a thousand more if that's what it takes to see my vision through. To carve a better place for those souls denied every opportunity at happiness. To leave Ul'dah a better place than I found it. This is me. This is who I will always be. I did what I did because someone had to."

 

Like that day, the crew retreated. Garalt shook his head as the shadows enveloped him. Nero felt his strength leaving him, his voice growing hoarse.

 

"There was--is--no room for hope in Ul'dah. There is no...no way. No atonement. Not for the deaths of hundreds, maybe even thousands of people. It's impossible to justify a single one of those deaths. So I will do what I must. I'll build a better future. A future that saves as many of those other lives as possible. A future without that meaningless struggle against the depravity and greed of others. To fight for that future, that is my only salvation!"

 

The silence persisted for what felt like years. The images of those people had completely faded away, swallowed by the empty, inky blackness of Nero's mind. He was breathing heavily now, searing pain shooting up his chest with every expansion of his lungs. Cold sweat enveloped his feverish face, and his vision had begun to shift out of focus as he swayed unsteadily on his feet.

 

Only Vail was left. The pipe had vanished from his hands completely. 

 

His fingers were folded together as he stared the haggard pirate down. Though Nero himself was not sitting on it, he could feel Vail's seat on the box become uncomfortable and unwelcome.

 

Vail again flashed that crooked, audacious smirk. "So then, does that mean you regret it?"

 

A violent plume of icy shards, uncontrolled and undisciplined, as wild as the hand that shot it came screaming towards the darkness and plunged through Vail, whistling as the jagged, haphazard forms effortlessly pierced through his silhouette and crashing somewhere against the wall. Violet smoke flowed from the haphazardly conjured slivers as they disintegrated, leaving cold gashes at their point of impact.

 

Nero limped to the box where his adoptive father had been arrogantly sitting. The light from the tiny flame in the oil lamp had grown dimmer, leaving naught but defiant rays of sunshine.

 

He sat down on the box with a thud, scowling into the darkness with disgust. 

 

"Grow up."

[Roen]

"What is the measure of a life's worth?"

 

It was early afternoon when Roen and Kiht stepped onto the wooden pier at Aleport. The port town was rather sparse, and its harbor was conspicuously available. The warehouse they had been looking for was dull and featureless: flat wooden doors, limestone exterior. It was be a perfect place for a would-be fugitive in hiding.

 

“Too many smells, and the sea air burns my nose. We must rely on our eyes, it seems.” Kiht sniffed the air as she pushed her goggles up on her forehead. She had come dressed in dark camouflage armor; three black stripes of warpaint adorned her face and a long spear hung from her back. She paused when the paladin next to her did not move, Roen remaining still as she stared at the warehouse before them. The miqo’te huntress laid her hand lightly on the woman’s arm. “Take heart,” she said softly.

 

Roen nodded and approached the building with heavy steps. She too had donned black armor -- dark plate-mail chased with silver gilding. Her shield hung heavy upon her back and a longsword swung by her side. Why had she chosen to come armored this way? Was she expecting Nero to fight her? In truth, she did not know what to expect. Her heart pounded as she imagined what or whom she might find inside. Nero’s estate had been emptied out, cleaned of furniture, and even the walls were clear of dust, indicating a hurried exodus. But sitting in the center of the room was a single modest chair with a small card resting on it. It had a hastily drawn clock, an address of a warehouse in Aleport, and tomorrow’s date.

 

He has to be here.

 

The door swung open with ease, though the brass hinges squealed in protest. The interior of the warehouse was just as lacking as the exterior; unmarked crates occupied the walls gathering dust and barrels huddled together in the corner along with a pile of ragged blankets. Only one figure occupied the large space, dressed in a plain unadorned robe, perched on a small box at the center of the room. He craned his head back toward the two that entered, and while Roen could not yet see his face, the voice was unmistakable.

 

“I was wondering if you were going to be late,” Nero called out.

 

The paladin squinted her eyes as she closed the doors behind her and Kiht, adjusting to the dimness within. Two shafts of sunlight filtered in through the high windows, but otherwise only a single lantern sat next to the man and his box. Its flickering flame lent an orange glow to the man’s robes. “Bound for Othard, so I hear.” She answered, approaching him slowly.

 

“That is my intention, yes.” The pirate snapped his fingers and a purple cloud of thaumaturgy puffed near his hand then vanished. The flame in the lantern seemed to suddenly rekindle itself, burning with renewed vigor.

 

Roen knitted her brows. “Why did you leave me the address?”

 

“Because I felt I owed you that much,” the smuggler answered without hesitation. “To be honest, I had considered simply leaving a linkpearl in my home. I knew that is where you would check first. But then my ship got delayed, and so here I am.” The cowl turned slightly, eyes within peering at the two. “Feel free to survey the premises, if you’d like. There is no one else here but myself.”

 

His words did not relieve her apprehension, but she took steps towards him nonetheless. “So. To Othard. Then what?” She could see from the corner of her eyes that Kiht stayed near her as well.

 

“I’m not sure,” he sighed. “I have no money to speak of. No belongings besides the clothes on my back and my abilities. Maybe find a new way of living. Have a mysterious encounter, get married, settle down on some backwater farm. Maybe live a life under the Empire, like what I dreamed of as a boy. Maybe I'll fight and lose against some giant monster. Maybe I'll just kill myself." He shrugged nonchalantly. "The wind could blow at any direction. The only thing I know for certain is that Othard is an opportunity. Nothing more, and nothing less."

 

"What is to stop you from returning to Eorzea to check the results of your work?” Kiht asked curtly. “What is to stop the wind from blowing you where you may yet cause more havoc? After all this, are you truly content to just live a life of minding your own business?"

 

"A very wise question, miss..." Nero turned in his seat and peered at the miqo’te. "I could have sworn we have met before. Were you, perchance, lacking in the war paint in our last encounter?"

 

"Kiht Jakkya.” The Keeper came to stand within few fulms of him and Roen, her frame tense. She was watching him carefully. “I was in your employ before I knew what you were doing, or what you had planned."

 

"Ah, now I remember.” Nero nodded. “Your clan's scouts were very, very competent. Nary feather nor beak of Ixal showed themselves to my caravans, while they had operated. They've my compliments. Despite what you may think of me, miss, I do hope the coin I paid them offered them some measure of comfort."

 

Roen watched him carefully, even though he still kept much of his face hidden. He had always been a difficult man to read, his usual smirks and sarcasm often quick to mask everything else underneath. But now as he spoke in what seemed a neutral tone, he seemed to be hiding something more.

 

"To return to your question, the likelihood that I will return -- given that something or someone does not kill me first -- is almost indisputable. Whether it be in ten years or fifty years, I believe that sooner or later I'll return and see whether or not Ul'dah proved me wrong. It may be a simple dalliance, a curiosity to gaze at my past, or it might be a fiery vengeance, wrought in fire and steel. Who can say?"

 

"Osric showed Roen and I the letter. We know your detailed plan now.” Kiht growled.

 

Nero responded with a scoffing laugh. He raised an eyebrow at them beneath his hood, an ice blue eye staring at the miqo'te coldly. "Oh? Then what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be out there, putting poor Scythe out of his misery?" He shook his head. "No matter. I have no idea where my ambition will be twenty or thirty years down the line, especially regarding Ul'dah. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that the more things change, the more things stay the same. That much is true of both people and the cities they live in."

 

Roen narrowed her gaze, studying the man as he continued. “It's possible that I will take a glance at it and then leave, never to return. Conversely, it's just as possible that I will rekindle my rebellion and raze it to the ground. Of course, at this juncture, the last thing I want to do is even think of Ul'dah. I'm rather curious to see Othard myself." There was an odd air about him, one tinged with bitterness and perhaps resignation.

 

"Then why do what you did?” Kiht crossed her arms. “It would just cause more hardship to only end up in the same way. Only difference is a different people will have the power."

 

"Ah, so you agree then, miss Jakkya, that attempting to instill change is fruitless? You are wiser than I took you for." He flashed an ironic grin, as if reveling in the hypocrisy of the question.

 

"I thought you would make something of an explanation or justification.” Kiht’s gaze bore him a dark look. “Are you saying you have none? The Hells did you do it for then?"

 

Nero sighed, folding his hands together. "If I did explain myself to you, if I did justify my actions, would you believe me? Would you understand? Would you even be capable of understanding? When an oppressive system nourishes the rulers with the suffering of the ruled…you think that kind of system can be dismantled safely, quietly?" He held up a finger. “Ah, but I know what you are going to say. 'There had to be another way.’ Interesting how that convenient excuse always comes up to save the conscience of those who fail to act. But you did not come here to listen to me preach, and to tell the truth, I would rather not be preaching. Why don't we open a true dialogue?"

 

He opened his arms wide as if in offering. "I will listen to what you have to say. About me. About my methods, my goals. Make no mistake, I've committed atrocities for what I believed to be right. But if you think of me as nothing but a black-hearted villain, then you've truly failed to pay attention to the story."

 

The pirate turned toward Roen, a hard stare on her. "In all of our arguments, we've done nothing but shout our convictions at one another and fail to listen to the other side. Mayhaps this time will be different, no?"

[Roen]

“...What form will that atonement take, if I fail?"

 

“Will we? Truly listen to each other?” Roen met his gaze, her coiled frame losing some of its earlier uneasiness. “You wanted me to admit to your truth. And I wanted you to admit mine. Would we be here now if we had just met in the middle?”

 

The paladin bowed her gaze, sadness tugging at the fringes of her thoughts. But she chased it away. "Perhaps you are right, and there is no better way. No way to incite such a change, to end the suffering quickly, without violence and extreme actions. But you started it. You took lives. You set in motion plans to bath streets in blood. And then...nothing." She swept her hand toward him. "You gave up on your plans, and now you flee. A part of myself...I braced for it. Somewhere within, I knew the storm was coming. I warned others what might happen."

 

Roen closed her hand, quelling the anger that also threatened to rise. She was not here for vengeance, she was not here for regrets. She was here for justice. She had to remind herself of why she came. "And after all that, there was nothing. And now here you are. You have given your plans to someone who will put a stop to them.” Her expression turned steely. “After all is said and done, what were those deaths for?"

 

Nero paused in thought. "Those deaths were for hope. The hope for something better. A better future. The kind of hope that is worth killing for. But now?” He waved an arm. “Now, the most I can do is to adjust the intention. Cut my losses. Simply put -- those deaths were made in order to make a point.”

 

“...A point?!” The paladin gritted her teeth.

 

Those blue eyes sharply turned to her. “It was a message, not to the Monetarists, or the Sultana, but to people like you, and Crofte, and Melkire, and the innocents you claim to protect. It was a message that if you would not strive for a better future, if you would not openly resist tyranny and corruption, if you simply stood by and allowed things to reach the breaking point -- then someone else would rebel. Someone like me would emerge, and armed with nothing but a bloody past, a skewed perspective and raw, blind fanaticism, we would make the changes you could not." He paused again, his head bowing to look to his hand. “It was for hope, and a future,” he repeated softly before his gaze hardened. “A future that's been quite handily squashed, for which you are to be commended.”

 

“Always blaming someone else.” She snapped. “When you buckled under your own realization that methods did matter. The end did not justify all means. You sabotaged yourself.” Roen’s nostrils flared with indignation that she could not keep in check. But before she could continue, Kiht stepped up in between them.

 

"One person's hope can be another person's curse.” The miqo’te scowled at the smuggler. “A hope is not always justified. All I have ever seen in this is a war. There is not good or evil side. Just two side who can not, or will not, compromise."

 

"That is a very rational perspective, miss.” Nero glanced at the Keeper from the corner of his eyes. “I'm rather sorrowful that we did not meet sooner; your shades of grey would have brought valuable clarity." He sighed. “In any case, you are completely right. It was…is…a mistake to paint this as an issue of black and white, of ‘us’ and ‘them’, of ‘good’ versus ‘bad’. The mistake was in thinking either side was ‘good’, because really, there are only ever ‘bad’ sides. But sometimes those sides are against one another.”

 

Roen closed her hands into tight fists by her side. “"I thought...there was a part of you that mourned those lives you took. That wanted to make it all worth something. But if lives were taken for a cause that failed, and now you just justify those losses to make a point..." She inhaled deeply, her voice growing quieter with a demand. "What is our atonement?"

 

"You think I don't mourn the lives I took?” It was his turn to look indignant. “You truly believe I am that heartless? Roen, if I were that heartless, would I have done all of this for the sake of my fellows who live in destitution and squalor? The rest of our lives, from this moment forth is our atonement. Whenever we close our eyes and see the faces of the people we’ve killed, that is our atonement. Whenever we walk Ul’dah’s streets and see the Monetarists, the Blades, the bandits running roughshod, and we think about raising our swords, only to remember that we cannot stop them or change them…that is our atonement."

 

“That is a coward’s response,” Roen retorted. “That is the answer of someone who is…cutting his losses and running. You too have thrown in with the rest of us that you blame for your failure. I believed in your vision. I believed we could have made a difference.”

 

“But you didn’t want any part of the sacrifices that needed to be made! You couldn’t imagine harm coming to women and children, when women and children are in harm’s way, every day!” He seethed. "I could have gorged myself on a life free of hardship or sorrow, and simply forgotten those I had left behind. I chose not to. And perhaps that was the wrong choice. Perhaps when the lights are off and the swords are out, the correct answer is apathy."

 

“Your plan is forcing things on people who want no part of it.” Kiht shook her head. “There are those who are just people trying to make a peaceful living, and you would have them dragged into this."

 

“You are entirely correct, Jakkya. And therein lies the problem, no? What difference exists between a man who commits evil, and a man who fails to prevents evil from happening?"

 

"So where does it end?” Roen glared at him. “A man who commits evil, and another man who does nothing to stop evil, and then those who will commit evil to fight evil. Where does it all end? It does not. The world burns in darkness because nothing else matters. You have condemned everyone."

 

"And that is the paradox,” Nero sighed. “Will you commit evil to destroy evil, or remain righteous and just even if that means surrendering to evil? In either case, evil remains."

 

"This paradox...does not save the world, Nero.” Her words were barely a whisper. “It saves no one."

 

"I do not need it to save the world," the pirate snapped. "I only need it to save those who were never given the opportunity to save themselves."

 

"There is turning a blind eye, and then there is helping in the best way,” Kiht protested. Roen could tell from her tone that there was a part of her that believed that Nero might be convinced in this. Roen knew better now. “Donate gil, food, shelter. Give what you can, but going to these lengths is beyond a moral line that you did not care enough to cross."

 

"Do not presume to know me or my actions.” The smuggler shot the Keeper a sharp look. “Do not presume to know what kind of city Ul'dah is, to know what kind of ruler the Syndicate is. Benevolence is not always an immediate blessing. You think such solutions have never crossed my mind? You think I’ve never tried such things before reaching this extreme?"

 

Nero turned his gaze on Roen. "Do you recall the little girl? What happened when the man gave her gil, out of the kindness of his heart? Where did such kindness lead her?"

 

The paladin blinked. She recalled that story still, so clearly. The one of the girl with hope, and the man who had given her the gil. Nero had been that man, and the girl’s death had haunted him since. She could still see the ghost of regret in his eyes whenever he spoke of her.

 

Her gaze softened little as she answered him. "The man had benevolence then. And it lightened the girl's heart if only for a bell. If she had but taken a right turn rather than left, if she had maybe found a kind sister rather than the Blades...perhaps her life would have been different. Perhaps she would have remembered that man's kindness and it would have bloomed in her heart so she would return it later ten fold to another child." Roen’s composure faltered for a moment. "It was not the man's fault what happened. It was not his kindness that condemned her."

 

Nero would not be moved, his pale eyes growing cold with fury. "But she ended up dead in a ditch the next day. What you wish would have happened, what might have happened, will never erase what did happen. To assume that the only choice in any situation is benevolence, to believe that a good act with good intentions is incapable of causing harm and suffering, that is the worst kind of ignorance."

 

“As is believing so firmly that the darkness is your only option.” Roen frowned again. How had she believed that there was hope within him to be something better? When he had already so thoroughly condemned it in his mind?

 

"At one point, I might have even agreed with you about my own naivete.” Nero exhaled. “The truth is, Nero Lazarov is nothing more than the sum of his circumstances and experiences. He never chose this life. He never chose to have such a skewed perspective of the world. Was it his fault to be born penniless in a city where wealth was everything? Was it his fault that the suffering he endured twisted his sorrow into anger, even hatred? Was it his fault that his attempts at peace, his attempts at a docile salvation for those he cared about, was it his fault that they failed? Perhaps."

 

He fell quiet for a moment, his expression turned pensive. "Being a victim perhaps does not excuse what he -- what I -- have done, or intended to do. But the truth of it is that I am nothing but the product of my past. Would a kinder and gentler Nero Lazarov have been better for this world, for Ul'dah?"

 

"And this Nero Lazarov,” Roen eyed the man, almost accusingly. “Has he been better for this world? For Ul'dah?"

 

The paladin was met with a cold stare from beneath the hood of his robe. "Of course not. But who we want to be is often very different from who we must be, and in the end, this is the Nero who survived.”

 

“I do not know how the kinder, gentler Nero Lazarov would have fared.” Roen forcibly dismissed the wistful sadness that rose at the thought. Instead she fixed her gaze on him, her own words slowly turning grim. "But the man that did survive has killed many. He has incited riots. I cannot allow you to do that again."

[Roen]

“...What if I prove you wrong?”

 

“At the end of the day, when beasts have devoured all and the world falls into shadow…your ideals will always take priority.” Nero said, this voice tinged with bitterness.

 

“Would you have done what you did for Osric if he had not carried out his end of the bargain?” Roen matched him with venom of her own. “Would you have left Scythe with that weapon in Pearl Lane? Without anyone else knowing?"

 

The pirate snorted. "Ever thinking of the women and children. If you really must know, the weapon is defective. It's designed to explode when it's activated. It'll take out the building his gang is holed up in, and nothing more." He glanced to the paladin who stared at him eyes wide with her lips parted. "So yes, I would have simply let Scythe have it. Then, when he acts to engage his master stroke, he dies. Along with anyone who follows him."

 

Nero waved a hand. "That would be my last act of vengeance before leaving. It won't cleanse the bandits from Ul'dah, but it will offer Pearl Lane some respite for a time."

 

Roen stiffened, feeling her resolve waver. She had been so sure that all he wanted to do was to prove his point. To convince the rest of the word that his radical way was the only way. That he was willing to accept the bloodshed and gladly so just to convince others. Only now...

 

The paladin bowed her head, her long disheveled forelocks falling limp before her eyes. "I came here to arrest you," she confessed. "That is why I came."

 

"Ever the hypocrite, aren't you?" He turned to face her directly for the first time in their exchange, flashing his trademark smirk. "You never change." He shook his head. “You're going to haul me back to Ul'dah just so I can be tortured and left to rot in a gaol? I suppose that would be a surface definition of justice."

 

Roen glanced at Kiht, uncertainty in her eyes.

 

"Please.” The pirate snorted as he waved his hand toward the Keeper. “If all you want is for me to die without having to get your own hands bloody, simply have Jakkya do it for you. She's right here. You can tell them that I resisted. That I ambushed both of you, and that arresting me simply wasn't an option." His tone and glare turned cold upon the paladin, almost daring her. "Nobody will ever know."

 

Roen straightened, resentment struggling against the reluctance in her heart. "I believed you wanted to bath the streets in blood as you fled to Othard."

 

"I did. I do." His gaze sharpened. "You never bothered to ask whose blood.”

 

The paladin flared her nostrils, stepping towards him. "You think your aim is so sharp, but evil and violence oft do not discriminate once sparked, Nero. There would have been other casualties. Life is a life."

 

"Roen, he still gave them the guns.” Kiht shifted in her stance, and her firm tone clearly revealed that the Keeper had recognized the cracks in the paladin’s resolve. “They still plan to kill innocent people, and he still committed killings of his own. Choose a ground to stand on, Roen. Remember."

 

Nero glared at Roen. "If you're going to continue pretending that you believe in that farce you call justice, then just kill me yourself. Don't force someone else to break themselves for you. Again." He opened his arms out towards her. "I offered you twice before. Both times before, you balked at the idea."

 

Roen’s hand trembled by her side. She did not want to reach for her sword. Her part of her refused, as she had at Lost Hope, then again at Crescent Cove. He had offered her a blade to kill him both times, to end his threat. She had refused. She believed that he was a better man, one that could be saved, one that could be turned from his violent course.

 

And now…?

 

She glanced to Kiht. Was that not why she had brought her friend? But deep down, paladin knew she could not let the huntress do it.

 

"Just know this,” Nero’s gaze bore into her. “There is always going to be someone like me. As sure as the sun rises in the morning, there will always be someone who is pushed too far, pushed too hard, who has decided that standing by is no longer an option."

 

“'Killing one innocent group to save another is not a 'right' thing to do.” Kiht’s voice was clear and edged, as if trying to pierce through the paladin’s haze of conflict. “Roen, his mind has been twisted."

 

"That's right, Roen,” Nero growled. “I'm irreparable. I'm beyond salvation, just like Ul'dah." With a bow of his head, he rotated in his seat on the box to face both of them. He pulled back his hood to reveal an ugly wound above his right eye, one that had been hidden thus far. The paladin could tell it was patched hastily as it oozed pus from the poorly-done stitches.

 

"Put me out of my misery. I'm dying a slow death, just like that wretched city."

 

Roen could not help but stare at the wound with some measure of horror, her eyes flickering a look to Kiht. There was as silent plea to her friend. Her heart was pounding with indecision.

 

"Remove me now, and you remove the threat. You fix the problem.” The pirate stood up from his seat, his stance belligerent. "What's the matter? It's simple, isn't it? I am a threat to you and everything you stand for, everything you hold precious. I am the symbol of the wrongness you seek to correct, the injustice that you've failed to set right."

 

The paladin grimaced to calm the trembling of her lower lip. One hand shot to the hilt of the sword at her side as he loomed over her.

 

"Tis not about justice,” Kiht called out to her, tension also tightening her voice. “Tis about making sure he does not do it again. Turn him over to Osric. He could be back again to do this shite again, Roen."

 

“Don't run away!” He was now shouting. "I'm a monster, made by people like you, made by people who are content to turn a blind eye whenever it suits them!”

 

Her fingers clenched around the hilt, but her arm felt leaden. She could not unsheathe the blade. She stared at him eyes wide, her head unwittingly shaking side to side.

 

"You're going to add Osric to the list, too? Who's next? Who else is going to ravage themselves to defend you from something you don't want to be responsible for?" He spat at her. "I swear to you. I will return, and if Ul'dah has not found its way, if the Jewel of the Desert continues to stamp on those it deems worthless, I will raze it to the ground. I will destroy it completely, utterly, and trample on the ashes."

 

“Stop. STOP! Stop SAYING that! You are just trying to--” Roen found herself shaking.

 

The pirate's voice was full of vehement rage as he continued. "The city is dying. It must be allowed to die and croak its last breath. Only then can it ever have a hope of being renewed!" He glared down at her. "But that's against everything you stand for, isn't it, Sultansworn!? You can live with yourself, you can condemn those people to a lifetime of slow death, as long as your conscience is clean!"

 

"A beast, no matter what made it, is dangerous.” Kiht growled. “Do not let him make you think you are unjust simply because you will not kill innocent people like he has."

 

"Then why not do it?" His voice took on an eerie calm. "We are alone. Jakkya understands you. Simply remove your sword..." He made a motion to an imaginary blade at his side. "And put it here." He tapped his chest, where his heart would be. "Nobody will know. Your honor will be clean. Nobody will know that you killed a defenseless man. Nobody will truly know how much pain you enabled. Nobody will know what it is you did for the 'greater good'." He spat the last phrase derisively.

 

Nero's face, now contorted in pain, twisted into an ugly grin, a diseased caricature of his once carefree smirk. "Nobody will ever know that in that last instant, you knew that I was right, and that you were wrong.”

 

Roen felt heat rise to her cheeks and moisture well in her eyes; her hand upon her blade shook with coiled tension. "I curse the day I met you. Not for my conscience. Not for my honor. But for those who died under that false belief that you could save Ul'dah. I curse the day that I believed you would prove me right." Her face twisted with anger and regret. "I already see that I was wrong all along."

 

The pirate threw his head back and laughed, his earrings jingling with the motion of his head. "If there is one thing you will soon learn, Roen Deneith, it is that there are some things worse than being killed. The pain of death...is nothing compared to the pain of life."

 

"I cannot let you raze Ul'dah." Her expression hardened. "I cannot let you do this again."

 

"I have only ever been the product of my circumstance."

 

"And for that...I am sorry..." Roen rasped.

 

"Then do it," he sneered, daring her.

 

Heavy silence fell between them, before a whisper of steel being drawn sliced through the air and the blade lunged. But it stopped just before his heart, its point quivering just an ilm away. The paladin gasped, as if disbelieving herself. Her face twisted in a deep frown, staring at the length of the blade accusingly.

 

The pirate merely stared at her unflinching, a spiteful look of disdain on his face. His pale eyes bore holes into her, and though he spoke no words, his judgement was loud as the largest bell. Your righteousness cannot save anyone, the memory of his words rang in her mind.

 

He lifted his left hand and slapped the blade away from him, uncaring or unaware of the gash that appears on his forearm that caught the edge of the blade. He turned away from the pair, waving his hand behind him in an expression of derision.

 

"Stand on a ground." Kiht’s growl cut through the air.

 

The smuggler turned, spreading his arms. "It is fruitless, Jakkya. Roen has made her choice." He seemed oblivious to the stream of wet blood that ran down the length of his forearm, staining the bandages that had been crudely wrapped around it. “She is content, to threaten everything she knows and loves, because the method is wrong. Because there must be another way.” Hateful echoes of ideals he despised escaped from his lips like a torrent of vapor. "And if she arrests me, all she is doing is killing me without taking responsibility for it. And she knows it."

 

He stared balefully at the paladin, his gaze filled with pity and disgust. "That is her way, after all. The way of her justice."

 

Roen stood, as if frozen in place, her sword arm suddenly heavier than it had ever felt. Could I…?

 

From the corner of her eyes, the paladin spotted Kiht reaching for her spear. The look the Keeper gave Roen was one of a predator who has designated its mark.

 

"Do you want to risk him doing it again?” Kiht asked pointedly, through gritted teeth. “Do you think he has changed, Roen? Just answer that for me."

 

Roen felt herself grow cold, all blood draining from her face.

 

”If it was someone like Taeros…I could.” Kiht’s words came roaring through her memory. ”You are a Protector, Roen. Not a hunter.”

 

Then another voice screamed at her. “People have always broken themselves, their ideals,their conscience, for your sake!”

 

“Some of us had to bend. Some of us had to shed whatever righteousness we had left, all to do what was necessary. Some of us had to make deals with the devil for you.”

 

“...It was me.”

 

Her sword dropped to the ground by her side, the metal clang almost painfully loud in the suffocating silence. Roen’s hands felt numb.

 

"What will you do when there is an evil you cannot defeat by just means?" Nero called out to her. "Will you commit evil to destroy evil? Or will you remain steadfast and righteous…even if that means surrendering to evil?" Those were the very words he had asked her the first day they had met.

 

"I said...I would do it," Roen rasped. "If it would stop evil, once and for all." Her vision had blurred a little, and she blinked the moisture away as she looked to the man before her, his visage darkened with hatred and bitterness. “I guess that is you,” she said quietly.

 

"There is no evil!” Kiht was now yelling across the room, her spear drawn. “There is no righteousness! There are just people, many of whom are innocent. Do you want him doing this again?! Is he innocent, Roen?!"

 

She took one step then another towards the man she once loved. Her steps came slow, heavy with regret.

 

"Are you going to hide again, Roen?” Nero remained still as the paladin began to approach him. “Let someone else bloody their hands for you? Will you ever stop running from what you know must be done?"

 

As she neared, his own vitriol gave way just a little, his voice lowering in her proximity. “Sometimes, the ends don’t justify the means. Sometimes, the bloodshed goes nowhere, the lives taken rendered meaningless.” His brows were furrowed with regret for a moment, before it twisted into something darker. “But no matter what, I would rather commit evil, misguided and blind as it is, than to simply stand by and allow evil to happen.”

 

One gauntlet was shed then the other. They dropped to the ground in a cloud of dust as Roen came to stand just a breath away from him. She tilted her head to regard his wounds, his numerous bandages that were more apparent now over his chest and body. Her bare hand hovered by the ugly wound above his eye. On any other day, aether would have been summoned at her fingertips to heal him, but on this day, no glow came. Nero stood still, meeting her gaze.

 

"You gave me hope,” the paladin murmured, nothing but sadness in her heart. “Even if it was only for a short time. And in your own way, you gave me something more. I will remember that."

 

The quiver to her lower lip returned and she looked upon him with her deepest regret. She leaned in, almost a tender gesture as her lips nearly brushed his cheek. "But I cannot let her do it," she whispered.

 

The second unsheathed length of steel did not whisper; it was silent, with only a glimmer of the orange glow that licked the metal blade spared by that single lamplight. It was a knife from her belt sheath.

 

"I suppose...this is my atonement." Roen thrust the knife upwards, through his ribcage. She knew exactly where his heart was beating. And in that moment, she understood. The sacrifices made to one’s own soul so that others may not suffer the same. To commit violence to end violence, because every other method had failed. She finally understood Nero’s heart, just as she plunged a blade into it.

 

“I pity the events you will have to endure, Miss Deneith. I will not relish the day you understand why I act the way I do. ...Mayhaps you shall be stronger than I, when that day comes."

 

Nero gasped as the knife pierced through the soft bandages into his flesh. His left hand trembled; the fingertips sparking with violet aether, but nothing coalesced. His right hand instinctively struggled to reach the knife as he stumbled backwards, his legs failing him.

 

Roen stood immobile, paralyzed by the vision of the man dying before her. In one last, defiant instant, he curled his casual, easy smirk, even as blood bubbled from his mouth and spilled down his lips. He fell to one knee, his left hand still crackling with unstable aether. He gasped as he tried speak but naught emerged but a mouthful of blood. Then a last curl of his lip into a grin…one could almost call it satisfaction. The violet glow vanished from his hand.

 

The paladin’s breath now only came in stuttered gasps, her head shaking unwittingly in a silent plea.

 

A heavy, ignominious thud greeted the ground, as his legs gave out and Nero fell to his side. Blood began to rapidly pool around his body. His ice blue eyes, once holding such sharp clarity and conviction, were now glazed over and milky with the transparent veil of death.

 

It was only after he fell limp that Roen rushed to his side, falling upon her knees. Her bloodied hands trembled as they hovered near his face then the growing stain on his chest. Her vision began to blur then burned as tears began to fall freely from her eyes.

 

“Why…” She pleaded in between sobs that now rose, her hands closed into fists as she began to pound them against his chest in protest. “Why?!” Again and again she pounded her fists on top of his lifeless body, until the paladin crumpled forward.

 

Her form shook as she wept, her arms wrapping around him in an embrace that came much too late.

 

Nero Lazarov would never answer. He was forever gone.